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 sti
lled 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.
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