Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5)

by Conn Iggulden

  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 befor
e 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.’