EMPEROR THE BLOOD OF GODS

CONN IGGULDEN

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

This edition published 2013

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2013

Map © John Gilkes 2013

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

While some of the events and characters are based on historical incidents and figures, this novel is entirely a work of fiction.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007482825

Ebook Edition © September 2013 ISBN: 9780007510979

Version: 2017-08-18

Dedication

To George Romanis

‘I am the most peaceable of men. All I ask is a humble cottage with a thatched roof, a good bed, good food, fresh milk and butter, flowers before my window and a few fine trees at my door; and if the dear Lord wants to make my happiness complete, he will grant me the joy of seeing some six or seven of my enemies hanging from those trees. Before their death I shall forgive them all the wrongs they did me in their lifetime. One must forgive one’s enemies – but not before they have been hanged.’

Heinrich Heine

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Two

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Three

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Conn Iggulden

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Not all of them were marked with blood. His body lay on cold marble, the stone proof against red lines dripping down the benches. Those who walked away looked back at least once, hardly able to believe that the tyrant would not rise. Caesar had fought, but they had been too many, too determined.

They could not see his face. In his last moments, the leader of Rome had yanked at the loose folds of his toga, pulling the cloth over his head as they gripped and stabbed at him. Its whiteness was marked with mouths. His bowels had opened as he slumped and fell to one side. The smell of it rose into the air in the theatre. There was no dignity for the broken thing they had made.

More than twenty men were spattered with the violence, some of them still panting in great heaving breaths. Around them were twice as many again, those who had not wielded blades but had stood and watched and not moved to save Caesar. Those who had taken part were still stunned at the violence and the feel of warm blood on their skins. Many had served terms with the army. They had seen death before, but in foreign lands and exotic cities. Not in Rome, not here.

Marcus Brutus touched his blade to both palms, leaving a red smear. Decimus Junius saw him do it and, after a moment of awe, he marked his own hands with fresh blood. Almost with reverence, the rest copied the action. Brutus had told them they would not walk with guilt. He had told them they had saved a nation from a tyrant. Behind him, they took the first steps towards a thick bar of light leading to the outside.

Brutus breathed deeply as he reached the sun, pausing on the threshold and letting the warmth seep into him. He was dressed as a soldier, the only man there in armour and with a gladius on his hip. In his late fifties, his bare brown legs were still strong, still rooted in the earth. There were tears in his eyes and he felt as if shadows of age and betrayal had been lifted, scars scrubbed away from his skin, so that he was made new.

He heard the men in robes gather at his back. Cassius stepped to his side, touching him lightly on the shoulder in comfort or support. Brutus did not look at him. His eyes were raised to the sun.

‘We can honour him now,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘We can heap glory on his memory until he is crushed beneath it all.’

Cassius heard and sighed, the sound like a burr to Brutus’ mood.

‘The Senate will be waiting for the news, my friend,’ Cassius murmured. ‘Let us leave the old world behind in this place.’

Brutus looked at him and the wiry senator almost recoiled from what he saw in those eyes. The moment held and none of those behind made a sound. Though they had killed, it was only then that they began to fear the city all around them. They had been swept up like leaves in a gale, casting aside reason to follow stronger men. The reality was drifting through the air, Rome remade in motes of golden dust. Without another word, Brutus walked out into the sun and they followed him.

The roads were busy at first, the trades and wares of thousands on display on every spare ledge or half blocking the stone road. A wave of silence came out of Pompey’s theatre, vanishing behind the senators, but staying with them as they turned towards the forum. The hawkers and servants and citizens of Rome froze at the sight of almost sixty men in white togas, led by one in armour whose right hand drifted to his sword hilt as he strode out.

Rome had seen processions before, by the thousand, but there was no joy in those who walked up the Capitoline hill. Whispers and nudges pointed out the red smears on their hands, the splashes of still-bright blood on their robes. Strangers shook their heads in fear and stayed well back, as if the group carried danger or disease.

Brutus strode eastwards and upward. He felt a strange anticipation, the first true emotion since he had pressed iron into his greatest friend and felt the shudder that told him he had reached the heart. He ached to lay eyes on the forum and the senate house, the stone centre of the vast Republic. He had to struggle not to quicken his step, to maintain the slow pace that was both their dignity and their protection. They would not run from what they had done. Their survival depended on showing no guilt, no fear. He would enter the forum as a liberator.

At the top of the Capitoline, Brutus paused. He could see the open space of the forum, ringed with temples. The senate house gleamed white, unsullied, the guards at its doors tiny figures in the distance. The sun was growing hot and he could feel sweat trickle inside his ornate chestplate. The senators at his back moved slowly up, not understanding why they had stopped. The line around him widened, but their authority had been spent that morning and not one of them, not even Cassius or Suetonius, dared to move down the hill without Brutus leading the way.

‘We are Liberatores,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘There are many in that place who will welcome what we have done. There are hundreds more who will breathe in relief when they hear that the tyrant is dead and Rome is safe, the Republic is safe. There will be a vote for amnesty and it will pass. All this has been decided. Until then, remember your dignity, your honour. There is no shame in what we have done.’

Around him, they stood a little taller, many of them raising bloody hands that had been clenched and hidden at their sides.

Brutus looked to Cassius once more and this time his expression was mild.

‘I have played my part, Senator. You must do the rest. Carry the small men with you and place every step with care, or we will be hunted down.’

Cassius nodded, smiling wryly.

‘I have the votes, General. It is all arranged. We will walk in free and we will be honoured.’

Brutus looked hard at the senator who carried all their futures in his hands. Cassius was a man of bone and hard flesh, with no weakness evident in him.

‘Then lead us in, Senator. I will be at your back.’

Cassius’ mouth firmed at the suspicion of a threat, but he raised his head and strode down into the heart of Rome.

As they approached the senate house, Brutus and Cassius could hear raised voices, a dim roar of undisciplined sound. The great bronze doors were open, and a voice cried out above the rest. The noise dropped away into silence.

Brutus trembled as he touched the steps, knowing that the few hours left before noon would be among the most important of his life. They had the blood of Caesar on their hands. A wrong word or rash act and their own would be spilled before the sun set. He looked over to Cassius and was reassured once more by the man’s confidence. There were no doubts in the senator. He had worked long and hard for this day.

Two legionaries came to attention as Brutus and Cassius ascended. The soldiers were out of their depth and they hesitated when the senator raised his bloody right hand, making sure they saw it before he inclined the palm to include Brutus.

‘General Brutus is my guest,’ Cassius said, his mind already on the crowd inside.

‘He’ll have to leave the gladius here, sir,’ the soldier said.

Something in the way Brutus looked at him made him drop his hand to his own hilt, but Cassius chuckled.

‘Oh, hand it over, Brutus. Don’t embarrass the man.’

With ill grace, Brutus untied the scabbard rather than pull a bare blade and frighten the soldier. He gave up his sword and strode to catch Cassius, suddenly angry, though he could not have said exactly why. Julius had never been stopped at the door of that building. It was irritating to be reminded of his lack of status at the very moment of his triumph. In the senate house, Brutus was no more than an officer of Rome, a senior man without civil rank. Well, that could be put right. Now Caesar was dead, all the failures and setbacks of his life could be put right.

More than four hundred men had crowded into the senate house that morning, their bodies warming the air, so that there was a noticeable difference inside, despite the open doors. Brutus looked for faces he recognised. He knew most of them, after many years of standing at Julius’ side, but one new face arrested his sweep. Bibilus. Years before, the man had stood with Caesar as consul, but something had happened between them and Bibilus had never appeared in the Senate again. His sudden return spoke volumes about the shift in power – and about how many already knew. Brutus saw Bibilus had aged terribly in the years of isolation. He had grown even fatter, with dark and swollen pouches under his eyes and a web of broken blood vessels on his cheeks. His jowls were scraped raw as if he had shaved for the first time in months. The man’s gaze was fever-bright and Brutus wondered if he had been drinking, already celebrating the death of an old enemy.

It did not look as if Cassius’ news would cause much shock in that chamber. Too many of the senators had smug and knowing expressions, exchanging glances and nodding to each other like virgins with a secret. Brutus despised them all, hated them for their effete manners and their pompous sense of their own worth. He had seen Egypt, Spain and Gaul. He had fought for the Republic, murdered for it, while they sat and talked the days away and understood nothing of the men who bled for them in the field.

Cassius approached the rostrum. Once it had been an artefact of Roman power, carved from the prow of a warship of Carthage. That one had been burned in riots and, like so much else in the building, it was now just a lesser copy of what it had once been. Brutus raised his eyes to the man standing behind it and grew still. He realised he had been the subject of cold scrutiny since he’d entered the chamber.

Mark Antony’s latest consular year was not yet over. Before the events of that morning, he had been little more than a figurehead for Caesar, but that had changed. The Republic had been restored and Mark Antony held the reins. He dominated the room and Brutus had to admit he looked the part. Tall and muscular, Mark Antony had the features and strong nose of old Roman bloodlines. None of the Liberatores had known how he would jump when they planned their assassination. One of their number, Gaius Trebonius, had been given the task of distracting the consul. Brutus saw the young senator on the seats nearby, looking so pleased with himself that it made Brutus’ stomach twist.

Mark Antony stared over the seated heads at him and Brutus sensed his knowledge and his shock. The consul had been told, or had heard the news as whispers went around the chamber. Caesar was dead. The tyrant was dead. They all knew, Brutus was suddenly certain. Yet the words still had to be spoken.

Cassius took his position at the base of the rostrum, standing a head lower than the consul looming over him. As Brutus watched, Cassius raised his right arm and touched the wood like a talisman. Into the silence, Cassius spoke.

‘On this day, the Ides of March, Rome was set free from an oppressor,’ he said. ‘Let the news fly from here to all nations. Caesar is dead and the Republic is restored. Let the shades of our fathers rejoice. Let the city rejoice. Caesar is dead and Rome is free.’

The words brought forth a wave of sound as the senators cheered, striving to outdo the men around them with sheer volume. They were red-faced as they roared and stamped, making the stones tremble. Mark Antony stood with his head bowed, the muscles in his jaw standing out like tumours.

Brutus thought suddenly of the Egyptian queen in the fine Roman house Caesar had given her. Cleopatra would not yet know what had happened to the father of her son. He imagined her panic when she heard. He did not doubt she would pack her jewels and get out of Rome as fast as good horses could run. The thought made him smile for the first time that morning. So many things would be made new in the months to come. Caesar had been like a weight on the city, pressing them all down. Now they would spring up, stronger and better than they had been before. Brutus could feel it in the air. This was his time at last.

The Senate had almost forgotten how things used to be. Brutus could see the little men revise their opinions of their own power. They had been mere servants. In a morning, in a raw-throated bellow, they had become men again. He had given them that. Brutus lowered his head in thought, but when he heard Mark Antony begin to speak, he looked up, suspicion flaring.

‘Senators, be still,’ Mark Antony said. ‘There is much to be done today, now that we have this news.’

Brutus frowned. The man was a famous supporter of Caesar. His time was over. The best he could do was leave the chamber with dignity and take his own life.

‘There are legions in the Campus Martius waiting for Caesar to lead them against Parthia,’ Mark Antony went on, oblivious to Brutus’ irritation. ‘They must be brought to heel, before they get the news. They were loyal to Caesar. They must be approached with care, or we will see them mutiny. Only the authority of the Senate stands between us all and anarchy in this city. Senators, be still.’ The last words were a command, deeper and louder in order to silence the last of the excited chatter.

At the door Brutus shook his head in sour amusement. Mark Antony was not a fool, but he overreached himself. Perhaps he thought he could be part of the new era, despite fawning on Caesar for so many years. It was more politics, but Brutus knew the senators were still numb, still feeling their way in the new world that had been thrust upon them. The consul might even save himself, though he would have to choose each step with care. There were old grudges to be settled yet and Antony would bear the brunt of many of them. Even so, for that morning at least, he was still consul.

‘There must be a formal vote before a single one of us leaves,’ Mark Antony continued, his strong voice rolling across the chamber. ‘If we grant amnesty to the murderers of Caesar, it will choke a rebellion before it begins. The citizens and the legions will see that we have restored justice and law, where it was once trodden down by a single man. I call that vote.’

Brutus froze, a worm of unease itching in his head. Cassius stood at the rostrum with his mouth slightly open. He should have been the one to call a vote for amnesty. It was all arranged and the Liberatores knew they would win. To have Caesar’s favourite pre-empt them with that vital step made Brutus want to bellow out in accusation. The words bubbled up in him, clear in his mind. Caesar had given Rome to Antony when he left the city to attack his enemies. Antony had been his puppet consul, the mask that let him hide tyranny beneath the old forms. What right did that man have to speak as if he now led the new Republic? Brutus took a half-step forward, but Mark Antony’s voice continued to echo over them.

‘I ask only this: that in death, Caesar be given his dignity. He was first in Rome. The legions and the people will expect to see him honoured. Will the men who brought him down deny him that? There should be no suspicion of shame, no secret burial. Let us treat the divine Julius with respect, now that he is gone from the world. Now that he is gone from Rome.’

In frustration, Cassius stepped up to the raised dais, so that he stood at Mark Antony’s side. Even then, the consul was a powerful figure beside his slight frame. Before he could speak, Mark Antony leaned close to him and murmured.

‘You have your victory, Cassius. This is not the time for small men and small vengeance. The legions will expect a funeral in the forum.’

Cassius remained still, thinking. At last, he nodded. Brutus stayed where he was, his right fist clenched over the empty space on his hip.

‘I thank Consul Mark Antony for his clear thinking,’ Cassius said. ‘And I concur. There must be order first, before law, before peace. Let this vote take place and then we will be free to manage the common citizens, with their petty emotions. We will honour Caesar in death.’

The senators looked to Cassius, and Brutus nodded fiercely at the way he had taken control. There were legal officers whose task it was to announce votes and debates in that place, but even as they rose from their seats around the rostrum, Cassius spoke again, ignoring their presence. He would not allow a delay on that morning, nor another to speak until he was done. Brutus began to relax.

‘Those in favour of complete amnesty to be granted to the liberators of Rome, rise and be counted.’

Brutus saw the sweating bulk of Bibilus leap to his feet with the energy of a younger man. The rest followed a bare moment later. Those who were already standing, like Mark Antony, raised their right hands. There was a beat of silence and Cassius nodded, tension flowing out of him.

‘Dissenters?’

The assembly sat down as one and not a single man rose. Somehow, it hurt Brutus to see. Half of them owed Caesar their lives and fortunes. Their families had been tied to his, their rise to his. He had picked them one by one over the years, men he wanted to honour in his wake. Yet they would not stand for him, even in death. Brutus found himself obscurely disappointed, for all he understood it. They were survivors, who could read the wind as well as anyone. Yet Caesar deserved better from Rome, on that day of all others.

Brutus shook his head in confusion, aware again of the blood on his hands as it dried and cracked. There was a fountain not far off in the forum and he wanted to be clean. As Cassius congratulated the Senate, Brutus slipped out into the sunshine. He collected his sword from the guards and walked stiffly down the steps and across the open ground.

There was already a crowd around the fountain, men and women of the city in colourful robes. Brutus felt their eyes on him as he approached, but he did not look at them. He knew the news would be on the wing already. They had not tried to hide it.

He rubbed his hands together in the freezing water, brought by aqueduct from distant mountains, drawn through narrowing lead pipes until it rushed out clear and sweet in the forum. Someone gasped as they saw the red stain that spread into the water from his skin, but he ignored them.

‘Is it true?’ a woman asked suddenly.

Brutus looked up, then rubbed his wet hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble. Her stola robe was fine, revealing a bare tanned shoulder, her elegance accented by hair piled and caught in silver pins. She was beautiful, kohl-eyed like a courtesan. He wondered how many others across the city were asking the same question at that moment.

‘Is what true?’ he asked.

‘That divine Caesar is dead, that he has been killed? Do you know?’ Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears as she stared at the man washing blood from his hands.

Brutus remembered the blow he had struck a few hours and a lifetime before.

‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, turning away.

His gaze drifted to the Capitoline hill, as if he could see through it to the vast building of Pompey’s theatre. Was the body still there, lying on the stone seats? They had left no orders for Caesar to be tended in death. For an instant, Brutus felt his eyes sting at the thought of Julius alone and forgotten. They had been friends for a long, long time.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Octavian winced as he felt the heat of the rocks burning through his thin sandals. Though Rome claimed to have finally brought civilisation to Greece, he could see little sign of it in the hill villages. Away from the coast, the people were either suspicious of strangers or openly hostile. Even a simple request to use a well was met with frowns and doors shut in their faces. All the while, the sun beat down, reddening their necks. Octavian remembered how he had smiled when the local praetor said there were places in Greece where a young Roman had about as much chance of survival as a tax gatherer. It had been an exaggeration, but not by much.

He stopped to wipe sweat from his face. The land itself was wild, with canyons that seemed to drop for ever. Octavian took a deep breath, suddenly certain he’d be walking out. Nothing would give the local boys more pleasure than seeing three footsore Romans searching for stolen mounts.

Octavian stayed alert as he climbed, looking for some sign of the group of ragged men they followed. The trail had been easy at first, until it split and split again. Octavian didn’t know if the bandits knew they would be pursued or had just taken different routes home, vanishing into the cauldron of mountains as their ancestors had done for thousands of years. He felt an itch and craned his neck to see as far as he could. It was too easy to imagine a bowman leaning over the lip of some crag and attacking before they even knew he was there.

‘Call out if you see anything,’ he said.

Maecenas snorted, waving a hand at bare rocks. ‘I’m not a tracker,’ he replied. ‘For all I know, they could have passed through here with a herd of goats just an hour ago. Why don’t we go back to the main group and take up the search from there? This is not how I expected to spend my leave. I imagined more wine and less … climbing.’ He grunted as they reached a great step in the rocks.

There was no sign of a path and each man heaved himself up, their sandals skidding and scrambling as they went. The sun was fierce above and the sky was an aching blue. All three were sweating heavily and the single flask of water was already empty.

‘At least the men from the town know these hills,’ Maecenas went on. ‘They know where to search.’

Octavian didn’t have the breath to respond. The slope grew steeper and steeper until he had to use his hands to steady each step, then really climb. He was panting lightly as he reached the top of a crag and stared, judging the best route down the other side. The maze of grey rocks stretched into the distance, empty of life beyond the lizards that skittered away with every step.

‘You’d have me stand by and watch, doing nothing to help them?’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘A rape and a murder, Maecenas. You saw her body. What honour would there be in letting a few farmers chase them down while we stand and watch, confirming everything they say about idle Romans? Come on.’

He jerked his head at a route that would take them to the floor of the canyon and began climbing down. At least the shadowed clefts were cooler, until they climbed back into the burning sun once more.

‘Why should I care what Greek peasants say?’ Maecenas muttered, though he pitched his voice too low to be heard. Maecenas was of such ancient lineage that he refused to claim descent from the twins who suckled at a she-wolf and went on to found Rome. His people, he said, had owned the wolf. When they’d first met, he’d assumed Octavian had known Caesar, so a mere Roman noble could not impress him. Over time, he’d realised Octavian took Maecenas at the value he set for himself. It was slightly galling to have to live up to his own sense of superiority. Maecenas felt that Octavian had rather missed the point of noble families. It wasn’t who you were – it was who your ancestors had been that mattered. Yet somehow that simple faith was something he could not shatter in his friend. Octavian had known poverty, with his father dying early. If he thought a true Roman noble would be brave and honourable, Maecenas didn’t want to disappoint him.

Maecenas sighed at the thought. They wore simple tunics and darker leggings. Any clothing was too hot for climbing in the noon sun, but the leggings were terrible, already dark with perspiration. He was convinced he’d rubbed himself raw under them. He could smell his own sweat as he climbed and skidded down, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The scabbard of his sword caught in a crevice and Maecenas swore as he freed it. His expression darkened as he heard Agrippa laugh behind him.

‘I am glad to provide some amusement for you, Agrippa,’ he snapped. ‘The pleasures of this day are now complete.’

Agrippa gave a tight smile without replying as he came level and then went past, using his great strength and size to take enormous steps down the crag. The fleet centurion was a head taller than his companions and the constant labour on board Roman galleys had only increased the power in his arms and legs. He made the climb look easy and was still breathing lightly by the time he reached the bottom. Octavian was a few steps behind and the pair waited for Maecenas as he clambered down after them.

‘You realise we’ll have to go back up that hill again when we turn round?’ Maecenas said as he jumped the last few feet.

Octavian groaned. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Maecenas. It would be easier if you just accepted we are doing this.’

‘Without complaining,’ Agrippa added. His deep voice echoed back from the stone all around them and Maecenas looked sourly at them both.

‘There are a thousand different paths through these cursed rocks,’ Maecenas said. ‘I should think the bandits are far away from here by now, sipping cool drinks while we die of thirst.’

Gleefully, Agrippa pointed at the dusty ground and Maecenas looked down, seeing the footprints of many men.

‘Oh,’ he said. He drew his sword in a smooth motion, as if he expected an immediate attack. ‘Probably local herders, though.’

‘Perhaps,’ Octavian replied, ‘but we’re the only ones following this path, so I would like to be sure.’ He too drew his gladius, shorter than Maecenas’ duellist’s blade by a hand’s breadth, but well oiled, so that it slid free with barely a whisper. He could feel the heat of the blade.

Agrippa freed his own sword and together the three men walked silently into the canyon ahead, placing their steps with caution. Without planning it, Octavian took the lead, with Agrippa’s bulk on his right shoulder and Maecenas on his left. Ever since they had become friends, Octavian had led the group as if there were no alternative. It was the kind of natural confidence Maecenas appreciated and recognised. Old families had to start somewhere, even when they began with a Caesar. He smiled at the thought, though the expression froze as they came round a spire of rock and saw men waiting for them in the shadows. Octavian walked on without a jerk, keeping his sword lowered. Three more steps brought him into the gloom of the chasm, with rock walls stretching up above their heads. He came to a halt, looking coldly at the men in his way.

There was another path out on the other side and Maecenas noticed laden mules waiting patiently. The men they faced did not seem surprised or afraid, perhaps because there were eight of them, staring with bright-eyed interest at the three young Romans. The biggest of the men raised a sword from another age, a great length of iron that was more like a cleaver than anything else. He sported a black beard that reached right down to his chest and Maecenas could see the bulge of heavy muscles under a ragged jerkin as he moved. The man grinned at them, revealing missing teeth.

‘You are a very long way from your friends,’ the man said in Greek.

Maecenas knew the language, though Octavian and Agrippa spoke not a word. Neither of them looked round with so many blades being pointed in their direction, but Maecenas could feel their expectation.

‘Must I translate?’ he said, dredging up the words from his memory. ‘I know the high speech, but your peasant accent is so thick, I can hardly understand you. It is like the grunting of a dying mule. Speak slowly and clearly, as if you were apologising to your master.’

The man looked at him in surprise, anger darkening his face. He was aware that the death of Romans would make him a wanted man, but the mountains had hidden bodies before and would again. He tilted his head slightly, weighing his choices.

‘We want the one who raped and strangled the woman,’ Maecenas said. ‘Hand him over to us and go back to your short and pointless lives.’

The leader of the bandits growled deep in his throat and took a step forward.

‘What are you saying to him?’ Octavian asked without taking his eyes off the man.

‘I am praising his fine beard,’ Maecenas replied. ‘I have never seen one like it.’

‘Maecenas!’ Octavian snapped. ‘It has to be them. Just find out if he knows the one we came to find.’

‘Well, beard? Do you know the one we want?’ Maecenas went on, switching languages.

‘I am the one you want, Roman,’ he replied. ‘But if you have come here alone, you have made a mistake.’

The bandit looked up the rocks to the blue sky, searching for any hint of a moving shadow that would reveal an ambush or a trap. He grunted, satisfied, then glanced at his sharp-eyed companions. One of them was dark and thin, his face dominated by a great blade of a nose. In response, the man shrugged, raising a dagger with unmistakable intent.

Octavian stepped forward without warning of any kind. With a vicious flick, he brought his sword across so that it cut the throat of the closest man to him. The man dropped his dagger to hold his neck with both hands, suddenly choking as he fell to his knees.

The leader of the bandits froze, then gave a great bellow of rage with the rest of his men. He raised his sword for a crushing blow, but Agrippa jumped in, gripping the sword arm with his left hand and stabbing his short blade up between the man’s ribs. The leader collapsed like a punctured wineskin, falling onto his back with an echoing crash.

For a heartbeat, the bandits hesitated, shocked by the explosion of violence and death. Octavian had not stopped moving. He killed another gaping bandit with a backhand stroke against his throat, chopping into flesh. He’d set his feet well and brought the whole of his strength into the blow, so that it almost decapitated the man. The gladius was made for such work and the weight felt good in his hand.

The rest might have run then, if their way hadn’t been blocked by their own mules. Forced to stand, they fought with vicious intensity for desperate moments as the three Romans lunged and darted among them. All three had been trained from a young age. They were professional soldiers and the bandits were more used to frightening villagers who would not dare to raise a blade against them. They fought hard but uselessly, seeing their blades knocked away and then unable to stop the return blows cutting them. The small canyon was filled with grunting and gasping as the bandits were cut down in short, chopping blows. None of the Romans were armoured, but they stood close to one another, protecting their left sides as the swords rose and fell, with warm blood slipping off the warmer steel.

It was over in a dozen heartbeats and Octavian, Agrippa and Maecenas were alone and panting. Octavian and Agrippa were both bleeding from gashes on their arms, but they were unaware of the wounds, still grim-eyed with the violence.

‘We’ll take the heads back,’ Octavian said. ‘The woman’s husband will want to see them.’

‘All of them?’ Maecenas said. ‘One is enough, surely?’

Octavian looked at his friend, then reached out and gripped his shoulder.

‘You’ve done well,’ he said. ‘Thank you. But we can make a sack from their clothing. I want that village to know that Romans killed these men. They will remember – and I suspect they will break out the casks of their best wine and slaughter a couple of goats or pigs as well. You might even find a willing girl. Just take the heads.’

Maecenas grimaced. He’d spent his childhood with servants to attend to every whim, yet somehow Octavian had him working and sweating like a house slave. If his old tutors could see him, they would be standing in slack-jawed amazement.

‘The daughters have moustaches as thick as their fathers’,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps when it’s fully dark, but not before.’

With a scowl, he began the grisly work of cutting heads. Agrippa joined him, bringing his sword down in great hacking blows to break through bone.

Octavian knelt next to the body of the bandit leader, looking down into the glazed eyes for a moment. He nodded to himself, playing over the movements of the fight in his head and only then noticing the gash on his arm that was still bleeding heavily. At twenty years old, it was not the first time he’d been cut. It was just one more scar to add to the rest. He began to chop the head free, using the oily beard to hold it steady.

The horses were still there when they came back, parched and staggering, with their tongues swelling in their mouths. It was sunset by the time the three Romans reached the village, with two sopping red sacks that dribbled their contents with every step. The local men had returned angry and empty-handed, but the mood changed when Octavian opened the sacks onto the road, sending heads tumbling into the dust. The woman’s husband embraced and kissed him with tears in his eyes, breaking off only to dash the heads against the wall of his house, then crushing Octavian to him once more. There was no need to translate as they left the man and his children to their mourning.

The other villagers brought food and drinks from cool cellars, setting up rough tables in the evening air so that they could feast the young men. As Octavian had imagined, he and his friends could hardly move for good meat and a clear drink that tasted of aniseed. They drank with no thought for the morning, matching the local men cup for cup until the village swam and blurred before their eyes. Very few of the villagers could speak Roman, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Through a drunken haze, Octavian became aware that Maecenas was repeating a question to him. He listened blearily, then gave a laugh, which turned into a curse at his own clumsiness as he spilled his cup.

‘You don’t believe that,’ he told Maecenas. ‘They call it the eternal city for a reason. There will be Romans here for a thousand years, longer. Or do you think some other nation will rise up and be our masters?’ He watched his cup being refilled with beady concentration.

‘Athens, Sparta, Thebes …’ Maecenas replied, counting on his fingers. ‘Names of gold, Octavian. No doubt the men of those cities thought the same. When Alexander was wasting his life in battles abroad, do you think he would have believed Romans would one day rule their lands from coast to coast? He would have laughed like a donkey, much as you are doing.’ Maecenas smiled as he spoke, enjoying making his friend splutter into his cup with each outrageous comment.

‘Wasting his life?’ Octavian said when he had recovered from coughing. ‘You are seriously suggesting Alexander the Great could have spent his years more fruitfully? I will not rise to it. I will be a stern and noble Roman, too …’ He paused. The drink had muddled his thoughts. ‘Too stern and noble to listen to you.’

‘Alexander had the greedy fingers of a merchant,’ Maecenas said. ‘Always busy, busy, and what did it get him? All those years of fighting, but if he had known he would die young in a foreign land, don’t you think he would rather have spent it in the sun? If he were here, you could ask him. I think he would choose fine wine and beautiful women over his endless battles. But you have not answered my question, Octavian. Greece ruled the world, so why should Rome be any different? In a thousand years, some other nation will rule, after us.’ He paused to wave away a plate of sliced meat and smile at two old ladies, knowing they could not understand what he was saying.

Octavian shook his head. With exaggerated care, he put his cup down and counted on his fingers as Maecenas had done.

‘One, because we cannot be beaten in war. Two … because we are the envy of every people ruled by petty kings. They want to become us, not overthrow those they envy. Three … I cannot think of three. My argument rests on two.’

‘Two is not enough!’ Maecenas replied. ‘I might have been confounded with three, but two! The Greeks were the greatest fighting men in the world once.’ He gestured as if throwing a pinch of dust into the air. ‘That for their greatness, all gone. That for the Spartans, who terrified an army of Persians with just a few hundred. The other nations will learn from us, copy our methods and tactics. I admit I cannot imagine our soldiers losing to filthy tribes, no matter what tricks they steal, but it could happen. The other point, though – they want what we have? Yes, and we wanted the culture of the Greeks. But we did not come quietly like gentlemen and ask for it. No, Octavian! We took it and then we copied their gods and built our temples and pretended it was all our own idea. One day, someone will do the same to us and we will not know how it happened. There are your two points, in ashes under my sandals.’ He raised a foot and pointed to the ground. ‘Can you see them? Can you see your arguments?’

There was a grunt from another bench, where Agrippa was lying stretched out.

‘The ape awakes!’ Maecenas said cheerfully. ‘Has our salty friend something to add? What news from the fleet?’

Agrippa was built on a different scale from the villagers, making the bench groan and flex under his bulk. As he shifted, he overbalanced and caught himself with a muscular arm pressed against the ground. With a sigh, he sat up and glared at Maecenas, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his bare knees.

‘I could not sleep with you two clucking.’

‘Your snoring calls you a liar, though I would not,’ Maecenas replied, accepting another full cup.

Agrippa rubbed his face with his hands, scratching the curls of black beard he had grown over the previous weeks.

‘So I will say only this,’ Agrippa went on, stifling a yawn, ‘before I find a better and a quieter place to sleep. There will be no empire to follow us because we have wealth enough to withstand any new tribe or nation. We pay for men by the hundred thousand, swords and spears by the million across all our lands. Who could stand against us without the full might of Caesar falling on his neck?’

‘It is always about money with you, isn’t it, Agrippa?’ Maecenas replied, his eyes bright with amusement. He enjoyed needling the bigger man and they both knew it. ‘You still think like a merchant’s son. I am not surprised, of course. It is in your blood and you cannot help it, but while Rome is full of merchants, it is the noble classes who will decide her future, her destiny.’

Agrippa snorted. The evening had grown cold and he rubbed his bare arms

‘According to you, a noble man would spend his day in the sun, with wine and beautiful women,’ Agrippa said.

‘You were listening! I don’t know how you do it, snoring all the while. It is a rare talent.’

Agrippa smiled, showing very white teeth against his black beard.

‘Be thankful for my blood, Maecenas. Men like my father built Rome and made her strong. Men like you rode pretty horses and gave impressive speeches, just as Aristotle and Socrates once held court in the agora.’

‘I sometimes forget you have been educated, Agrippa. Something about you says illiterate peasant whenever I look at you.’

‘And something about you says that you enjoy the company of men more than most.’

Octavian groaned at the bickering. His head was swimming and he had lost all track of time.

‘Peace, you two. I think we’ve eaten and drunk an entire winter’s store for these people. Apologise and join me in another jug.’

Maecenas raised his eyebrows. ‘Still awake? Remember that you owe me a gold aureus if you fall asleep or vomit before me. I am feeling very fresh.’

Octavian held his gaze for a moment, waiting until Maecenas gave way with a grunt.

‘Very well, Octavian. I apologise for suggesting Agrippa’s skull would find its best use as a battering ram.’

‘You did not say that,’ Octavian replied.

‘I was thinking it,’ Maecenas said.

‘And you, Agrippa? Will you be as noble?’

‘I struggle to reach his level, Octavian, but as you ask, I apologise for saying he would not earn as much as he thinks, renting himself out by the hour.’

Maecenas began to laugh, but then his face grew pale and he turned aside to empty his stomach. One of the old women muttered something he did not catch.

‘That is an aureus you owe me,’ Octavian told Maecenas with satisfaction. His friend only groaned.

CHAPTER TWO

As the sun rose the following morning, Maecenas was silent and in pain, though he forced himself out of his bed to join Agrippa in the courtyard. The Greek house they had rented for the period of leave was small, though it came with a house slave to look after them. With one eye closed against the sun, Maecenas squinted at the other man, watching him limber up.

‘Where is Octavian?’ he asked. ‘Still sleeping?’

‘Here,’ Octavian said, coming out. His hair was slick with cold water and he looked pale and ill, but he raised a hand in greeting to his two friends. ‘I don’t even remember coming back. Gods, my head is cracked, I’m sure of it. Did I fall?’

‘Into a jug, perhaps. Otherwise, no,’ Agrippa replied cheerfully. Of the three, he seemed best able to shrug off vast quantities of alcohol and he enjoyed watching the other two suffer.

‘What plans for our last days of leave, Octavian?’ Maecenas asked. ‘I’m sure you are tempted to spend them educating the local children, or perhaps helping the farmers in their fields. However, I heard of a private boxing match this evening. I’m waiting for an address still, but it should be worth watching.’

Octavian shook his head.

‘The last one turned into a riot, which is no surprise as they almost always do. The same goes for the cockfights. And don’t mock; you know I was right. Those men needed killing.’

Maecenas looked away rather than argue.

‘We have two more days of leave, gentlemen,’ Agrippa said. ‘It might be a better idea to spend those days running and training. I don’t want to go back to my ship with the wind of an old man.’

‘You see, that is just a lack of imagination, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘First of all, you are already an old man …’

‘Two years older than you, at twenty-two, but go on,’ Agrippa interrupted.

‘… and you carry too much weight on your bones, like a bullock. Those of us who have not wasted years lifting heavy weights do not lose fitness so easily. We are racehorses, you see, if the metaphor is not immediately clear.’

‘Shall we test your speed against my strength?’ Agrippa asked, smiling unpleasantly.

Maecenas eyed the heavy training sword Agrippa was swishing through the air.

‘You battered me near senseless last time, which was not sporting. In a real duel, I would cut you up, my friend, but these wooden swords filled with lead? They are clubs for peasants and you swing yours with abandon. The idea is not appealing.’ His closed eye opened and he squinted against the sunlight. ‘Still, I have been giving it some thought, since your last instruction.’

‘I meant you to learn a lesson, so I am pleased,’ Agrippa replied.

There was a growing tension on the sandy yard. Maecenas did not enjoy being bested in anything and Octavian knew it had rankled with him to be knocked around like a child. For one of Agrippa’s bulk and strength, the wooden swords could be almost ignored, allowing him to land a punch or a blow that sent Maecenas reeling. He opened his mouth to distract them, but Maecenas had spotted a rack of throwing spears along a wall, long Roman weapons with iron tips and a wooden shaft. His face lit up.

‘A different weapon might allow me to demonstrate a few points to you, perhaps,’ Maecenas said.

Agrippa snorted. ‘So I should let you have three feet of reach over me?’ His eyes glinted, though whether it was anger or amusement, it was impossible to tell.

‘If you are afraid, I will understand,’ Maecenas said. ‘No? Excellent.’ He walked to the rack and removed one of the long weapons, feeling the heft of it.

Agrippa brought his wooden sword up across his body. He wore only leggings, sandals and a loose tunic and did not enjoy Maecenas gesturing with a throwing spear near him.

‘Come, Maecenas,’ Octavian said uncomfortably. ‘We will find something good to do today.’

‘I have already found something good to do,’ Maecenas replied. He closed the distance quickly, jerking his arm back to make Agrippa flinch. The big man shook his head.

‘Are you sure? That is a weapon for soldiers, not noblemen.’

‘It will do, I think,’ Maecenas replied. As he spoke, he jabbed the point at Agrippa’s broad chest, then back and again at his groin. ‘Oh yes, it will do very well indeed. Defend yourself, ape.’

Agrippa watched Maecenas closely, reading his footwork and stance as well as his eyes. They had sparred many times before and both men knew the other’s style. Octavian found himself a bench and sat down, knowing from experience that he would not be able to drag them away until they’d finished. Though they were friends, both men were used to winning and could not resist challenging each other. Octavian settled himself.

At first, Agrippa merely stepped back from the jabbing point that struck out at him. He frowned as it came close to his eyes, but slid away from it, raising his training gladius to block. Maecenas was enjoying having the big man on the defensive and began to show off a little, his feet quick on the sandy ground.

The end, when it came, was so sudden that Octavian almost missed it. Maecenas lunged fast and hard enough to score a wound. Agrippa blocked with the edge of his sword, then turned from the hip and smacked his left forearm into the spear. It snapped cleanly and Maecenas gaped at it. Agrippa laid his sword along Maecenas’ throat and grunted a laugh.

‘A victory,’ Agrippa said.

Without a word, Maecenas pushed the wooden sword away and reached down, picking up the broken half of his spear. It had been sawn almost through, the cut hidden with brown wax. His eyes widened and he strode back to the row of spears. He cursed as he examined the rest, snapping them one by one over his thigh. Agrippa began to laugh at his thunderous expression.

‘You did this?’ Maecenas demanded. ‘How long did it take you to prepare every spear? What sort of a man goes to such lengths? Gods, how did you even know I would choose one of them? You are a madman, Agrippa.’

‘I am a strategist, is what I am,’ Agrippa said, wiping tears from his right eye. ‘Oh, your face. I wish you could have seen it.’

‘This is not honourable behaviour,’ Maecenas muttered. To his irritation, Agrippa just laughed again.

‘I would rather be a peasant and win than be noble and lose. It is as simple as that, my friend.’

Octavian had risen to see the broken spears. With care, he kept any sign of amusement from his face, knowing that Maecenas would already be insufferable all day and he could only make it worse.

‘I heard there will be fresh oranges in the market this morning, packed in ice the whole way. Cold juice would help my head, I think. Can you shake hands and be friends for the day? It would please me.’

‘I am willing,’ Agrippa said. He held out his spade of a right hand. Maecenas allowed his to be enveloped.

The house slave came trotting into the yard as the two men shook with mock earnestness. Fidolus had always worked hard not to intrude on the guests and Octavian did not know him well, beyond finding him courteous and quiet.

‘Master, there is a messenger at the gate. He says he has letters from Rome for you.’

Octavian groaned. ‘I can feel them calling me back. Caesar is wondering where his favourite relative has gone, no doubt.’

Maecenas and Agrippa were looking at him, their expressions innocent. Octavian waved a hand.

‘He will wait a while longer. It’s been a year since we had the last leave, after all. Make the messenger comfortable, Fidolus. I am going to the market to buy fresh oranges.’

‘Yes, master,’ Fidolus replied.

The three young Romans did not return to the villa until just before sunset. They came in noisily, laughing and brash with three Greek women they had picked up. Maecenas had been the one to approach them in a jeweller’s, recommending pieces that would suit their colouring.

Octavian envied his friend’s talent – it was not one he had himself, despite the masterclass of watching Maecenas. There didn’t seem to be much magic to it. Maecenas had complimented the women outrageously, bantering back and forth as he made them try on various pieces. The shopkeeper had watched with patient indulgence, hoping for a sale. As far as Octavian could see, the young women had known from the outset what Maecenas was after, but his breezy confidence made a joke of it.

Octavian squeezed the slim waist of the woman he had brought home, trying hard to remember her name. He had a nasty suspicion that it was not ‘Lita’ and he was waiting for one of her friends to use her name again so he would not spoil the moment.

As they reached the gate to the house, Maecenas suddenly pressed his companion against the white-painted stone and kissed her, his hands wandering. She wore a new gold pendant at her throat, his gift. Each of the girls wore the same piece, bought with almost all the money they had pooled for the last few days of leave.

Agrippa had not been quite as lucky as the other two. It would have been extraordinary for all three women to be attractive and the one who clung to his arm was fairly heavily built herself, with a dark moustache along her upper lip. Nonetheless, Agrippa seemed pleased. It had been a while since they’d brought women back, and in a drought he could not afford to have high standards. Agrippa nuzzled at her bare shoulder with his beard, making her laugh while they waited for the gate to open.

It took only moments for the house slave Fidolus to come running and unbar the entrance. He looked flushed and his hands slipped on the bar as he heaved it up.

‘Master, thank the gods! You must see the messenger.’

Octavian stiffened in irritation. He had a beautiful Greek girl pressing her warmth into his side and the last thing he wanted was to think of Rome and the army.

‘Please, master,’ Fidolus said. He was almost shaking in the grip of some strong emotion and Octavian felt a stab of worry.

‘Is it my mother?’ he said.

Fidolus shook his head. ‘Please, he is waiting for you.’

Octavian stepped away from the woman on his arm.

‘Take me to him,’ he ordered.

Fidolus breathed in relief and Octavian followed him into the house at a fast walk, trying hard not to run.

Maecenas and Agrippa shared a glance, both men suspecting they would not be enjoying the evening in the way they had planned.

‘That does not sound good,’ Agrippa said. ‘Ladies, there is a bathing room here that has few equals. I suspect my friend Maecenas and I must attend our friend for a few hours, but if you are willing to wait …’ He saw their expressions. ‘No?’ He sighed. ‘Very well then. I will have Fidolus escort you back to the city.’

Maecenas shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, it will wait for a little while longer, I’m sure,’ he said, his eyes wide as he tried to dissuade Agrippa. The woman on his arm seemed equally reluctant and Agrippa grew flushed with sudden anger.

‘Do what you want, then. I will find out what is going on.’

He strode into the house, leaving the gate open. Maecenas raised his eyebrows.

‘I wonder if all three of you would consider teaching a young Roman more about Greece?’

Agrippa’s woman gasped, turning on her heel without a word. After twenty paces, she turned and called to her friends. They looked at each other and for a moment Maecenas thought his luck was in. Some silent communication passed between them.

‘Sorry, Maecenas, another time, perhaps.’

He watched wistfully as they swayed away, young and lithe and taking three gold pendants with them. He let out a sharp curse, then went inside, anger and frustration in every step.

Octavian reached the main hall almost at a run, his nervousness growing by the moment at the blank shock he could see in the house slave. He skidded to a halt when the messenger rose to greet him, holding out a package without a word.

Octavian broke his mother’s wax seal and read quickly. He took a deep breath, then another, feeling prickles rise on his neck and down his bare legs. He shook his head and took a step to sit down on a bench, reading the lines over and over.

‘Master,’ Fidolus began. The messenger leaned close as if he was trying to read the words.

‘Get out, both of you. Fetch my friends and then get out,’ he replied.

‘I was told to wait for a reply,’ the messenger said sourly.

Octavian surged out of the seat and grabbed the messenger by the front of his tunic, shoving him in the direction of the door.

‘Get out!’

In the courtyard, Agrippa and Maecenas both heard the shout. They drew swords and ran to their friend, passing the red-faced messenger as they entered the house.

Fidolus had lit the oil lamps and Octavian paced through twin pools of light. Maecenas was a study in calm, though his face was still pale. Agrippa tapped blunt fingers on his knee, the only sign of an inner agitation.

‘I have to go back,’ Octavian said. His voice was hoarse from talking, but he burned with a brittle energy. As he strode up and down the room, his right hand clenched and opened as if he was imagining striking at his enemies. ‘I need information. Isn’t that what you always say, Agrippa? That knowledge is everything? I need to go to Rome. I have friends there.’

‘Not any more,’ Maecenas said. Octavian came to a stop and spun to face him. Maecenas looked away, embarrassed at the raw grief he saw in his friend. ‘Your protector is dead, Octavian. Has it occurred to you that you will also be in danger if you show your face in Rome? He treated you as his heir and these “Liberatores” will not want anyone who could lay claim to his possessions.’

‘He has an heir: Ptolemy Caesar,’ Octavian snapped. ‘The Egyptian queen will keep that boy safe. I …’ He broke off to curse. ‘I have to go back! It cannot go unanswered. There must be a trial. There must be punishment. They are murderers, in daylight, killing the leader of Rome and pretending they have saved the Republic. I have to speak for him. I have to speak for Caesar before they cover up the truth with lies and flattery. I know how they work, Maecenas. They will hold a lavish funeral and they will rub ashes into their skin and weep for the great man. In a month or less, they will move on to new plots, new ways to raise themselves, never seeing how petty, how venal they are, in comparison to him.’

He resumed his stiff pacing, pounding out each step on the tiled floor. He was consumed with rage, so intense that he could barely speak or breathe. Maecenas waved a hand, deferring to Agrippa as the big man cleared his throat. He spoke as calmly as he could, aware that Octavian was on the edge of violence or perhaps tears and had been for hours. The young man was exhausted, but his body jerked on, unable to stop or rest.

‘Your mother’s letter said they had been given amnesty, Octavian. The law has been passed. There can be no revenge against them now, not without turning the entire Senate against you. How long would you survive that?’

‘As long as I choose, Agrippa. Let me tell you something of Caesar. I have seen him capture a pharaoh from his own palace in Alexandria. I have been at his side when he challenged armies and governments and no one dared raise a hand or speak a word against him. The Senate have as much power as we choose to allow them; do you understand? Allow them nothing and they have nothing. What they call power is no more than shadows. Julius understood that. They pass their pompous laws and the common people bow their heads and everyone declares it is real … but it is not!’

He shook his head, lurching and staggering slightly, so that his shoulder bumped against the wall. As the other two shared a worried glance, Octavian rested there, cooling his forehead against the plaster.

‘Are you ill, Octavian? You need to sleep.’

Agrippa stood up, unsure whether he should approach. He had known madmen in his life and Octavian was at the ragged edge, driven to it by soaring emotions. His friend needed rest and Agrippa considered mixing a draught of opium for him. Dawn had come and they were all exhausted. Octavian showed no sign of relaxing from the rage that knotted and twisted his muscles. Even as he stood there, his legs and arms twitched in spasms underneath the skin.

‘Octavian?’ Agrippa asked again. There was no reply and he turned to Maecenas, raising his hands helplessly.

Maecenas approached Octavian like the horseman he was. There was something about the twitching muscles that reminded him of an unbroken colt and he made unconscious soothing noises, clicking and murmuring in his throat as he laid a hand on Octavian’s shoulder. The skin under the cloth felt burning hot, and at the touch Octavian went suddenly limp, sliding along the wall in collapse. Maecenas leaped forward to catch him, but the unexpected weight was too much and he barely managed to guide his friend to lie along the edge of the room. To Maecenas’ horror, a dark patch grew at Octavian’s groin, the bitter smell of urine filling the close air.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Agrippa asked, sinking into a crouch.

‘He’s breathing at least,’ Maecenas said. ‘I don’t know. His eyes are moving, but I don’t think he is awake. Have you seen anything like this before?’

‘Not in him. I knew a centurion once with a falling sickness. I remember he lost his bladder.’

‘What happened to him?’ Maecenas asked without looking up.

Agrippa winced in memory. ‘Killed himself. He had no authority with his men after that. You know how they can be.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Maecenas replied. ‘Perhaps it is just this once, though. No one needs to hear of it. We can clean him up, and when he wakes, it will be forgotten. The mind is a strange thing. He will believe whatever we tell him.’

‘Unless he knows about the weakness already,’ Agrippa said.

Both of them jumped up at the sound of footsteps. The house slave, Fidolus, was returning.

Maecenas was first to speak.

‘He mustn’t see this. I’ll distract Fidolus, give him something to do. You take care of Octavian.’

Agrippa scowled at the thought of removing urine-soaked clothing. Yet Maecenas was already moving and his protest remained unspoken. With a sigh, Agrippa lifted Octavian in his arms.

‘Come on. Time for a wash and clean clothes.’

The bathing room in the house was small and the water would be cold without Fidolus to heat it, but it would do. As he carried the limp body, Agrippa shook his head at swirling thoughts. Caesar was dead and only the gods knew what would happen to his friend.

CHAPTER THREE

In shadow, Mark Antony pressed his thumbs against his eyes, struggling with weariness. In his twenties, he’d thought nothing of staying awake for a night and then working through the next day. In Gaul, he’d marched through darkness and fought all morning, alongside ten thousand legionaries doing the same thing. He knew that all things pass, that time takes everything from a man. Yet somehow he had assumed his endurance was a part of him, like his wits or his height, only to find it had seeped away like water from a cracked jug.

The forum was filled with citizens and soldiers, come to honour Caesar for the last time. Rich and poor were forced to mingle and there were constant shouts of irritation and outrage as more and more pressed in from the roads around. A woman cried out somewhere for her lost child and Mark Antony sighed, wishing Julius could have been there to stand with him and watch, just watch, as Rome swirled and coalesced around the body of a god.

There could never be enough space for all those who wanted to see. The sun was a hammer on bare heads as they struggled for the best view. The heat had been building steadily from the first moments of dawn, when Caesar had been laid out and forty centurions of the Tenth legion had taken position around him. The body rested on a golden bier, the focus and the centre of the world for that day.

Mark Antony raised his head with an effort of will. He had not slept through two nights and he sweated ceaselessly. Thirst was already unpleasant, but he dared not drink and be forced to leave the forum to empty his bladder. He would have to sip a cup of wine to speak to the crowd, and a slave stood at his shoulder with a cup and cloth. Mark Antony was ready and he knew he would not fail on that day. He did not look at the face of his friend. He had stared too long already as the corpse was washed, the wounds counted and drawn in charcoal and ink by learned doctors for the Senate. It was just a gashed thing now, empty. It was not the man who had cowed the Senate, who had seen kings and pharaohs kneel. Swaying slightly in a wave of dizziness, Mark Antony closed his right hand tightly on the scrolls, making the vellum crackle and crease. He should have stolen a few hours of sleep, he knew. He must not faint or fall, or show any sign of the grief and rage that threatened to ruin him.

He could not see the Liberatores, though he knew they were all there. Twenty-three men had plunged knives into his friend, many of them after life had fled, as if they were joining a ritual. Mark Antony’s eyes grew cold, his back straightening as he thought of them. He had wasted hours wishing he could have been there, that he could have known what was going to happen, but all that was dust. He could not change the past, not a moment of it. When he wanted to cry out against them, to summon soldiers and have them torn and broken, he had been forced to smile and treat them as great men of Rome. It brought acid into his mouth to think of it. They would be watching, waiting for the days of funeral rites to end, waiting for the citizens to settle down in their grief, so they could enjoy the new posts and powers their knives had won. Mark Antony clenched his jaw at the thought. He had worn a mask from the moment the first whispers reached his ears. Caesar was dead and yapping dogs sat in the Senate. Keeping his disgust hidden had been the hardest task of his life. Yet it had been worth proposing the vote for amnesty. He had drawn their teeth with that simple act and it had not been hard to have his remaining friends support his right to give the funeral oration. The Liberatores had smirked to themselves at the idea, secure in their victory and their new status.

‘Cloth and cup,’ Mark Antony snapped suddenly.

The slave moved, wiping sweat from his master’s face as Mark Antony took the goblet and sipped to clear his throat. It was time to speak to Rome. He stood straight, allowing the slave to adjust the folds of his toga. One shoulder remained bare and he could feel sweat grow cold in the armpit. He walked out of shadow into the sun and passed through the line of centurions glaring out at the crowd. In just four steps, he was on the platform with Julius for the last time.

The crowd saw the consul and stillness spread out from that one point in all directions. They did not want to miss a word and the sudden silence was almost unnerving. Mark Antony looked at the grand buildings and temples all around. Every window was full of dark heads and he wondered again where Brutus and Cassius were. They would not miss the moment of their triumph, he was certain. He raised his voice to a bellow and began.

‘Citizens of Rome! I am but one man, a consul of our city. Yet I do not speak with one voice when I talk of Caesar. I speak with the tongue of every citizen. I speak today for our countrymen, our people. The Senate decreed honours for Caesar and when I tell all his names, you will hear not my voice but your own.’

He turned slightly on the rostrum to look at the body of his friend. The silence was perfect and unbroken across the forum of Rome. Caesar’s wounds had been covered in a white toga and undertunic, sewn so that it hid the gashes. There was no more blood in him and Mark Antony knew the toga concealed wounds that had grown pale and stiff during the days of handling and preparation. Only the band of green laurel leaves around Caesar’s head was a thing of life.

‘He was Gaius Julius Caesar, son of Gaius Julius and Aurelia, descendant of the Julii, from Aeneas of Troy, a son of Venus. He was Consul and he was Imperator of Rome. He was Father to his Country. The old month of Quintilis itself was renamed for him. More than all of those, he was granted the right to divine worship. These names and titles show how we honoured Caesar. Our august Senate decreed that his body be inviolate, on pain of death. That anyone with him would have the same immunity. By the laws of Rome, the body of Caesar was sacrosanct. He could not be touched. The temple of his flesh could not be injured, by all the authority of our laws.’

He paused, listening to a murmur of anger that rumbled through the vast crowd.

‘He did not tear these titles by force from the hands of the Senate, from our hands. He did not even ask for them, but they were granted to him in a flood, in thanks for his service to Rome. Today you honour him again by your presence. You are witnesses to Roman honour.’

One of the centurions shifted uncomfortably by his feet and Mark Antony glanced down, then up again, meeting the eyes of hundreds as he looked across the heaving crowd. There was anger and shame there and Mark Antony nodded to himself, taking a deep breath to continue.

‘By our laws, by our Roman honour, we gave oath to protect Caesar and Caesar’s person with all our strength. We gave oath that those who failed to defend him would be forever accursed.’

The crowd groaned louder as they understood and Mark Antony raised his voice to a roar.

‘O Jupiter and all the gods, forgive us our failure! Grant mercy for what we have failed to do. Forgive us all our broken oaths.’

He stepped away from the rostrum, standing over the body that lay before them. For a moment, his gaze flickered towards the senate house. The steps there were filled with white-robed figures, standing and watching. No one had a better view of the funeral oration and he wondered if they were enjoying their position as much as they’d expected. Many in the crowd turned hostile eyes on those gathered figures.

‘Caesar loved Rome. And Rome loved her favourite son, but would not save him. There will be no vengeance for his death, for all the laws and empty promises that could not hold back the knives. A law is but the wish of men, written and given a power that it does not own in itself.’

He paused to let them think and was rewarded with a surge of movement in the crowd, a sign of hearts beating faster, of blood rushing from the outer limbs. He had them all waiting for his words. Another centurion glared up in silent warning, trying to catch his eye. Mark Antony ignored him.

‘In your name, our august Senate has granted amnesty to those who call themselves “Liberatores”. In your name, a vote, a law held good by your honour. That too is sacrosanct, inviolate.’

The crowd made a sound like a low growl and Mark Antony hesitated. He was as exposed as the soldiers around the platform. If he drove them too far in guilt and anger, he could be swallowed up in the mob. He rode a knife edge, having seen before what the people of Rome could do in rage. Once again, he looked to the senators and saw their number had dwindled as they read the crowd; as they read the wind. He smiled wearily, gathering his courage and knowing what Julius would want him to do. Mark Antony had known from the moment he saw Cassius and his conspirators enter the chamber, holding their hands high to show the blood of a tyrant. He would make the people of Rome understand what had been done. He would make them see.

Mark Antony bent down to the line of polished centurions, lowering his voice to speak to the closest man.

‘You. Come up here. Stand with me,’ he said.

The centurion was the image of martial perfection for such a post, his armour gleaming in the sun and his plume trimmed to a perfect uniform length. Veteran that he undoubtedly was, he responded with the utmost reluctance. Every instinct told him to keep his eyes on the crowd pressing close all around them.

‘Consul, my post is here …’ the man began.

Mark Antony dropped to one knee, his voice low and angry.

‘As you say, I am a consul of Rome. Is the Republic now such a broken thing that even a Roman officer will not follow orders?’

The centurion dipped his plumed head in shame as he flushed. Without another word, he clambered up onto the platform and the silent rank of his companions shuffled to close the gap he left behind.

Mark Antony rose to his full height, so that his eyes were at the level of the man’s plume. He looked down sternly.

‘There is an effigy in wax below the body, Centurion. Take hold of it for me. Raise it up so that they can see.’

The man’s jaw dropped in shock and he was shaking his head even before he replied.

‘What? What game is this? Consul, please. Finish the oration and let me get you safely away.’

‘What is your name?’ Mark Antony asked.

The centurion hesitated. He had been anonymous before, hidden in a line of similar men. In an instant, he had been singled out for no good reason. He swallowed bitterly, thanking his personal gods for giving him such a run of bad luck.

‘Centurion Oppius, Consul.’

‘I see. I am going to speak slowly and clearly to you, Oppius. Obey my lawful orders. Uphold your oath to the Republic, or remove that plume and report to your legion tribune with my request that you be shown the Roman discipline you seem to have forgotten.’

The centurion’s mouth tightened into a pale line. His eyes glittered in anger, but he nodded sharply. Such a ‘request’ would see him flogged to ribbons under a weighted lash, perhaps even executed as an example. He turned stiffly, looking down at the body of Caesar for a moment.

‘He would not mind, Oppius,’ Mark Antony went on, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘He was my friend.’

‘I don’t know what you are doing, Consul, but if they rush us, I will see you again in hell,’ Oppius growled.

Mark Antony clenched his fist, perhaps to strike a blow, but the centurion bent low and jerked back the gold cloth. Below the body of Caesar lay a full-sized model of a man in white wax, dressed in a purple toga with gold trim. Oppius hesitated, repelled. Its features had been modelled after Caesar’s own. To his disgust, he saw that it too wore a band of fresh laurel leaves.

‘What is this … thing?’ he muttered.

Mark Antony only gestured and Oppius lifted it out. It was surprisingly heavy and he staggered slightly as he came upright.

The crowd had been murmuring, unable to understand the furious conversation on the platform. They gasped and cried out as they saw the effigy with its blind, white eyes.

‘Consul!’ another centurion shouted back over the noise. ‘You must stop whatever you are doing. Step down, Oppius. They won’t stand for this.’

‘Be silent!’ Mark Antony bellowed, losing his patience with the fools around him.

The crowd grew still in horror, their gazes riveted on the mockery of a man which stood before them, supported by Oppius.

‘Let me show you, citizens of Rome. Let me show you what your word is worth!’

Mark Antony stepped forward and drew a grey iron blade from his sash. He wrenched the purple robe that clothed the mannequin, baring the chest and the line of the throat. The crowd gasped, unable to look away. Many of them made the horn sign of protection with their shaking hands.

‘Tillius Cimber held Caesar, while Suetonius Prandus struck the first blow … here!’ Mark Antony said.

He pressed his left hand against the shoulder of the effigy and shoved his knife into the wax under the moulded collarbone, so that even old soldiers in the crowd winced. The senators on the steps stood rooted and Suetonius himself was there, his mouth sagging open.

‘Publius Servilius Casca sliced this wound across the first,’ Mark Antony went on. With a savage movement, he sawed at cloth and wax with his blade. He was already panting, his voice a bass roar that echoed from the buildings all around. ‘His brother, Gaius Casca, stepped in then as Caesar fought! He thrust his dagger … here.’

Over by the senate house, the Casca brothers looked at each other in horror. Without a word, both men turned away, hurrying to get out of the forum.

Sweating, Mark Antony pulled back the sleeves of the toga, so that the mannequin’s right arm was revealed. ‘Lucius Pella made a cut here, a long gash.’ With a jerk of his blade, Mark Antony sliced the wax and the crowd moaned. ‘Caesar still fought! He was left-handed, and he raised his bloody right arm to hold them off. Decimus Junius slashed at him then, cutting the muscle so that the arm fell limp. Caesar called for help on the stone benches of Pompey’s theatre. He called for vengeance, but he was alone with these men … and they would not stop.’

The crowd surged forward, driven almost to madness by what they were seeing. There was no logic in it, simply a growing, seething mass of rage. Just a few senators still stood by the senate house and Mark Antony saw Cassius turn to go.

‘Gaius Cassius Longinus stabbed the Father of Rome then, shoving his thin arms into a gap between the others.’ With a grunt, Mark Antony punched the blade into the wax side through the toga, leaving the cloth torn as the knife came out. ‘The blood poured, drenching Caesar’s toga, but still he fought! He was a soldier of Rome and his spirit was strong as they struck and struck at him!’ He punctuated his words with blows, tearing ribbons from the ruined toga.

He broke off, gasping and shaking his head.

‘Then he saw a chance to live.’

His voice had dropped and the crowd pushed even closer, driven and wild, but hanging on every word. Mark Antony looked across them all, but his eyes were seeing another day, another scene. He had listened to every detail of it from a dozen sources and it was as real to him as if he had witnessed it himself.

‘He saw Marcus Brutus step onto the floor of the theatre. The man who had fought at his side for half their lives. The man who had betrayed him once and joined an enemy of Rome. The man Julius Caesar had forgiven when anyone else would have had him butchered and his limbs scattered. Caesar saw his greatest friend and for a moment, for a heartbeat, in the midst of those stabbing, shouting men, he must have thought he was saved. He must have thought he would live.’

Tears came to his eyes then. Mark Antony brushed them away with his sleeve, feeling his exhaustion like a great weight. It was almost over.

‘He saw that Brutus carried a blade like all the rest. His heart broke and the fight went out of him at last.’

Centurion Oppius was standing stunned, barely holding the figure of wax. He flinched as Mark Antony reached over and yanked a fold of the purple toga over the figure’s head, so that the face was covered.

‘Caesar would not look at them after that. He sat as Brutus approached and they continued to stab and tear at his flesh.’

He held his dark blade poised over the heart and many in the crowd were weeping, men and women together as they waited in agony for the last blow. The moaning sound had grown so that it was almost a wail of pain.

‘Perhaps he did not feel the final blade; we cannot know.’

Mark Antony was a powerful man and he punched the blade up where the ribs would have been, sinking it to the hilt and cutting a new hole in the ragged cloth. He left the blade there, for all to see.

‘Set it down, Oppius,’ he said, panting. ‘They have seen all I wanted them to see.’

Every pair of eyes in the crowd moved to follow the torn figure as it was laid down on the platform. The common people of Rome visited no theatres with the noble classes. What they had witnessed had been one of the most powerful scenes of their lives. A sigh went around the forum, a long breath of pain and release.

Mark Antony gathered slow-moving thoughts. He had pushed the crowd and ridden them, but he had judged it well. They would go from this place in sombre mood, talking amongst themselves. They would not forget his friend, and the Liberatores would be followed by scorn all their lives.

‘To think,’ he said, his voice gentle, ‘Caesar saved the lives of many of the men who were there, in Pompey’s theatre, on the Ides of March. Many of them owed their fortunes and their positions to him. Yet they brought him down. He made himself first in Rome, first in the world, and it did not save him.’

His head came up when a voice yelled out in the crowd.

‘Why should they live?’

Mark Antony opened his mouth to reply, but a dozen other voices answered, shouting angry curses at the murderers of Caesar. He held up his hands for calm, but the lone voice had been a spark on dry wood and the noise spread and grew until there were hundreds and hundreds pointing to the senate house and roaring out their rage.

‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Mark Antony bellowed, but even his great voice was swallowed. Those further back pushed forward mindlessly and the centurions were battered by fists and heaving bodies.

‘That’s it,’ one of the centurions growled, shoving back with all his strength to give himself room to draw a gladius. ‘Time to get away. On me, lads. Surround the consul and stay calm.’

Yet the crowd were not rushing the consul’s platform. They surged towards the senate house and the now empty steps.

‘Wait! They will hear me yet. Let me speak!’ Mark Antony shouted, shoving past a centurion trying to guide him down the steps.

A stone soared from somewhere further back, hammering a dent in an ornate chestplate and sending a senior man staggering. The crowd were levering up the cobblestones of the forum. The centurion who had taken the impact was on his back, gasping for breath as his companions cut the leather ties that bound him into his armour.

‘Too late for that, Consul,’ Oppius snapped. ‘I just hope this is what you wanted. Now move, sir. Or will you stand and see us all killed?’

More of the black stones flew. Mark Antony could see movements in the crowd, swirling and shoving like patterns in water. There were thousands of angry men in that forum and many of the weaker ones would be trampled to death before their anger gave out. He swore under his breath.

‘My feelings exactly, sir,’ Oppius said grimly. ‘But it’s done now.’

‘I can’t leave the body,’ Mark Antony said desperately. He ducked as another stone came past him and he saw how quickly the chaos was spreading. There was no holding them back now and he felt a sudden fear that he would be swept away.

‘Very well. Get me clear.’

He could smell smoke on the air and he shivered. The gods alone knew what he had unleashed, but he remembered the riots of years before and the flashing memories were ugly. As he was borne away in a tight mass of soldiers, he looked back at the body of Julius, abandoned and alone, as men clambered up to the platform bearing knives and stones.

The bitter smell of wet ash was heavy in the air across Rome. Mark Antony wore a clean toga as he waited in the outer hall of the House of Virgins behind the temple of Vesta. Even so, he thought he could smell burnt wood in the cloth, hanging on him like a mist. The air of the city carried the taint and marked everything passing through it.

Suddenly impatient, he jumped up from a marble bench and began to pace. Two of the temple women were watching him idly, so secure in their status that they betrayed no tension even in the presence of a consul of Rome. The virgins could not be touched, on pain of death. They devoted their lives to worship, though there had long been rumours that they came out on the festival of Bona Dea and used aphrodisiac drugs and wine to toy with men before killing them. Mark Antony glowered at the pair, but they only smiled and spoke to each other in low tones, ignoring the man of power.

The high priestess of Vesta had judged his patience to a fine degree by the time she finally came out to him. Mark Antony had been on the point of leaving, or summoning soldiers, or anything else that would allow him to act rather than wait like a supplicant. He had sat for a time once more, staring into space and the horrors of the previous day and night.

The woman who approached was a stranger to him. Mark Antony rose and bowed only briefly, trying to control his irritation. She was tall and wore a Greek shift that left her legs and one shoulder bare. Her hair was a shining mass of dark red, curling across her throat. His gaze followed the path of the locks, pausing on what looked like a tiny splash of blood on the white cloth. He shuddered, wondering what horrible rite she had been finishing while he waited.

There were still bodies in the forum and his anger simmered, but he needed the goodwill of the priestess. He made himself smile as she spoke.

‘Consul, this is a rare pleasure. I am Quintina Fabia. I hear your men are working hard to bring order back to the streets. Such a terrible business.’

Her voice was low and educated and he reassessed his first impression. He had already known the woman was one of the Fabii, a noble family that could call on the allegiance of a dozen senators in any year. Quintina was used to authority and he let the anger seep out of him.

‘I hope there has been no trouble here?’ Mark Antony asked.

‘We have guards and other ways of protecting ourselves, Consul. Even rioters know not to trouble this temple. What man would risk a curse from the virgin goddess, to see his manhood fall limp and useless for ever?’

She smiled, but he could still smell wet ash in the air and he was not in the mood for pleasantries. It was annoying enough that he had been forced to come himself, with so much else to do. Yet his messengers had been turned away without a word.

‘I have come to take charge of Caesar’s will. I believe it is lodged here. If you will have it brought to me, I can get back to my work. The sun is almost setting and each night is worse.’

Quintina shook her head, a delicate frown appearing between dark brown eyes.

‘Consul, I would do everything in my power to help you, but not that. The last testaments of men are my charge. I cannot give them up.’

Mark Antony struggled again with rising temper.

‘Well, Caesar is dead, woman! His body was burned in the forum along with the senate house, so we can be reasonably sure of that! When will you release his will, if not today, to me? The whole city is waiting for it to be read.’

His anger washed over her with no noticeable effect. She smiled slightly at his harsh tone, looking back over her shoulder at the two women lounging on a nearby bench. Mark Antony was seized by a sudden desire to grab her and shake her out of her lethargy. Half the forum had been destroyed. The Senate were forced to meet in Pompey’s theatre while the seat of government lay in rubble and ashes, and still he was being treated like a servant! His big hands clenched and unclenched.

‘Consul, do you know why this temple was founded?’ she asked softly.

Mark Antony shook his head, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Could she not understand what he needed?

‘It was raised to house the Palladium, the statue of Athena that was once the heart of Troy. The goddess guided her likeness to Rome and we have been its guardians for centuries, do you understand? In that time, we have seen riots and unrest. We have seen the walls of Rome herself threatened. We have watched the army of Spartacus march past and seen Horatius go out to hold the bridge with just two men against an army.’

‘I don’t … What has this to do with the will of Caesar?’

‘It means that time passes slowly within these walls, Consul. Our traditions go back to the founding of the city and I will not change them because of a few dead rioters and a consul who thinks he can give orders here!’

Her voice had hardened and grown louder as she spoke and Mark Antony raised his hands, trying to placate the suddenly angry woman before him.

‘Very well, you have your traditions. Nonetheless, I must have the will. Have it brought to me.’

‘No, Consul.’ She held up a hand herself to forestall his protest. ‘But it will be read aloud in the forum on the last day of the month. You will hear it then.’

‘But …’ He hesitated under her stare and took a deep breath. ‘As you say then,’ he said through a clenched jaw. ‘I am disappointed you saw no value in gaining the support of a consul.’

‘Oh, they come and go, Mark Antony,’ she replied. ‘We remain.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Octavian woke in the late morning, feeling as if he had drunk bad red wine. His head pounded and his clenching stomach made him weak, so he had to lean against a wall and gather his strength as Fidolus brought out his horse. He wanted to vomit to clear his head, but there was nothing to bring up and he had to struggle not to heave dryly, making his head swell and hammer with the effort. He knew he needed a run to force blood back into his limbs, to force out the shame that made him burn. As the house slave went back inside for the saddle, Octavian pounded his thigh with a closed fist, harder and harder until he could see flashing lights whenever he closed his eyes. His weak flesh! He had been so careful after the first time, telling himself that he had caught some infection in a scratch, or some illness from the sour air in Egypt. His own men had found him insensible then, but they had assumed he’d drunk himself unconscious and saw nothing too odd in that, with Caesar feting the Egyptian queen along the Nile.

He could feel a bruise begin to swell the muscle of his leg. Octavian wanted to shout out his anger. To be let down by his own body! Julius had taught him it was just a tool, like any other, to be trained and brought to heel like a dog or a horse. Yet now his two friends had seen him while he was … absent. He muttered a prayer to the goddess Carna that his bladder had not released this second time. Not in front of them.

‘Please,’ he whispered to the deity of health. ‘Cast it out of me, whatever it is.’

He had woken clean and in rough blankets, but his memory ceased with the scroll from Rome. He could not take in the new reality. His mentor, his protector, had been killed in the city, his life ripped from him where he should have been safest. It was impossible.

Fidolus passed the reins into his hands, looking worriedly at the young man who stood shaking in the morning sun.

‘Are you well, master? I can fetch a doctor from the town if you are ill.’

‘Too much drink, Fidolus,’ Octavian replied.

The slave nodded, smiling in sympathy.

‘It doesn’t last long, master. The morning air will clear your head and Atreus is feeling his strength today. He will run to the horizon if you let him.’

‘Thank you. Are my friends awake?’ Octavian watched closely for a sign that the slave knew something about his collapse, but the expression remained innocent.

‘I heard someone moving about. Shall I call for them to join you?’

Octavian mounted, landing heavily and making the mount snort and skitter across the yard. Fidolus began to move to take the reins but Octavian waved him off.

‘Not now. I’ll see them when I come back.’

He dug in his heels and the horse lunged forward, clearly happy to be out of its stall with the prospect of a run. Octavian saw movement in the doorway of the house and heard Agrippa’s deep voice hail him. He didn’t turn. The clatter of hooves on stone was loud and he could not face the man, not yet.

Horse and rider surged into a canter through the gate. Agrippa came skidding into the yard behind him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stared after Octavian for a while, then yawned.

Maecenas came out, still wearing the long shift he slept in.

‘You let him go alone?’ he said.

Agrippa grinned at seeing the Roman noble so tousled, his oiled hair sticking out at all angles.

‘Let him work up a sweat,’ he said. ‘If he’s ill, he needs it. The gods alone know what he’s going to do now.’

Maecenas noticed Fidolus, who had stayed back with his head down.

‘Get my horse ready, Fidolus – and the carthorse that suffers under my friend here.’

The slave hurried back into the stable block, greeted with whinnies of excitement from the two horses in the gloom. The Romans exchanged a glance.

‘I think I fell asleep about an hour ago,’ Maecenas said, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘Have you thought what you’re going to do now?’

Agrippa cleared his throat uncomfortably.

‘Unlike you, I am a serving officer, Maecenas. I do not have the freedom to make decisions. I will return to the fleet.’

‘If you had bothered to use that fascinating mind you hide so well, you’d have realised the fleet at Brundisium no longer has a purpose. Caesar is dead, Agrippa! Your campaign won’t go ahead without him. Gods, the legions of Rome are there – who will lead them now? If you go back, you’ll be floating without orders for months while the Senate ignore you all. Believe me, I know those men. They will squabble and argue like children, snatching scraps of power and authority now that Caesar’s shadow has gone. It could be years before the legions move again, and you know it. They were loyal to Caesar, not the senators who murdered him.’

‘Octavian said there is an amnesty,’ Agrippa murmured uneasily.

Maecenas laughed, a bitter sound.

‘And if they passed a law saying we should all marry our sisters, would it happen? Honestly, I have grown to admire the discipline of the army, but there are times when the entire board is reset, Agrippa! This is one of them. If you can’t see that, perhaps you should go and sit with thousands of sailors, writing your reports and watching the water grow sour as you wait for permission to take on fresh food.’

‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Agrippa demanded angrily. ‘Retire to your estate and watch it all play out? I don’t have a patrician family to protect me. If I don’t go back, my name will be marked “Run” and someone somewhere will sign an order to have me hunted down. I sometimes think you have lived too well to understand other men. We do not all have your protection!’

Agrippa’s face had grown flushed as he spoke and Maecenas nodded thoughtfully. He sensed it was not the time to anger him further, though Agrippa’s indignation always made him want to smile.

‘You are correct,’ he said, gentling his voice deliberately. ‘I am related to enough of the great men not to fear any one of them. But I am not wrong. If you go back to Brundisium, you’ll be picking worms out of your food before you see order restored. Trust me on that at least.’

Agrippa began his reply and Maecenas knew it would be something typically decent and honourable. The man had risen through the ranks by merit and occasionally it showed. Maecenas spoke to head him off before he could vow to follow his oath, or some other foolishness.

‘The old order is dead with Caesar, Agrippa. You talk of my position – very well! Let me use it to shelter you, at least for a few months. I will write letters of permission to have you kept from your duties. It will keep the stripes off your back and your rank intact while we see this through! Think about it, big man. Octavian needs you. At least you have your fleet, your rank. What does he have now that Caesar is gone? For all we know, there are men riding here to finish the job they started in Rome …’ He broke off, his eyes widening.

‘Fidolus! Come out here, you Greek shit-pot! Move!’

The slave was already returning with both mounts. Maecenas slapped his hands off the reins and leapt on, wincing as the cold leather met his testicles.

‘Sword! Bring me a weapon. Run!’

Agrippa mounted as Fidolus raced across the yard and into the house. It was true that his horse was far stockier in build than those of the others. It was tall and powerful and shone black in the morning sun. As it took his weight, the animal blew air from its lips and pranced sideways. Agrippa patted its neck absently, thinking through what Maecenas had been saying.

‘I swear by Mars, there had better be some assassins riding around here,’ Maecenas snapped, turning his mount. ‘I’ll be black and blue after half a mile.’

A fresh clatter of hooves sounded outside the grounds, getting louder with every moment. Octavian rode back through the gate, his face pale. He looked surprised to see his friends mounted and Fidolus rushing out with swords clasped awkwardly in his arms.

Octavian’s stare snagged on Maecenas, whose shift had ridden up so that his bare buttocks were revealed.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

Maecenas tried to stare back haughtily, but he couldn’t summon his dignity in such a position.

‘Don’t you know all young Romans ride like this now? Perhaps it has not spread to the provinces yet.’

Octavian shook his head, his expression bleak.

‘I came back to tell you both to pack up your belongings. We need to get to Brundisium.’

Agrippa’s head jerked up at the word, but it was Maecenas who spoke first.

‘I was just explaining to the keen sailor why that is the last place we would want to go, at least until the city settles down. It will be chaos out there, Octavian. Believe me, every Roman family is doubling their guards right now, ready for civil war.’

‘You’re right,’ Octavian said. ‘The legions are at Brundisium as well.’

‘So tell me why that isn’t the last place in the world we should visit,’ Maecenas said.

He saw Octavian’s gaze turn inward, his eyes shadowed as he lowered his head. There was silence in the yard for a moment before he spoke again.

‘Because those men were loyal to Caesar – to my family. If there is anyone left who wants to see revenge for his murder, they will be in that camp by the sea. That’s where I must go.’

‘You realise there could also be men there who would think nothing of killing you?’ Maecenas asked softly.

Octavian’s gaze flickered to him.

‘I have to start somewhere. I can’t let them wipe their hands clean and just go on with their lives. I knew him, Maecenas. He was … a better man than the snapping dogs in Rome, every one of them. He would want me to walk into their houses and show them the mercy they showed him.’

Agrippa nodded, rubbing a hand through his beard.

‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We have to get back to Brundisium. Out here, we’re too far away to know anything.’

Maecenas looked from man to man and for once there was no wry humour in his expression.

‘Three men?’ he said. ‘Against the legions of Rome?’

‘No, not against them, with them,’ Octavian replied. ‘I know those men, Maecenas. I have served with hundreds, no, thousands of them. They will remember me. I know them better than the greyheads of the Senate, at least.’

‘I see. That is … a relief,’ Maecenas said.

He looked to Agrippa for some sign that he wasn’t going along with this madness, but Agrippa was watching Octavian with a fierce intensity. The young man who dropped lightly from his horse and strode across the yard had impressed him from the first time they met, two years before. It was not just that Octavian was a blood relative of Caesar, or had seen the great cities of the east. The young Roman was a man who saw through the febrile twitching of merchants, nobles and soldiers to what really mattered. Agrippa remembered watching him hold court at a party, speaking so well and fluently that even the drunks were listening to him. Octavian had offered them pride in what they could bring to the world, but Agrippa had heard the other strand woven into the words – the cost and burden that they must shoulder to represent the city. He’d listened in awe to concepts and thoughts that had never intruded upon his father’s endless quest for more wealth.

One of the drunkest nobles had laughed at Octavian. With a quick jerk, Agrippa had tossed the man over the balcony. He grinned as he remembered the amused shock on Octavian’s face as half the crowd rushed past them both. It had been enough to begin a friendship neither man had been looking for. They’d drunk and talked until dawn and Agrippa thanked his gods he’d chosen to go out that night at his father’s urging. He’d found no new deals to make, nor rich daughters to court, but the following morning he’d gone to the docks and joined his first legion galley. His father hadn’t spoken to him since that day.

Sweat patches stood out on Octavian’s tunic and his horse was already lathered in strings of spit. Yet his orders were clear and precise to Fidolus as they walked back into the house to pack.

‘You did not mention the sickness that struck him last night,’ Agrippa observed in a low voice. Maecenas glanced at him.

‘It didn’t happen. Or if it did, he’ll be the one to bring it up.’

Maecenas dismounted and flicked his reins over a post before walking inside to dress. Agrippa watched him go and, when he was finally alone, allowed a smile to spread across his face. He liked them both, a constant wonder for a man who did not make friends easily. For all his studied cynicism, Maecenas had been willing to ride out with his buttocks in the wind the moment he thought Octavian was in danger.

Agrippa took a deep breath of Greek air, deliberately filling his lungs and releasing it slowly. He was a man who valued Roman order, the stability and predictable nature of military life. His childhood had taken him to a dozen different cities, watching his father close a thousand deals. The fleet had saved him from that boredom and given him a home where he felt he was part of something that mattered at last. The talk of chaos worried him more deeply than he would ever say. He hoped Maecenas was wrong, but he knew enough to fear that his noble friend had told the future well. The divine Julius was gone and a thousand lesser men would be rushing to fill the gap he had left. Agrippa knew he might see the Republic torn to pieces as men like his father struggled for advantage. He dismounted and rolled his heavy shoulders, feeling his neck creak. At a time like that, a man should choose his friends with care, or be swept away.

He could hear Maecenas yelling orders inside the house and Agrippa grinned to himself as he tossed the reins over the holding post and followed. At least he would be swept towards Brundisium.

Brutus looked out over a city lit by speckles of fire. The flickering yellow and orange resembled a disease ruining healthy skin, spreading too fast to control. The window brought a warm breeze into the little room, but it was no comfort. The house was in the perfume district, a mile east of the forum. Three floors up from the ground, Brutus could still smell the destruction of the previous days. The odour of rich oils mingled unpleasantly with wet ash and he wanted a bath to rid himself of the scent. He was sick of smoke and the roars of distant clashes. As soon as darkness fell to hide the seething masses, they came out again, in greater and greater numbers. Those with guards had barricaded themselves to starve in their homes. The poor suffered worst, of course. They always did, easier prey to the raptores and gangs than those who could fight back.

Somewhere close by, Brutus could hear the tramp of marching soldiers, a sound as familiar to him as anything in the world. The legions in the Campus Martius had not mutinied, at least so far. The Senate had drafted rushed orders to bring them in, a thousand men at a time. Two separate legions had spread through the city, hard-pressed even so as the mobs gave ground step by bloody step. Brutus rubbed a spot on his forearm where a thrown tile had caught him a glancing blow earlier that day. He had been protected by a century of men, but as they escorted him to his house on the Quirinal hill, the roofs nearby had filled with rioters and a rain of stones and tiles had come arcing over. Had they been waiting for him, or was it just that nowhere was safe?

He clenched his fist at the memory. Even a century could be overwhelmed in the narrow streets. The Senate had reports of soldiers hemmed in on all sides, battered from above, and even one atrocity where oil pots had been thrown and set alight, burning men alive.

With tiles and stones shattering all around, he’d given the order to take a side street. They’d marched away from the location, intending to double back quickly on parallel streets to kick in doors and trap their assailants. He recalled the hooting jeers of lookouts above their heads, watching every step. The roofs had been empty by the time his men reached them, just a litter of broken tiles and scrawled messages. He’d given up on reaching his house and gone back to the safe area around the forum, where thousands of legionaries patrolled.

‘I think it’s getting worse, even with the new men in from the Campus,’ Cassius said, dragging Brutus back to the present. Like him, the senator was staring out over the city.

‘They can’t go on much longer,’ Brutus said, waving his hand in irritation.

The third man in the room stood to refill his cup with rich red wine. The two at the window turned at the sound and Lucius Pella raised his white eyebrows in silent question. Cassius shook his head, but Brutus nodded, so Pella filled a second cup.

‘They are drunk on more than wine,’ Pella said. ‘If we could have saved the senate house, I think it would be over already, but …’ He shook his head in disgust. A stone building should not have fallen just because wooden benches burned inside. Yet as the fire reached its height, one of the walls had cracked from top to bottom. The great roof had come crashing down, collapsing with such speed that it actually extinguished the fires within.

‘What would you have me do, Lucius?’ Cassius asked. ‘I have brought in legions. I have secured the permission of the Senate to kill those who ignore the curfew. Yet it goes on – no, it spreads! We have lost whole districts of the city to these cattle with their clubs and iron bars. A million citizens and slaves cannot be stopped by a few thousand soldiers.’

‘Mark Antony walked to his house today, with just a few men,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘Did you hear that? He is their champion, after his speech appealing to the mob. They don’t touch him, while my name is howled like a wolf pack. And yours, Cassius – and yours, Pella!’ He crossed the room and downed his wine in three long gulps.

‘I have to hide like a wanted criminal in my own city, while the consul acts the peacemaker. By the gods, it makes me want …’ He broke off, impotent in his anger.

‘It will pass, Brutus. You said it yourself. It has to run its course, but when they are starving, they will quieten.’

‘Will they? The gangs emptied the grain stores on the first evening. There were no guards to stop them then, were there? No, they were all in the forum, fighting fires. You know the Casca brothers have already left?’

‘I know,’ Cassius said. ‘They came to me and I had them escorted out. They have an estate a few hundred miles to the south. They’ll wait it out there.’

Brutus watched the senator closely.

‘Almost all the men who bloodied their hands with us have run with their tails between their legs. You know Decimus Junius is still writing letters to be read in the forum? Someone should tell him his messengers are beaten to death.’ He paused, sick with anger. ‘You are still here, though. Why is that, Cassius? Why haven’t you run yet to your vineyards?’

The senator smiled mirthlessly.

‘For the same reason as you, my friend. And Pella here. We are the “Liberatores”, are we not? If we all seek safety away from the city, who knows what will happen when we are gone? Should I give Mark Antony the power he wants? He will have Rome in the palm of his hand as soon as the crowds stop murdering and burning. I should be here for that. And so should you.’

‘Did he plan this, do you think?’ Pella asked, refilling his cup. ‘He inflamed the commoners with his cursed mannequin. He must have known what could happen.’

Cassius thought for a moment.

‘A year ago, I would not have believed it of him. I was sure then that Mark Antony was not a subtle man. When he proposed the vote for amnesty, I thought … I thought he was recognising the new reality. Even now, I don’t think he saw the flames that would follow his funeral oration. Yet he is not such a fool that he won’t take advantage when the opportunity is handed to him. He is a danger to us all, gentlemen.’

Pella shrugged, the flush of wine staining his cheeks.

‘Have him killed, then. What does one more body matter now? The streets are filled with them and disease will follow like night and day, be sure of it. When the plagues come, Rome will be hollowed out from within.’

His shaking hand made the cup clink against the jug and Brutus saw for the first time how terrified the man was.

‘Well, not me!’ Pella said, slurring slightly as he raised his cup in a mock toast to the other two. ‘I did not kill Caesar to die at the hands of bakers and tanners, or coughing out my lungs in some vile sickness of the dead. That is not what you promised me, Cassius! Hiding in the dark like thieves and murderers. You said we would be honoured!’

‘Be calm, Pella,’ Cassius snapped, unmoved. ‘Remember your dignity. You should not leave your wits at the bottom of a jug, not tonight. If you want to get out of the city, I will arrange it. At dawn, if you wish.’

‘And my wife? My children? My slaves? I will not leave them to be torn apart.’

Cassius showed a glint of his anger then, his voice cold.

‘You sound frightened, Pella. Of course they can travel with you. This is Rome and we are both senators. Most of the unrest is in the western half. Do not make it sound worse than it is. In a dozen days at most, there will be order again. I will send for …’

‘You said three days at the beginning,’ Pella interrupted, too dulled by wine to see the deadly stillness of Cassius.

‘Go home now, Pella. Ready your family and gather your possessions. You will be spared any further attack on your dignity.’

Pella blinked at him, his mind wandering.

‘Go home?’ he said. ‘The streets are not safe. I thought you said it was too dangerous to leave after dark.’

‘Nonetheless, you have made your point. Walk with your head held high and if someone stops you in the road, tell him you are a senator. I am sure they will let you pass.’

Pella shook his head nervously.

‘Cassius, I’m sorry. I should not have said such things. It was the wine. I would prefer to stay here with you, at least until dawn. I can …’

He broke off as Cassius crossed to the door that led out to stairs and the street. As it opened, the constant noise of shouts and crashes in the background grew louder.

‘Go home,’ Cassius said. He wore a dagger on his belt and he deliberately dropped a hand to the hilt.

Pella stared open-mouthed. He looked to Brutus but saw no pity there.

‘Please, Cassius …’

‘Get … out!’ Cassius snapped.

Pella’s shoulders drooped and he did not look at either man as he left. Cassius tried hard not to slam the door after him.

‘Do you think he will get through?’ Brutus asked, turning back to the open window.

‘It is in the hands of the gods,’ Cassius said irritably. ‘I could not bear his babbling weakness any longer.’

Brutus would have replied, but in the distance he saw a new bloom of fire spreading. He cursed under his breath and Cassius came to stand by him.

‘That’s the Quirinal, isn’t it?’ Cassius asked. He knew Brutus had property on that hill and his voice was dismayed on his behalf.

‘I think so. They never touch Caesar’s properties, did you know that?’ He rubbed the back of his neck, unutterably weary. ‘It’s hard to tell distances in the dark. I’ll know in the morning, if I can find enough men to walk with me.’ He spoke through gritted teeth at the thought of the people of Rome pawing his possessions. ‘We need those legions from Brundisium, Cassius! Another thirty thousand men could cut through these mobs. We need to smash them, to show enough force that it stops their mouths.’

‘If I could have brought them, I would have. Caesar’s officers won’t answer the messages of the Senate. When this is over, I will have them decimated, or their eagles struck down and made into cups for the poor, but for now, I cannot make them move.’

Somewhere in the streets near the house, a man screamed long and loud. Both of them started at the sound, then deliberately ignored it.

‘I could go to them,’ Brutus said after a time.

Cassius laughed in surprise. ‘To Brundisium? You’d be slaughtered as soon as they heard your name. You think I am unpopular, Brutus? Your name is the one the mobs chant loudest when they are calling for Caesar’s vengeance.’

Brutus blew air out, frustrated to the point of shaking.

‘Perhaps it is time to leave, then. To have your Senate make me governor of some city far from here. I have not seen the rewards you promised me, not yet …’ He caught himself, unwilling to beg from the hand of Cassius. Yet Brutus had no civil post and no wealth of his own. His private funds were already dwindling and he wondered if a nobleman like Cassius even understood his predicament. ‘Caesar would be laughing if he could see us hiding from his people.’

Cassius stared into the night. The fires on the Quirinal had spread at breathtaking speed. In the distance, hundreds of burning houses lit the darkness, like red cracks in the earth. There would be blackened bodies by the thousand in the morning and Pella was right, disease would follow, rising from the dead flesh and entering the lungs of healthy men. He made a sound in his throat and Brutus looked to him, trying to read his expression.

‘There are legions in Asia Minor,’ Cassius said at last. ‘I have considered going out to them as the representative of the Senate. Our eastern lands must be protected from the chaos here. Perhaps a year or two in Syria would allow us to put these bloody days behind.’

Brutus considered, but shook his head. He remembered the heat and strange passions of Egypt and had no desire to return to that part of the world.

‘Not Syria, not for me at least. I have never visited Athens, though I knew Greece well when I was young.’

Cassius waved a hand.

‘Propraetor then. It is done. I will have your command and passes drawn up, ready for use. By the gods, though, I could wish it had not turned out like this! I have not brought down one tyrant only to see Mark Antony take his place. The man is a greased snake for slipperiness.’

‘While we stay, the riots go on,’ Brutus replied, his voice hard. ‘They hunt for me, whoreson gangs of filthy slaves, kicking down doors looking for me.’

‘It will pass. I remember the last riots. The senate house was burned then, but the madness faded eventually.’

‘The leaders died, Cassius, that was why those riots came to an end. I had to move twice yesterday, just to be sure they could not box me in.’ He made a growling sound, at the end of his patience. ‘I would be happier if Mark Antony had fallen on the first day. Yet he walks where he pleases, with no more than a few guards. They do not hunt him, not the noble friend of Caesar!’

There was a crash from outside and both men jerked round, staring at the door as if it would burst open and bring the ugly mobs of Rome surging into the room. A woman screamed nearby, the sound suddenly choking off.

‘We underestimated him, it seems, or at least his ability to survive,’ Cassius replied, speaking more to break the silence than from thought. ‘I too would be happier if Mark Antony was another tragic casualty of the riots, but he is too careful – and right now, too well loved. I know a few men, but they are as likely to tell him of a plot as carry it through.’

Brutus snorted. More crashes and screams sounded from the street, though he thought they were moving on.

‘Draw up the orders then,’ he said wearily. ‘I can spend a year or two governing Athens. When the sting is drawn from Rome, I will see her again.’

Cassius pressed a hand to his shoulder.

‘Depend on it, my friend. We have come too far together to see it all lost now.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Brundisium had never been as busy. It was like an overturned beehive, with soldiers and citizens scurrying everywhere and no sign of the languor of Rome. In the port city, everyone hurried, moving supplies for the fleet and legions: wooden casks of water, iron nails, ropes, sailcloth, salted meat and a thousand other essential goods. Despite being allowed to pass by the outer fleet, it was almost noon before the ship had its turn through the massive gates across the inner harbour, winched open each morning by teams of sweating slaves.

As the merchant vessel reached the quay, the sailors threw ropes to dockers, who heaved them in the last few feet and tied them to great iron stanchions set in the stone. A wide wooden bridge was lifted up and over, forming a path from the ship to the quayside. Octavian and Agrippa were the first to step off as Maecenas settled the fee with the captain and remained to oversee the unloading of the horses. A dozen workers and two empty carts trundled over to carry crates and chests from the ship, men who had bought the right to that section of the docks and charged high fees for the privilege. By the time the horses were led out, even Maecenas was complaining about the venal nature of the port, which seemed designed to take every last coin he had.

‘There isn’t a room or a stable free for thirty miles or more,’ he reported when he joined them. ‘According to the dockers, six legions are encamped and the officers have taken every tavern in the city. That makes it easier to find one who might know you, Octavian, but it will take time to find lodgings. Give me half a day.’

Octavian nodded uneasily. His plan to get an audience with the senior officer in Brundisium had seemed a lot simpler before he’d seen the chaos of the city. Its population had quadrupled with soldiers and he needed Maecenas more than ever. His friend had already employed runners to carry messages for him, sending them sprinting off into the maze of streets away from the port. Octavian didn’t doubt he’d find somewhere to store their belongings before the sun set.

‘What is your business in Brundisium?’ a voice said behind him. ‘You can’t leave that lot here, you know, blocking the docks. Tell your captain to cast off. There are two more ships waiting already.’

Octavian turned to see a bald man in optio’s armour, short and powerful with a sword on his hip and two robed clerks in his wake.

‘We are arranging porters, sir. Right now, I need to know the name of the commander in Brundisium and to arrange a meeting with him.’

The officer smiled wryly, running a hand over the polished dome of his head and flicking away sweat.

‘I can think of at least seven men who might answer your description. But you won’t get to see them, not without a few weeks of waiting. Unless you are a senator, perhaps. Are you a senator? You look a bit young for that.’ He smiled at his own humour.

Octavian took a deep breath, already irritated. At Caesar’s side, he had never been questioned. He looked at the man’s amused expression and realised he could not bluster or threaten his way past. He could not even give his true name while there was a chance he was being hunted.

‘I … carry messages for the senior officer in the city.’

‘And yet you don’t have his name?’ the optio replied. ‘Forgive me for doubting a young gentleman such as yourself …’ He saw Octavian’s frustration and shrugged, his expression not without kindness. ‘Look, lad. Just get your goods off my dock, all right? I don’t care where, as long as I don’t have to see it. Understand? I can put you in touch with a man who has a warehouse not far from here, if you want.’

‘I need to see a general,’ Octavian went on doggedly. ‘Or a tribune.’

The optio just stared at him and Octavian raised his eyes in frustration.

‘Maecenas?’ he said.

‘Here,’ Maecenas replied. He dug in his pouch and removed two sesterces. With the smoothness of long practice, the optio accepted the coins without looking at them, rubbing them together as he made them disappear.

‘I can’t arrange a meeting with a legate, lad. They’ve shut themselves away for these last few days, ever since the news from Rome.’

He paused, but the expressions of the three young men showed they already knew.

‘You might try the tavern on fifth street, though.’ He glanced at the sun. ‘Tribune Liburnius eats there most days around noon. You could still catch him, but I warn you, he won’t enjoy being interrupted.’

‘Fat, is he?’ Maecenas said lightly. ‘A big eater?’

The optio shot him a look and shook his head.

‘I meant that he is an important man who does not suffer fools.’ He took Octavian by the arm and moved him a step to one side. ‘I wouldn’t let that one anywhere near him; just a bit of advice. Liburnius isn’t known for his patience.’

‘I understand, sir. Thank you,’ Octavian said through clenched teeth.

‘A pleasure. Now clear your belongings off my docks, or I’ll have them dropped into the sea.’

There were three taverns on fifth street and the first two wasted another hour. Agrippa, Octavian and Maecenas rode with porters, the laden cart and a dozen street urchins following them, hoping for a coin. When the owner of the third tavern saw the large group heading towards his establishment, he flicked a cloth over his shoulder and came out to the street with his hands held wide and his large head already wagging from side to side.

‘No rooms here, sorry,’ he said. ‘Try the Gull in Major, three streets over. I heard they still have space.’

‘I don’t need a room,’ Octavian snapped. He dismounted and threw his reins to Agrippa. ‘I am looking for Tribune Liburnius. Is he here?’

The man stuck out his chin at the tone from a man half his age.

‘Can’t say, sir. We’re full, though.’

He turned to go back in and Octavian lost his temper. Reaching out, he shoved the man back against the wall, leaning in close to him. The tavern-keeper’s face went red, but then he felt the coldness of a knife at his throat and stayed still.

‘I’ve been here for just one morning and I am already getting tired of this city,’ Octavian growled into his ear. ‘The tribune will want to see me. Is he in your place or not?’

‘If I shout, his guards will kill you,’ the man said.

Behind Octavian, Agrippa dismounted, dropping his hand to the gladius he wore. He was as weary as Octavian and he could smell hot food wafting from the tavern kitchen.

‘Shout then,’ Agrippa said. ‘See what you get.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes rose slowly to take in the massive centurion. The resistance went out of him.

‘All right, there’s no need for that. But I can’t disturb the tribune. I need the custom.’

Octavian stepped away, sheathing his knife. He wrestled a gold ring from his hand. Given to him by Caesar himself, it bore the seal of the Julii family.

‘Show him this. He will see me.’

The tavern-keeper took the ring, rubbing his neck where the knife had touched. He looked at the angry young men facing him and decided not to say anything else, disappearing back into the gloom.

They waited for a long time, thirsty and hungry. The porters who accompanied them put down their burdens and sat on the cart or the sturdier chests, folding their arms and talking amongst themselves. They didn’t mind holding the horses and wasting the day if it meant more pay at the end.

The street grew busier around them as the life of Brundisium went on with no sign of a lull. Two messengers from the morning managed to find their way back to the listless group, accepting coins from Maecenas as they brought news of a friend with an empty house in the wealthy eastern half of the city.

‘I’m going in,’ Octavian said at last. ‘If only to get my ring back. By the gods, I never thought it would be this hard just to speak to someone in authority.’

Agrippa and Maecenas exchanged a quick glance. In their own way, both had more experience of the world than their friend. Agrippa’s father had taken him to the houses of many powerful men, showing him how to bribe and work his way round layers of staff. Maecenas was the opposite, a man who employed such men on his estates.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Agrippa said, rolling his head on his shoulders. ‘Maecenas can stay to watch the horses.’

In truth, neither of them wanted Maecenas anywhere near a Roman tribune. A man of his rank could order them killed at the slightest insult to his dignity. Maecenas shrugged and they went in, squinting as the light changed.

The tavern-keeper was back behind his bar. He did not speak to them and his expression was something just short of a sneer. Octavian strode up to him, but Agrippa touched him on the shoulder, inclining his head towards a table across the room, far from the dust and heat of the main door.

Two men sat there in togas dyed dark blue, almost black. They were eating from a plate of cold meats and boiled vegetables, leaning over the table with their elbows on the wood and talking earnestly. A matched pair of guards in full legionary armour stood facing the room, just far enough away to give the men the illusion of privacy, if not the reality.

Octavian took heart from the colours of mourning they wore. If they were men who showed they grieved for Caesar, perhaps he could trust them. Yet they had not returned his ring, so he was wary as he approached.

One of the men at the table had a tribune’s cloak draped over his chair. The man looked fit and tanned, his head almost bald with just a band of white hair by his ears. He wore no breastplate, just a tunic that left his arms bare and revealed white chest hairs below the open collar. Octavian took all this in before one of the guards raised a flat palm casually to stop him. The two men at the table continued their conversation without looking up.

‘I need to speak to Tribune Liburnius,’ Octavian said.

‘No you don’t,’ the legionary said, deliberately keeping his voice low as if every word could not be overheard by the men at the table. ‘You need to stop bothering your betters. Apply to the barracks of the Fourth Ferrata legion. Someone will hear you there. Off you go now.’

Octavian stood very still, simmering anger clear in every line of him. The guard was unimpressed, though he glanced at Agrippa, whose size made him worthy of a quick assessment. Even so, the legionary just smiled slightly and shook his head.

‘Where are the barracks?’ Octavian said at last. He knew his name would get him an audience, but it could equally get him arrested.

‘Three miles west of town, or thereabouts,’ the legionary replied. ‘Ask anyone on the way. You’ll find it.’

The soldier took no obvious pleasure in turning them away. He was just doing as he had been told and keeping strangers from bothering the tribune. No doubt there were many who sought to reach the man with some plea or other. Octavian controlled his temper with an effort. His plans were baulked at every turn, but getting himself killed in a seedy tavern would accomplish nothing.

‘I’ll have my ring then and be on my way,’ he said.

The legionary did not answer and Octavian repeated his words. The conversation at the table had ceased and both men were chewing food in silence, clearly waiting for him to go. Octavian clenched his fists and both guards looked straight at him. The one who had spoken shook his head again slowly, warning him off.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Octavian said curtly. He turned and stalked to where the tavern-keeper was watching with a greasy look of nervousness. Agrippa went with him, cracking his knuckles as he stood at Octavian’s side.

‘Did you hand over the ring I gave you?’ Octavian demanded of the tavern-keeper. The man’s expression was unpleasant as he wiped cups and put them back in a neat row on the bar. He glanced to where the tribune sat with his guards and decided he was safe enough.

‘What ring?’ he replied.

Octavian snapped his left arm out and cupped the back of the tavern-keeper’s head. The man stiffened against it, holding himself neatly in place as Octavian punched him in the nose with his right hand. The man went over backwards in a crash of breaking cups.

One of the tribune’s guards cursed across the room, but Octavian was around the bar and on the fallen tavern-keeper before they could move. The man’s hands flailed at him, knocking his head up with a lucky blow before Octavian landed two more solid punches. The burly man slumped then and Octavian searched the pockets of his apron, rewarded with the feel of a small lump. He drew out the ring just as the guards came storming over with swords drawn. One of them placed a palm against Agrippa’s chest, with a blade raised to strike at throat height. Agrippa could only hold up empty hands as he backed away. At a word from the tribune, they were both dead.

The other guard reached over and wrapped an arm around Octavian’s neck, heaving backwards with all his strength. With a strangled shout, Octavian was yanked over the bar and they fell back together.

Octavian struggled wildly as the arm around his throat tightened, but his air was cut off and his face began to grow purple. He clung on to the ring as his vision began to flash and fade, never hearing the dry voice of the tribune as he strolled over to them.

‘Let him go, Gracchus,’ Tribune Liburnius said, wiping his mouth with a square of fine linen.

The guard released Octavian, pausing just long enough to punch him hard in the kidneys before standing up and smoothing himself down. On the floor, Octavian groaned in pain, but he held up his hand with the ring pinched between two fingers. The tribune ignored it.

‘Twenty lashes for brawling in public, I think,’ he said. ‘Another twenty for disturbing my lunch. Do the honours, would you, Gracchus? There is a whipping post in the street you can use.’

‘It would be a pleasure, sir,’ the guard said, panting from his exertions. As he laid hands on Octavian again, the young man came to his feet, so far gone in fury that he could hardly think.

‘My ring is stolen from me and you call this Roman justice?’ he demanded. ‘Should I let some fat taverner steal a gift from Caesar himself?’

‘Show me the ring,’ the tribune said, a frown line appearing on his forehead.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Octavian said. Agrippa gaped at him, but he was practically shaking with rage. ‘You are not the man I want to see; I know that now. I will take the lashes.’

Tribune Liburnius sighed.

‘Oh, save me from young cockerels. Gracchus? If you wouldn’t mind.’

Octavian felt his arm gripped and his fingers forced open. The ring was tossed through the air and the tribune caught it easily, peering closely at it in the gloom. His eyebrows raised as he studied the seal marked in the gold.

‘Just a month ago, this would have gained you entry almost anywhere, young man. But now it only raises questions. Who are you and how did you come to have this in your possession?’

Octavian tensed his jaw defiantly and it was Agrippa who decided enough was enough.

‘His name is Gaius Octavian Thurinus, a relative of Caesar. He speaks the truth.’

The tribune digested the information with a thoughtful expression.

‘I believe I have heard that name. And you?’

‘Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, sir. Centurion Captain of the fleet, sir.’

‘I see. Well, gentlemen, a ring from Caesar has won you a place at my table, at least for an hour. Have you eaten?’

Agrippa shook his head, dumbfounded at the sudden change in manner.

‘I’ll order for you when the tavern-keeper wakes up. Gracchus? Throw a bucket of slops on him … and spend a moment or two teaching him that stealing has consequences, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll need to find a new inn tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the legionary responded. He had recovered his dignity and looked with satisfaction on the unconscious figure sprawled beneath the bar.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ the tribune said, gesturing back to his table and his still-seated companion. ‘You have my attention. I hope you don’t regret it.’

Tribune Liburnius placed the ring on the table before them as Octavian and Agrippa pulled up chairs. He did not introduce his companion and Octavian wondered if he was a client or perhaps a spy for the tribune. The man met his eyes briefly, revealing a flash of interest and intelligence before looking away.

The tribune looked up at the sound of a bucket clattering to the ground and a stifled cry from behind the bar.

‘I’m sure the wine will be here in a moment or two,’ he said. He reached out and held the ring once more, turning it in his hands. ‘This is a dangerous little thing these days. I wonder if you realise that?’

‘I’m beginning to,’ Octavian said, touching a hand to a swelling lump by his right eye.

‘Hah! Not thieves. There is far more danger in those who are struggling even now to keep a grip on the mother city. We’re out of it here in Brundisium. If I have my way, we will remain so until order is re-established. Yet Greece is further still, so perhaps this is all news to you.’

Octavian blinked. ‘How did you know I came from Greece?’

To his surprise, Liburnius chuckled, clearly delighted.

‘By the gods, you really are young! Honestly, it makes me nostalgic for my own youth. You truly think you can come into this port, throwing silver coins around and demanding to speak to senior men, without it being reported? I dare say every rumour-monger in the city has your description by now, though perhaps not your name, not yet.’

Octavian flicked a glance at the tribune’s silent companion and the man sensed it, smiling slightly without looking up.

‘Your presence is an interesting problem for me, Octavian. I could have you sent in chains to Rome, of course, for some senator to dispose of as he sees fit, but that would gain me just a favour, or a few gold coins, hardly worth my trouble.’

‘You have no loyalty then?’ Octavian demanded. ‘The Fourth Ferrata was formed by Caesar. You must have known him.’

Tribune Liburnius looked at him, biting the inside of his lower lip in thought.

‘I knew him, yes. I cannot say we were friends. Men like Caesar have few friends, I think, only followers.’ Liburnius drummed his fingers on the table as he considered, his eyes never leaving Octavian.

The drinks arrived, brought by the tavern-keeper. The man was a bedraggled mess, his face swollen and one eye half shut. There was a piece of green vegetable in his hair. He did not look at Octavian or the tribune as he placed a jug and cups carefully and departed, limping. The legionary, Gracchus, took up his position once more, facing out.

‘And yet …’ Liburnius said softly. ‘The will of Caesar has not been read. He had a boy with the Egyptian queen, but they say he loved you also like a son. Who knows what Caesar’s gift might mean to you, when we hear? It could be that you are the horse to back, at least for now. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement, something that benefits us both.’

The fingers drummed again and the tribune’s companion poured for all of them. Octavian and Agrippa exchanged glances, but there was nothing to do but remain silent.

‘I think … yes. I could have documents drawn up. A tenth of whatever you inherit, against my time and funds getting you to Rome and my support securing whatever you are owed. And leaving you alive and unflogged, of course. Shall we shake hands on it? You will need that ring to seal the agreement, so you may have it back.’

Octavian gaped at him. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and snatched up the ring, working it onto his finger.

‘It was never yours to return,’ he said. ‘A tenth! I would have to be insane to agree to such a bargain, especially before I know how much is at stake. My answer is no. I have funds enough to find my own way. I have friends enough to stand against the men who killed him.’

‘I see,’ Liburnius said, wryly amused at the young man’s anger. Drops of wine had spilled on the ancient table and he drew circles with them on the wood as he thought. He shook his head and Octavian gripped the edge of the table, ready to shove it over and run.

‘I don’t think you understand how perilous Rome has become, Octavian. How do you think the Liberatores will react if you enter the city? If you charge into the senate house, demanding and blustering, as if you had a right to be heard? I give you half a day at most, before you are found with your throat cut, perhaps not even that long. The men of power will not want some relative of Caesar inflaming the mob. They will not want a claimant on his wealth that would otherwise find its way into their hands. Are you going to tip this table over, by the way? Do you think I am blind or a fool? My guards would cut you down before you could stand up.’ He shook his head ruefully at the rashness of the young. ‘Mine is the best offer you will receive today. At least with me, you will live long enough to hear the will read.’

Octavian removed his hands from the table, sitting with his thoughts racing. The tribune was a real threat and he realised he could not get out of the tavern without losing something. He wondered what Julius would have done in his place. Tribune Liburnius watched him closely, a smile lifting the corners of his thin mouth.

‘I will not sign away my inheritance, or any part of it,’ Octavian said. Liburnius tutted to himself and raised his eyes to the guards to give an order. Octavian went on quickly, ‘But I was there when Caesar and Cleopatra bargained with the Egyptian court. I can offer more than gold in exchange for your support. You can be useful to me, I will not deny it. It is why I sought you out in the first place.’

‘Go on,’ Liburnius said. His eyes were cold, but the smile still remained.

‘I saw Caesar give favours that men valued far more than coins. I can do that. I will put his ring to an agreement that offers you a single favour, whatever you wish, at any point in my life.’

Liburnius blinked and then gave a great bark of laughter, slapping the table with his palm. When he settled, he wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling.

‘You are a joy to me, lad. I cannot fault you for the entertainment. It was looking to be such a dull day as well. You know, I have a son about your age. I wish he had a pair like yours, I really do. Instead, he reads Greek philosophy to me; can you imagine? It is all I can do not to vomit.’

Liburnius leaned forward on the table, all sign of humour vanishing.

‘But you are not Caesar. As things stand in Rome, I would not lay a silver coin on you surviving a year. What you have offered me is almost certainly worthless. As I say, I applaud your courage, but let us end this game.’

Octavian leaned forward as well, his voice clear and low.

‘I am not Caesar, but he did love me as a son and the blood of his family runs in me. Take what I have offered and one day, when your fortunes have changed for the worse, or those of your son, perhaps then my promise will be the most valuable thing you own.’

Liburnius made a fig hand quickly to avert even the suggestion of an evil fate in store for him. He shoved his thumb between the first and second fingers of his right hand and pointed it at Octavian. After a pause, he unclenched his hand and let it fall to the table.

‘With that promise and ten thousand in gold, I will have ten thousand in gold,’ he muttered.

Octavian shrugged. ‘I cannot promise what I don’t have,’ he said.

‘That is why I asked you for a tenth, boy. You cannot lose by such an arrangement.’

Octavian knew he should have agreed, but something stubborn in him still refused. He folded his arms.

‘I have said all there is to say. Accept my favour and one day it could save your life. If you remember Caesar, consider how he would want you to act.’ Octavian looked up at the ceiling of the tavern. ‘He died at the hands of men who now live well. If he can see us now, will he see you treat me with honour or disdain?’

He waited for an answer and Liburnius drummed his fingers on the wood, the only sound in the tavern. For an instant, his eyes flickered upward, as if he too was imagining Julius watching.

‘I can’t decide if you don’t understand … or you just don’t care to preserve your life,’ he said. ‘I have met a few like you in my time, young officers mostly, with no sense of their own mortality. Some rose, but most of them are long dead, victims of their own overconfidence. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’

‘I do. Gamble on me, Tribune. I will not be brought down easily.’

Liburnius blew air from his lips in a wet sound.

‘To be brought down, you have first to rise.’ He made a decision. ‘Very well. Gracchus? Fetch me a parchment, reed and ink. I will have this poor bargain sealed in front of witnesses.’

Octavian knew better than to speak again. He worked hard to hide the triumph that seared through him.

‘When that is done, I will secure your passage to Rome. The will is to be read in eight days, which gives you time to spare to get there, on good horses. I trust you will not object to Gracchus travelling with you to keep you safe? There are bandits on the road and I would like to be among the first to hear what Caesar left to his city and his clients.’

Octavian nodded. He watched Liburnius dip the hollow reed with a sharpened tip and write with a sure hand. The tavern-keeper brought a lit candle and the tribune melted wax, dripping a fat glob of it onto the dry parchment, so that oil spread beneath. Octavian pressed his ring into the soft surface and the two guards added a scrawled ‘X’ where Liburnius had written their names. It was done.

Liburnius sat back, relaxing.

‘More wine, I think, Gracchus. You know, lad, when you are my age, if you should be lucky enough to live that long, when colour and taste and even ambition have lost the brightness you think is so natural, I hope you will meet a young cockerel just like you are now – so you can see what I see. I hope you will remember me then. It is a bitter-sweet thing, believe me, but you will not understand until that day.’

A new jug arrived and Liburnius poured the cups full to brimming.

‘Drink with me, lad. Drink to Rome and glorious foolishness.’

Without looking away, Octavian raised his cup, draining it in quick swallows.

CHAPTER SIX

The first light of the sun showed over the Esquiline and Viminal hills, gilding the roofs around the forum and reaching across to the Palatine on the far side. The round temple of Vesta there gleamed with the rest, coming alive after the darkness. Neither that ancient building nor the much larger House of Virgins behind had been touched by the fires raging through the city. Their own sacred flame still burned in the hearth of the temple and the bands of rioters had steered clear of the wrath of the goddess, making the fig hand or the horned hand to ward off her curse and moving on.

Mark Antony knew he cut a fine figure as he walked across the forum. As well as six lictors, carrying the traditional axes and bound rods for scourging, two centurions accompanied him, their armour shining and long dark cloaks sweeping against their ankles. The consul of Rome had come to hear the will of Caesar and if the senate house was blackened rubble, at least in his own person Mark Antony still represented the authority of the state. He could feel eyes on him as the crowd gathered, but there was no sense of danger, not that day. He was certain many of those crowding in had been involved in the riots, perhaps just hours before, but the dawn sun was cool and there was almost a sense of truce. The whole city wanted to hear the last words of Caesar to his people.

Mark Antony reached a spot in front of the circular temple, so that he could see the eternal flame flickering along the walls inside. His men took up positions around him, feeling no threat in the quiet crowd. Mark Antony looked for the remaining Liberatores and could not see them. He had spies reporting to him each day and he knew many of them had already left, to save their skins.

He kept his expression stern, though their absence was yet another sign that he had gained most from the slaughters and riots. If powerful men like Brutus and Cassius no longer dared to show their faces, how could they ever hope to regain their authority in Rome? It was a subtle victory. No doubt they had men in the crowd to report back every word, but their absence spoke volumes and he would not be the only one to remark on it. A month before, he could not have dreamed of anything like this day. Caesar had been alive then and the world had been set in ruts of stone, unable to do more than go forward on the path. The Liberatores had changed all that with their knives, but it was Mark Antony whose fortunes were on the rise. He triumphed, step by step, as they failed.

Taller than most, Mark Antony was able to look over the heads of the crowd. The forum was not full, by any means. Heat-scorched stones lay empty behind him, but at least three thousand men and women were there and still they walked out of every side road and down every hill, dark streams of citizens and slaves coming to the heart of Rome. There was order of a sort in most of the city; he had seen to that. The gates were open again and fresh produce flowed in, commanding ridiculous prices. There was a queue outside every baker and butcher as they worked through the night to make loaves and slice meat. There was not enough for all and he had been forced to set patrols at key points to stop fights breaking out. Starvation and disease were the enemies now, the violent energy of the rioters fading almost as quickly as it had sprung up. No one knew how many bodies had been dumped in the Tiber to tumble away to the sea.

His gaze snagged on a group of four men on his right, all armed and obviously together as they talked in low voices. Two of them looked vaguely familiar to the consul, slim figures against the massive shoulders of the man next to them, yet Mark Antony could not bring the names to mind. Hundreds in the crowd would have been clients to Caesar, men who owed their estates and rise to him and had accepted a small stipend each month for their support. The number of them was said to have been in the thousands. Rich and poor, they would all want to know if their patron had remembered them in his will.

Mark Antony continued to crane his neck around, peering particularly at anyone with their head covered. He recognised senators among those, many of them travelling with guards provided from the legions or mercenaries hired for the day. Still, the crowd grew with the sunlight, until the coolness of dawn faded and he could smell sweat and spiced food in the warming air. The spring sky was clear and the city would become unpleasantly hot by noon. He eased his weight from one foot to the other, waiting impatiently for the priestess to show herself.

The crowd stilled as they heard singing coming from the House of Virgins, straining to catch the first glimpse of the Vestal virgins. Mark Antony suppressed a smile as he saw them, more aware than most of the power of pageantry in the city. They bore small cymbals on their fingers and wrists and clashed them together with every step so that the discordant sound rose above their voices. He watched as the procession formed in front of the temple and the song built to a climax followed by total silence. Disappointingly, the young women revealed almost nothing in their stola dresses and long palla robes that concealed their legs. The priestess had shown more flesh when he visited her before and he had to smile at the adolescent part of him. Each one had been chosen for physical perfection, but they had vowed thirty years of celibacy before they could leave the temple. Looking at some of the faces, Mark Antony could not help thinking it was a shocking waste.

He waited through a ritual of thanks to Minerva and Vesta, only sighing as the sun rose and the heat built. After what seemed an age, they brought a wooden platform from the temple, draping it with dark red cloth. Quintina Fabia stepped up to it and her eyes met those of Mark Antony, perhaps recalling that he too had stood and spoken to Rome not long before. The effects could still be seen around them. He saw cold amusement in her eyes, but he was interested only in the carved cedar box brought out from the temple. It was both locked and sealed, so that two of the women had to strike the binding with hammers before they could open the lid. From inside, they raised a square block of wax tablets, wrapped around in strips of lead and then marked in a great disc of wax sealed by Caesar himself. Mark Antony shuddered at the thought of his friend’s hand being the last to touch it before that day.

They handed the block up to the priestess and she used a knife to cut away the wax, showing everyone there that it remained untouched. With care, she bent back the lead strips and passed them down. What remained were five wooden tablets with a thin sheen of wax on their surfaces. Mark Antony could not see the words inscribed there, but he inched forward with everyone else, suddenly desperate to know what Caesar had written.

Untouched by the impatience of the crowd, Quintina Fabia handed four of the tablets back to her companions and read the first to herself, nodding slightly at the end. When she had finished, she looked up at the massed crowd.

‘“For the honour of Rome, hear the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,”’ she began. She paused and Mark Antony groaned quietly at the theatrical impulse.

‘Come on,’ he muttered.

She glanced over to him as if she had heard before continuing to read.

‘“Gaius Octavian is my heir. I acknowledge him as blood of my blood and, by these words, I claim and adopt him as my son.”’

The crowd murmured and Mark Antony saw the small group of four stiffen almost as one, looking at each other in shock and wonderment. The simple words were typical of the man who had written them, without ornament or fanciful rhetoric. Yet Caesar had written and lodged the will before his return from Egypt, perhaps even before he had left Rome to fight Pompey in Greece. He had not known then that the Egyptian queen would bear him an heir. Mark Antony breathed slowly as he thought it through. It would have been better to have some foreign whelp as the main inheritor, one who could never come to Rome and contest for what was legally his. The consul had met Octavian a few years before, but he had been little more than a boy and Mark Antony could not even recall his face. He looked up as the priestess continued.

‘“All that I have is his, beyond the sums and properties I allocate here. Of those, the first is the garden estate by the river Tiber. That is my first gift to the people of Rome, in perpetuity, that they may take their ease there as public land.”’

As the crowd muttered in wonderment, she handed down the tablet and took up two more. Her eyebrows rose as she read silently before speaking the words.

‘“As well as a place to walk in the sun, I give each citizen of Rome three hundred sesterces from my estate, to be spent as they see fit. They were my champions in life. I cannot do less for them in death.”’

This time, the reaction from the crowd was a roar of excitement. Three hundred silver coins was a huge sum, enough to feed a family for months. Mark Antony rubbed his forehead as he tried to work out the total. The last census had recorded almost a million inhabitants of the city, though only half of those would be citizens. Wryly, he acknowledged that the riots would have reduced the number, yet still they swarmed like ants and they would all demand their money from the treasure houses controlled by the Senate. Caesar could not have known, but that simple bequest was a blow against the Liberatores. They would not be able to walk the streets without the shout of ‘Murderers!’ going up, not after this. He closed his eyes briefly in memory of his friend. Even in death, Julius had struck back at his enemies.

Quintina Fabia continued, listing the individual sums left to clients. Many shouted for quiet so they could hear, but the chattering went on even so, all around them. They would have to apply to the temple to read the tablets in private if they wanted to hear those details, Mark Antony thought. Remembering his own meeting with the priestess, he wished them luck.

She worked her way through to the last of the five tablets, allocating gold and land to members of his family and all those who had supported Caesar. Mark Antony heard his name and bellowed for those around him to be silent. His voice succeeded in crushing the noise of the crowd where others had failed.

‘“… to whom I give fifty thousand aurei. I give an equal sum to Marcus Brutus. They were, and are, my friends.”’

Mark Antony felt the gaze of the crowd on him. He could not hide his shock at hearing Brutus given the same amount. Mark Antony had lavished gold on the lifestyle of a consul and his own clients. Although the legacy was generous, it would barely cover his debts. He shook his head, aware of the awe in those who looked on him and yet bitter. Fifty thousand was not so much for the man who had roused the crowd on Caesar’s behalf. It was certainly far more than Brutus deserved.

‘“The rest is the property of Gaius Octavian, adopted as my son, into the house of Julii. I leave Rome in your hands.”’

Quintina Fabia stopped speaking and handed the last tablet down to her waiting followers. Mark Antony was astonished to see the gleam of tears in her eyes. There had been no grand words, just the business of recording Caesar’s legacies and responsibilities. It was, in fact, the will of a man who did not truly believe he was going to die. He felt his own eyes prickle at the thought. If Julius had lodged the will with the temple before leaving Rome, it was the year he had made Mark Antony governor of the city, trusting him completely. It was a window to the past, to a different Rome.

As the priestess stepped down, Mark Antony turned away, his men moving smoothly with him so that the crowd was forced to part. They did not understand why he looked so angry. Behind him, a clear voice rang out. As Mark Antony heard, he stopped and turned to listen, his men facing outwards to counter any threat.

Octavian remembered Mark Antony very well. The consul had changed little over the intervening years, whereas Octavian had gone from a boy to a young man. As the consul arrived at first light, Maecenas had marked his presence first. Agrippa used the breadth of his shoulders to come between them, relying on the crowd to hide Octavian. It was their second day in the city, after a ride of three hundred miles from Brundisium. They had been forced to change horses many times, almost always losing quality in the mounts. Maecenas had arranged for their own horses to be stabled at the first stopping place, but at that point none of them knew if they would be going back to the coast.

The legionary, Gracchus, had not been a pleasant companion on that journey. Knowing he was at best tolerated, he barely spoke, but he remained doggedly in their company as they rode and planned, dropping exhausted into rough beds at the closest inn they could find as the sun set. He had his own funds from the tribune and more than once had slept in the stables to eke out his coins while Maecenas ordered the best rooms.

Octavian was not sure the fast run had been worth it. He’d come into Rome two days before the will was to be read, but the world of peace and order he had known had been torn apart. According to a friend of Maecenas who’d offered them his home, it had been even worse before and was beginning to settle down, but great sections of the city had been reduced to blackened beams and grubby citizens picking through the rubble for anything valuable. Tens of thousands were starving, roving the streets in gangs in search of food. More than once he and his friends had to draw swords just to cross neighbourhoods that had become feral even in daylight. The city looked as if it had been in a war and Octavian could hardly reconcile the reality with his memories. In a way, it suited the grief he felt for Julius, a fitting landscape for such a loss.

‘Here she is at last,’ Agrippa said under his breath.

Octavian snapped back from his reverie as the priestess of Vesta came out. He had been searching the crowd for the faces of men he knew. If Brutus had been there, he did not know what he would have done, but there was no sign of the man he wanted to see dead above all others. Two days in Rome had been enough to hear the details of the assassination and he burned with new energy at the thought of those Liberatores who sought to profit from murdering a good man. In the silence of his own thoughts, in the shadow of the temple of Vesta, he swore oaths of vengeance. The state of the city was the crop they had sown, the result of their greed and jealousy. He had not known what strength could come from hate, not before seeing Rome again.

As the priestess unbound the will of Caesar from its box and lead straps, Octavian continued to glance back at the crowd. He recognised some faces he thought might be senators, but in cloaks and mantles against the morning cold, he could not be certain. He had been away too long.

Agrippa nudged him to pay attention as the priestess scanned the first tablet, a line appearing on her forehead. When she looked up, she seemed to stare straight at Octavian. He waited, his heart thumping painfully in his chest and his mouth drying, so that he ran his tongue around the inside to free his lips.

‘“For the honour of Rome, hear the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,”’ she began.

Octavian clenched his fists, hardly able to stand the tension. He felt Gracchus look over at him, the man’s expression unreadable.

‘“Gaius Octavian is my heir. I acknowledge him as blood of my blood and, by these words, I claim and adopt him as my son.”’

Octavian felt a great shudder run through him and he would have staggered if Agrippa hadn’t put out an arm. His hearing vanished in the pounding of his pulse and when he felt an itch on his face, he scrubbed at it, leaving a red welt on his skin. It was too much to take in and he hardly heard the lines that followed, watching the priestess of Vesta hand down the tablets as she read them out. At one point, the men and women in the crowd cheered raucously and Octavian could not understand why. He was numb with emotion, overwhelmed at the hand of Caesar reaching out from death to touch him.

The face of Gracchus was the picture of sourness as he considered the fortune his patron could have had, with a tenth of Caesar’s wealth. It was almost a legend, how much gold the leader of Rome had brought back from his conquests, at one point flooding so much of it into the city that it devalued the currency by almost a third. Octavian was the heir to all of it and Gracchus decided on the instant to be a more amenable companion. He would never again stand in the presence of such wealth, he was certain. Reaching out, he was about to clap Octavian on the back, but Maecenas caught the wrist and just smiled at him.

‘Let’s not make a show, not here,’ Maecenas said in a low voice. ‘We are unknown to the crowd and that is the way it should stay until we have had a little time to think about all this.’

Gracchus forced a sickly grin and nodded, jerking back his arm from a grip of surprising strength. He had not seen Maecenas spar or train in their rush from the coast and he never noticed the short blade in the noble’s other hand as he let go, or the fact that Agrippa was behind him, ready to hammer him into the ground at the first sign of aggression.

The list of clients and individual bequests seemed to take an age. Octavian glowered in disgust when he heard the name of Brutus and the huge sum of gold left to him. There was no mention of Cleopatra and the son that she had borne. All Maecenas’ friends knew was that she had left Rome after the assassination, presumably to go home to Egypt.

‘“The rest is the property of Gaius Octavian, adopted as my son, into the house of Julii. I leave Rome in your hands.”’

Octavian felt his eyes sting. It was too easy to imagine Julius sitting in some quiet room, writing the words in wax, with the future laid out before him. Octavian began to wish he was alive for the thousandth time since hearing the news, then wrestled himself free of the thought as it formed. There was no going back, no wishing away of the new Rome.

The priestess handed down the last tablet and saw it placed with reverence back into the chest. One of her acolytes put out a hand and she stepped down, her part finished. Octavian looked around him as the crowd exhaled held breaths and began to talk. He saw Mark Antony nod to his men and begin to move.

‘Time to go, I think,’ Maecenas said softly by his ear. ‘We can use the house of Brucellus this evening. It is untouched by the riots and he promises to provide a fine meal for us. There is a lot to discuss.’

Octavian felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him away from the temple of Vesta. He resisted, suddenly sick of being made to walk in secrecy in his own city.

‘Priestess!’ he shouted, without warning.

Maecenas stiffened at his side.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed. ‘Half the Senate have spies here! Let me get you away first and then we can decide what to do.’

Octavian shook his head.

‘Priestess!’ he called again.

Quintina Fabia paused in the act of accepting a mantle of rich cloth from one of her followers. She looked around, finding him from the reaction of the crowd as they stared.

‘I am Gaius Octavian, named as heir in the will you have just read,’ he said clearly.

Maecenas groaned, keeping his dagger ready in case one of the crowd attacked them. None of them knew their enemies in the city, not yet.

‘What do you want of me?’ she said. It was rumoured that she had been an actress in her youth. Whether that was true or not, she had a performer’s instinct, ignoring the offered cloak and stepping back onto the low platform.

‘I wish to record a change of name with you, as the keeper of records.’

The priestess cocked her head slightly as she thought. The young man she faced in the crowd had just been given incredible wealth, if he could live long enough to lay hands on it. She glanced over to where Mark Antony watched the scene playing out between them. Her first instinct had been to tell Octavian to wait for an audience, but under that sulphurous gaze, the corner of her mouth quirked.

‘What name would suit the heir to Rome?’ she said.

‘Only one,’ Octavian replied. ‘Gaius Julius Caesar, that I may honour the man whose name I will bear.’

Quintina Fabia smiled wider at that, delighted at the bravado of the young Roman. His friends stood in shock around him, while she wanted to applaud.

‘You will need two witnesses of good standing to swear to your identity,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Come and see me at noon, in the House of Virgins.’ She paused again, watching Mark Antony from under her lashes. The consul was standing like a stunned ox.

‘Welcome home, Octavian,’ she said.

He nodded, mute. Away on his right, the consul began to stride off and Octavian turned to follow him.

‘Consul!’ he shouted.

Maecenas put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Octavian,’ he murmured. ‘Let him go.’

Octavian brushed off the hand and kept going.

‘He was Caesar’s friend,’ he said. ‘He will hear me.’

‘Agrippa!’ Maecenas called.

‘Here.’

The big man was already moving, pushing through the packed crowd after Octavian. With a curse, the legionary Gracchus followed in their wake.

As Mark Antony watched the priestess talk with the young man, he shook his head, feeling sweat break out on his skin. It was too much to take in. The Senate had summoned him for a meeting at noon and he wanted to bathe first, so that he could face them fresh and clean. He turned away, his lictors and centurions all around him. He heard his title called across the forum but ignored it. He had barely gone twenty paces before the bristling awareness of his men made his temper rise. The group of four were pushing closer as he reached the edge of the crowd.

‘Consul!’ Octavian called again.

Mark Antony hunched his shoulders. His lictors were tense at being approached from behind and the two centurions had drifted back to put themselves between the groups. With a raised hand, Mark Antony halted them all. He could not be seen to scurry away, as if he had something to hide.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped.

Before him he saw a young man with grey eyes and dark blond hair bound at his neck. He supposed Octavian was in his early twenties, but he looked younger, with a smooth face and no sign of a beard. Somehow the sight of the young man served only to irritate Mark Antony further. He wanted nothing to do with some distant relative of Caesar intruding on him with his demands.

Octavian drew to a sudden stop at the harsh tone, the smile dying on his lips. As the consul watched, Octavian straightened subtly, his eyes hardening.

‘Octavian …’ Agrippa muttered warningly at his side. The lictors with the consul were not just an affectation of power. With a word from Mark Antony, they would unstrap their axes and rods, driving anyone guilty of insult from the forum or killing them on the spot.

‘I thought I would greet an old friend,’ Octavian said. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken.’

The reply seemed to rock Mark Antony. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning his dignity.

‘I am in error, Octavian. I have not congratulated you on your adoption.’

‘Thank you,’ Octavian said. ‘I am pleased to see you thriving in such sad times. That is why I came to you. The will must be formally affirmed in Senate. I need a Lex Curiata. Will you propose it for me today?’

Mark Antony smiled tightly, shaking his head.

‘You may have noticed the city is only now recovering from riots. There is more than enough business to occupy the Senate until the end of the month. Perhaps then I will ask for time for your request.’

Octavian stood very still, aware of the lictors watching him.

‘It is just a formality. I thought that, for Caesar’s memory, you might move a little faster.’

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