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

by Conn Iggulden

  Mark Antony gave the order to halt the column only when he was certain they were in range of the city for the following day. On grain-fed mounts, he and the legates were relatively fresh compared to the marching men, but still he ached.

  With the sun setting, he dismounted in the courtyard of an inn that looked as if it had been there from the time the first stones were laid for the road. Servants, or perhaps the children of the owner, ran to take his horse and accepted the coins he tossed to them. He went inside, ducking his head under a low lintel and seeking out the table where the legates would be eating.

  They stood watchfully as he approached. With Rome in range, he knew he had to tell them why he had been pushing so hard. It would leave only the morning for the men to hear and digest the news. With just a little luck, they’d be in the forum before they had a chance to consider rebelling against their new orders.

  ‘Where is Liburnius?’ Mark Antony asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be the first one here.’

  No one answered, though they looked at each other or at the serving girl bringing jugs of fish sauce to the table.

  ‘Well?’ Mark Antony demanded. He pulled out a chair for himself.

  ‘The Fourth Ferrata has not halted, sir,’ Legate Buccio said. ‘I … we assumed it was on your orders.’

  Mark Antony’s hand dropped from the back of the chair.

  ‘What do you mean “has not halted”? I gave no such order. Send a rider out and get him back.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Buccio replied.

  He left to pass on the errand to some unlucky soldier and Mark Antony settled, allowing the others to sit down. He poured pungent fish sauce onto his plate, smelling it with satisfaction before reaching for bread to dip into it. As he took his first mouthful, he became aware that the remaining men were still stiff and uncomfortable in his presence. He smothered a sigh.

  Buccio returned, his glance flickering around the other men of his rank. Mark Antony looked up as the legate took his seat and poured his own sauce. The man was an ancient compared to some, with deep wrinkles like the lines of a map in his neck and shaven head. His brown eyes were unaccountably worried as they met those of the consul.

  ‘I’ve sent the runner, sir.’

  ‘I believe you were going to discuss the … difficulties we’ve been having, Buccio,’ one of the other legates said, toying with his food and not looking up.

  Buccio glared at the speaker, but Mark Antony was looking at him by then and he nodded, making the best of it.

  ‘I have had some … comments, Consul. I have trusted men in my legion, men who know I will not hold them responsible if they pass on the gossip of the barracks.’

  Mark Antony’s mouth firmed.

  ‘The men have given their oaths, Legate. To spy on them after that undermines their honour and yours. You will cease the practice immediately.’

  Buccio nodded hurriedly.

  ‘Very well, sir. But what I have learned is serious enough for me to bring it to you, no matter the source.’

  Mark Antony stared at him, chewing slowly.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I will be the judge of that.’

  ‘They have heard about the new Caesar, Consul. Not just my men, by any means. Legate Liburnius was saying the same thing to me only yesterday. Can you confirm it, sir?’

  Mark Antony stiffened, the sinews standing out on his neck. He should have guessed the legionaries would have heard the news. They marched together all day and the slightest rumour spread like a rash. He cursed under his breath. He should have burned the Senate orders, but it was too late for that. Folding his hands in front of him, Mark Antony tried to conceal his irritation.

  ‘Whatever Octavian calls himself now,’ he said, ‘I will deal with him when I return to the city. If that is all you have heard …’

  ‘I wish it was, Consul.’ Buccio took a deep breath, steeling himself for the reaction. ‘They are saying they will not fight against Caesar.’

  The hush that followed was unbroken as every man there suddenly found his food fascinating.

  ‘You are talking about mutiny, Legate Buccio,’ Mark Antony said grimly. ‘Are you saying your men have not yet learned that particular lesson?’

  ‘I … I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was something you should hear.’

  ‘And you were correct in that, though I cannot help doubt your ability to lead if this is how you deal with it. Internal legion matters should be kept internal, Buccio! I would have thought nothing of a few floggings in the morning. A commander does not have to hear everything that goes on; you know that! Why bring idle gossip to my attention?’

  ‘Consul, I … I could handle a few fools rousing the others, but I understand that half the men are saying they will not fight, not against Caesar. Not in Rome, sir.’

  Mark Antony leaned back. He waited while steaming chickens were brought to the table and torn apart by the hungry men.

  ‘You are all senior officers,’ he said when the serving staff had moved away to give them privacy. ‘I will say this to you. Rome gives your soldiers everything: a salary, status, a sense of brotherhood. But they endure the discipline because they are men of Rome.’

  He waved a hand in frustration, trying to find words that would make it clear to the mystified faces around the table. Before he could go on, another of them cleared his throat to speak. Mark Antony rubbed the back of his neck in irritation. Legate Saturnius had not impressed him in their deliberations to that point. The man had no shame when it came to seeking his favour.

  ‘You have something to add?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Saturnius replied, leaning forward onto the table. ‘More often than not they come from impure lines, sir. I believe that is the problem. How can we expect the sons of prostitutes and merchants to understand our beliefs? They are prey to every new fashion, every wild speaker in the Republic. A few years ago, I had to have an agitator strangled because he was copying out the words of some Greek politician. The very few who could read were whispering his dangerous ideas to the ones that couldn’t. That one man was very nearly the rot that broke a legion!’

  Saturnius looked to Mark Antony for approval, but found him gazing stonily back. Oblivious, Saturnius wiped his mouth of grease and went on.

  ‘The common soldiers are like unruly children, and in the same way, they must be disciplined.’ He began to sense the others were not with him and looked around the table. ‘It is all they understand, as the consul said.’

  There was a moment of silence as some of the other men cringed internally. Saturnius looked from face to face in confusion.

  ‘Is that not so?’ he said, growing red.

  ‘It does you no credit to say so,’ Mark Antony replied, ‘or to put words in my mouth that I have not said. I do not know where you have served, Saturnius, but I have seen those sons of prostitutes and merchants risk their lives to save me, when my life could be measured in heartbeats. I said they were men of Rome. The least of them is worth something.’

  Saturnius rubbed his face with both hands to make himself more alert. His voice took on a wheedling tone as he replied.

  ‘I thought, sir, after the executions in Brundisium, that you shared the same outlook. I apologise if that is not the case.’

  Mark Antony glowered.

  ‘In Brundisium, they understood that punishment must come. Do you think it gave me pleasure to order a hundred criminals to their deaths? I was within my rights to order the decimation of every legion – the deaths of three thousand men, Saturnius. What I did was a gesture of strength – a demonstration that I would not be cowed by their anger. For those with the wit to see, I saved more than I killed. More importantly, I brought the rest into the fold. I gave them back their dignity and honour.’

  He turned from Saturnius, ending the conversation as he addressed Buccio once more.

  ‘This Octavian claims a name that rings out to our men. It is not surprising, when Julius Caesar himself created many of the legions represented at
this table. Of course they are saying they will not fight against his adopted son! It would be a surprise if they did not.’

  He paused, knowing he had to have these men on his side.

  ‘There are limits to our authority, limits to what we can make the men do. The legions can be pushed only so far – beyond that, they must be led. I have seen it, gentlemen. I have seen Caesar himself talk to mutinous legions, risking his own life.’ He glanced back at Saturnius, his expression scornful. ‘If you treat them as children or wild dogs, they will eventually turn on you. Discipline is the core of what we do, but they are not Greeks or painted Gauls. They are Roman men, who understand something of the Republic, even if they do not always have the words to say it. Well, you must give them the words they need, Buccio, Saturnius. You must remind them that Caesar may be gone but the Republic can still be revived. I will not allow some blond boy to pretend to the authority of my friend, no matter what an old will said about his adoption. There is no new Caesar. Tell them that.’

  Buccio had grown thoughtful as the consul spoke, his hands splayed firmly on the table before him, to hide his tension. He had, if anything, understated the position. Some of his most senior officers had dared to come to him and the consul did not seem to understand the seriousness of the situation. Yet with Mark Antony watching him, he could only nod and attack his food in bitter silence.

  Mark Antony sat through another two courses before anyone said another word beyond the most strained comments on the food. He was content to spend the time thinking about the Senate and what they would demand from him when he returned. He hoped Octavian would surrender, rather than force him to test his men further. He could not ignore the warnings of the legates, for all he was angry at Buccio for handling things so badly. If ‘Caesar’ could be captured quickly, it would end all the talk Buccio had discovered.

  The evening had grown late by the time the meal came to an end. Mark Antony was heavy with weariness, desiring nothing more than a room with a fire to sleep. As he rose from the table, his action copied instantly by the legates, they all heard the clatter of hooves on the stone yard outside. The messenger Buccio had sent entered the tavern and went straight to the consul’s table.

  ‘Report then,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Have they halted? I am beginning to think I was too quick to promote Liburnius.’

  ‘They have not halted, sir,’ the messenger said nervously. ‘I rode to the front rank and tried to approach the legate, but three of his officers drew swords as soon as they saw me. As I rode away, they shouted to tell you …’

  His voice died away as he realised the enormity of repeating an insult to a consul in the company of legates. Mark Antony had the same sense of foreboding and raised a hand.

  ‘Just give me the idea,’ he said.

  ‘They are not coming back, sir. They are going to fight for Caesar.’

  Mark Antony swore loudly, cursing the name of Liburnius. His gaze fell on Buccio, who was standing in sick awareness that he had become the target of a consul’s wrath.

  ‘Get back to your legions. If Liburnius can march through the night, so can we. I’ll run him down, I swear it. Go!’

  Mark Antony crushed a yawn as it began, furious with himself and his men. If the legions had been rebellious before, a night muttering to each other about the consul would not improve things. As he called for the horses to be resaddled, Mark Antony decided Octavian had to be killed. The young man had chosen a name that made him too dangerous to be left alive.

  The exterior of Pompey’s theatre was as impressive as its long-dead sponsor had intended. Though Gnaeus Pompey had died in Egypt years before, his name was preserved in the sheer grandeur of the building that dominated the once pristine grass of the Campus. Not even Caesar could have paid for solid marble, but the walls were sheathed in the milky stone, lightly veined and glittering slightly in the sunshine. Limestone paving had been laid all around the main building, ending at the great pillars that held up the portico, itself carved in white marble.

  The Senate had come out to Octavian as he approached. They were dressed in white and purple-trimmed togas to a man and they made an impressive sight, standing in a group and waiting for him. They had rejected all his demands and their confidence had grown.

  Octavian had chosen to wear armour, knowing he would be seen in contrast to the civil powers. He rode down the Capitoline hill with three centuries of men, one of them composed entirely of centurions. Together, they represented his claim to authority in the city and if the senators were in clean colours, at least his men shone.

  As the sound of his mount’s hooves changed to a clatter on stone, Octavian swept his gaze across the crowd of senators. He could see Bibilus, with Suetonius at his side as always. They had both known Caesar, Suetonius in particular. The passing years had been kind to neither of them, almost as if their cruelty was written in sagging flesh. Octavian could not help compare himself with those old men and he straightened his back at the thought. He brought his centuries right up to them, not needing to give new orders. They spread out in perfect ranks against the hundreds in togas, standing still so that there was no sound at all beyond the calls of birds floating high above their heads. Not one of the senators would speak first, he was certain. Octavian and Maecenas had discussed the protocol and he smiled at them all.

  ‘I have summoned you here to announce that I will pay the legacies of Caesar myself, beginning with the three hundred sesterces to each citizen of Rome.’ He was pleased at the angry mutter that went through them at his choice of words. ‘I assume you will waive the right to your part of it. Are senators not citizens? Yet if you wish, I will have your share sent to your homes in the city.’

  He hoped they would register the subtle threat before he went on with his main demand. He knew where they lived. The implications would surely not be lost on most of them.

  Bibilus stepped forward through the crowd facing Octavian. The man’s bulk was well-disguised in the folds of his toga. He stood with his right hand gathering up the folds of cloth, his fleshy features already bright with perspiration.

  ‘Once more, then. We will not bargain or negotiate while legions camp in the sacred forum, Octavian. If you have nothing new to add, I suggest you return to the city and wait for justice to descend on you.’

  Octavian controlled a spasm of anger. To have such a man speak to him of justice was calculated to enrage, so he showed them nothing.

  ‘You have refused every demand, senators,’ he said, making his voice ring across them all, ‘certain that I would not draw swords on the representatives of the city of my birth. What I asked was just, but you continued to protect murderers. That is at an end. I see Senator Suetonius there among you. I will take him today, for trial in the forum. Step aside and let him walk out to me. I have shown my respect for the law by my patience, though I have legions at my back. You need not fear that he will receive anything but justice at my hand. But he will receive justice at my hand.’

  As he had ordered the night before, ten of his most senior centurions stepped forward from the ranks, moving towards Suetonius before the senators had time to react. At the first steps, Bibilus shouted out.

  ‘We are immune! You may not lay hands on a member of this august Senate. The gods themselves will curse whichever of you defies their will.’

  With those few words, a ripple of anger spread through the gathered senators and they stepped out, holding up their hands against the armoured soldiers. With sheer numbers, they blocked a path to Suetonius as he cowered at the centre of four hundred men.

  One of the centurions looked back at Octavian, unsure what to do, while the others pressed on. The senators had not dared to draw the daggers they all carried. Yet they clustered and shifted, standing in a clot of men that could not be breached without violence. Octavian seethed, knowing that he could give a single order and they would fall back in bloody rags. Maecenas had predicted they would refuse, but Octavian had not expected to see any kind of courage from those
men, certainly not to withstand the terror of hardened legionaries coming at them.

  ‘Stand down, centurions,’ he ordered, furious with them all as well as himself.

  The line of legionaries disengaged, leaving red-faced senators in their wake, their togas in crumpled disarray. Octavian could only glare at them, his hand twitching to draw the sword that lay at his hip. He held his honour like iron bands around him, but he could hardly bear the poisonous triumph he saw on the faces of Bibilus and Suetonius.

  Silence spread again, broken only by panting men. One of the centurions turned to Octavian and, in doing so, saw movement on the Capitoline hill. A rider was coming down to the Campus at a gallop. Octavian turned to see what had arrested the man’s attention and his heart sank. They had been dreading the news for days and there was only one thing that would send a rider charging out to him that morning. The senators still waited for him to speak and when he did, his voice was low and cold.

  ‘As I bear the name of Caesar, I will not shed more blood onto these stones. Yet my patience has its limits, gentlemen. I tell you solemnly – do not depend on it again.’

  It was not enough to wipe the smirk from Bibilus’ face, but Octavian knew he was out of time. Sick with rage, he turned his horse and trotted out to meet the rider. His centurions formed up and marched with him, leaving the senators behind.

  Octavian reined in as he reached the young extraordinarii soldier, breathing hard from his ride through the city. The man saluted and Octavian stared back at Rome. He did not know when he would see it again.

  ‘Legions sighted, sir. On the Via Appia.’

  Octavian nodded and thanked him.

  ‘Go back and tell Legate Silva to bring the men out at their best pace. I am finished here. I will await them on the Campus.’

  It was not long before the first marching ranks appeared over the brow of the Capitoline. They came out of the city without any of the cheering or fanfare that had announced their arrival. They marched in sombre mood, knowing that Mark Antony was approaching Rome with three times as many men.