‘I am told Consul Hirtius has been killed,’ he said. ‘Who commands now, that I may lay my complaint before him? Who allowed Mark Antony to escape to Gaul when he was in our grasp?’
Eyes turned to Octavian, who said nothing at first. He savoured the moment while Decimus Junius looked around from face to face, confused by the silence.
‘I believe my ranks of propraetor and praefectus entitle me to command,’ Octavian said at last. ‘Either way, I am Gaius Julius Caesar and this army is mine.’
He spoke as much for the benefit of the new legates as Decimus Junius, but the name was not lost on the man, who went pale and stammered as he tried to continue.
‘I … Propraetor Caesar …’ he began, struggling to find words. Decimus Junius took a deep breath and went on, though his eyes were sick with worry. ‘Two thousand of my legionaries are still held at the Castra Taurinorum, guarded by some of Mark Antony’s men. I seek your permission to free them and rebuild the fortresses. I was fortunate that the consul passed me by as he went for the pass, but my supplies are low. If I am to keep my position here, I must ask for food and materials …’ He trailed off under Octavian’s cold stare.
‘Your position, Decimus Junius?’ Octavian asked. ‘It is simple enough. You were one of those who murdered the Father of Rome. As his adopted son, it falls to me to demand justice.’
Decimus Junius paled further, his skin bright with sweat.
‘I … I was granted amnesty by the Senate of Rome, Propraetor,’ he said, his voice shaking.
‘An amnesty I revoke,’ Octavian said.
‘By what authority? The Senate …’
‘Are not here,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘I am the commander in the field and you will find my authority is absolute, at least so far as it relates to you. Guard! Place this man under arrest and hold him for trial. You may choose anyone you like to speak for you, Decimus Junius. I suggest you find someone of uncommon skill.’
The guard laid a hand on Decimus Junius’ shoulder, causing him to jerk.
‘You can’t do this!’ he shouted. ‘I was granted amnesty for bringing down a tyrant. Will you make yourself another? Where is the rule of law in this? I am immune!’
‘Not from me,’ Octavian said. ‘I will convene a court of senior officers for tomorrow morning. Take him away now.’
Decimus Junius slumped, his expression appalled as he was led away. Octavian faced the other men in the tent, focusing on the new legates in particular.
‘Will you criticise me for this?’ he asked them softly.
Justinius was the only one of the new men who met his gaze. The legate shook his head.
‘No, Caesar,’ he said.
The sun was barely above the eastern horizon when the trial began. Eight legions were encamped around a single laurel tree, so that the small space was at the centre of a vast host of men. The cold had deepened overnight, though the sky was clear and once again the wind whipped particles of frost against the exposed skin of the men as they waited for the judgement.
Decimus Junius had chosen to defend himself and he spoke for almost an hour while the legions waited and watched. In the end, he ground to a halt and Octavian stood up.
‘I have listened to your words, Decimus Junius. I find your arguments empty. There was no amnesty when you were one of Caesar’s murderers. That it was applied later is irrelevant. The Senate cannot order the sun to set after it has risen. In giving you some sense that you were absolved of your crime, they stepped beyond the bounds of their authority. As Caesar, I revoke that amnesty in the field and will do so formally when I am next in Rome. You are the first of the Liberatores to receive justice for your crimes. You will be one of many when you meet again across the river.’
Decimus Junius only stared at him, his eyes resigned. He had not doubted the result of the trial for a moment and he raised his head, refusing to show fear.
‘I pronounce you guilty of murder and blasphemy against the divine Julius,’ Octavian said. ‘The sentence is death. Hang him.’
Octavian watched without expression as two legionaries took hold of Decimus Junius, leading him over to the tree. They threw a rope over a branch and tied a loop around his neck while he stood, his chest heaving. Decimus Junius swore at them then, cursing them by all the gods. Octavian nodded to the legionaries, who joined together to pull the rope.
Decimus Junius’ voice was strangled into silence at the first jerk. One of his hands raised to touch the rope, the fingers scrabbling at the rough line tightening around his throat. As the soldiers continued to heave, he was raised to the tips of his toes and then, with a lurch, he left the ground. His legs kicked out and both hands were at his throat. On instinct, he gripped the rope above his head and pulled himself up. The soldiers exchanged a brief communication and one of them braced himself to take the weight, while the other approached the kicking figure and knocked his arms away.
Decimus Junius jerked and sagged in spasms, his bladder emptying as he choked. It was not a quick death, but the legionaries waited patiently, only having to remove his hands once more before he was still, turning gently in the breeze. When it was over, they heaved on the legs until the neck snapped, then lowered the body down and took back the rope. One of the legionaries used his sword to hack the head from the corpse. It took three blows before it came free and the soldier held it up to the crowd as a prize. They cheered the sight of it, fascinated by the white upturned eyes as it was turned to show all those who crowded close.
Octavian let out a long breath, shuddering in release. He hoped the news would spread to the ears of more powerful men, such as Brutus and Cassius, or the ones who still scrambled in Rome as Suetonius did. They would hear, eventually, and they would consider what it meant for them. He had only begun to collect the debt they owed.
‘Legates, attend me,’ he ordered.
The eight men came to him, hushed and calm after what they had witnessed. They saw Octavian in spotless armour, his face unlined and youthful energy in every part of him.
‘The men have seen my purpose, my intentions,’ he said to them. ‘I would have their voices behind me before I move on. I recall that Caesar would sometimes summon a soldiers’ assembly when he was in the field, to take the feeling of the men. I will do that here, to know I have their support.’
His gaze fell on the legates who had come north with Hirtius and Pansa and they did not misunderstand. He had demonstrated his authority and they knew better than to refuse.
‘Summon all officers, down to tesserarius. I will speak to them and ask what they would have me do.’
The legates saluted without hesitation, walking back to their horses in disciplined silence. As the sun rose, the main body of the legions pulled back from the command tent, while two thousand officers walked in to hear Octavian speak. He waited for them, drinking only a little water and thinking back over the death of Decimus Junius. He had hoped for some feeling of satisfaction, but he had never met the man before and it was not there in him. Even so, he offered up a short prayer to Julius that he would bring the same justice to the rest of the Liberatores, one by one.
When the assembly of officers had gathered, he went out to stand before them.
‘You know why I am here now,’ he said, making his voice carry. ‘If you did not understand before, you know why I let Mark Antony leave the field yesterday. My enemies are those who murdered my father Caesar, divine Imperator of Rome. I have moved rashly before and made decisions I cannot take back. I stand here with you because I remember Caesar and he knew the wisdom of the legions he commanded.’ He paused to let the compliment sink in before going on. ‘With you, I am the right hand of Rome. I am the sword that will cut out traitors like Decimus Junius. Without you, I am no more than one man and the legacy of my father ends with me.’
‘What do you ask of us, Caesar?’ someone shouted back at him.
Octavian looked over to the massed officers.
‘Talk to each other. Talk to your men. We have
eight legions and that is enough for any task. Caesar told me you could be wise, so show me. Let me know what I should do.’
He stepped deliberately away from his position, so that the officers did not feel bound to remain. To his satisfaction, he heard conversations begin among them and after a time he walked to his tent and lay in the gloom, listening to the murmurs and shouts and laughter of the men as they discussed what to do.
Barely three summer hours had passed when Justinius came to find him, the legate staring as if he could see Octavian’s heart with eyes alone.
‘The men have decided,’ Justinius said.
Octavian nodded, walking with him back to the same spot. They had gathered once more to answer him and he saw many were smiling.
‘Which of you will speak for the rest?’ Octavian called to them.
Hands went up and he picked one at random. A burly centurion rose to his feet.
‘Caesar, we are honoured to have been asked.’
A great bellow went up and Octavian had to raise his arms and pat the air for silence.
‘There are some who think you should take over from Decimus Junius in the north,’ the centurion said.
A few men cheered, but the majority remained silent as he went on.
‘The rest – most of us – have considered that Rome has at least one consular post fallen vacant,’ he said. They laughed at that and Octavian smiled with them. ‘You are too young, it’s true. No man can be consul before the age of forty-two in normal times. But exceptions have been made in the past, not least for the divine Caesar himself. We think the presence of eight legions at your back will be enough to persuade the Senate that your age is not a barrier to election as consul.’
They roared to show their support and Octavian laughed aloud. Standing at his side, Maecenas bent close to his ear.
‘I’m sure it is just a coincidence that they are suggesting exactly what you wanted to hear,’ he murmured, smiling. ‘You are getting better at this.’
Octavian looked across at him, his eyes bright. As they quietened to hear his response, he took a deep breath.
‘You have spoken and I have heard. Yet if I go south to stand for consul, it will not be as the head of an invading army. I will ask the citizens of Rome for their vote, but I will not take legions into Rome, not again. If the people see fit to make me consul, I will gain the justice that has been denied to me – and to you – for too long. Is it your wish that we return?’
The response was never in doubt, but still Octavian was pleased at the battering roar that came back to him, quickly echoed instinctively by the mass of legionaries further out. They would hear the news in time. They were going home to elect a new Caesar as consul.
In the tents of the healers, Consul Pansa heard the roar and sucked in a molten breath. In his weakness, his tongue slipped back into his throat, the fat length of flesh cutting off his air. Bitter vomit rose, spilling from his open mouth and broken nose as he clawed at his face. He grunted and waved his hands as he strangled, but the soldiers were all outside, listening to their officers cheer Caesar. By the time they returned to tend him, he was dead, his eyes bulging.
The Senate watched each change of expression in the young man before them. He had answered every question and they had been impressed. His lineage was beyond reproach. Only his youth held them back from outright endorsement. Yet he did not look abashed and when he spoke, it was with the fluency of an honest and an older man.
Bibilus couldn’t take his eyes off Sextus Pompey. It was as if a Greek athlete stood there for their judgement, slim of shoulder and hip, with the sort of fine musculature that only came from an active life. Bibilus wiped his brow with a square of cloth, moving it down to take the wet shine off his lips. At the end of three hours in the theatre, they were all weary, but the subject of the emergency meeting still looked fresh. More than anything, Pompey’s unruffled calm helped to persuade the older members. In years alone, he was far too young for such a serious appointment, but the life he had led gave him a maturity and seriousness of which they could approve.
Suetonius was the last one still prepared to question the youth. When he rose from his bench, Pompey’s steady gaze fastened on him, so that he hesitated and forgot what he was about to ask.
‘You, um … you have described the death of your father in Egypt,’ Suetonius began, aware as he spoke of the sighs and grunts of irritation all around him. The rest of the senators wanted to move to a vote and then go home. Suetonius tensed his mouth and ran a hand over the hair he had plastered so carefully across the dome of his head.
‘You have also provided details of your brother, murdered by forces of Caesar in Spain. You say your sister yet survives … Lavinia. Yet, um … most of your experience has been on land, yet you are asking for command of the fleet? Tell this house why we should grant such authority to a young fellow of your age.’
Sextus Pompey looked up and around before he answered. The gesture was not lost on many of the men there and they chuckled as he smiled.
‘My father built this theatre, Senator, though I have never seen it before today. I am glad it is being used for more than even he intended. I am also glad his name is not forgotten, despite the best efforts of the Caesarian faction that has proved such a poison in the politics of this city. Is the line of Caesar not a dagger at your throats once again? The markets in the city are full of such chatter, with talk of him occupying even the forum.’
He paused with the natural gift of an orator, letting his audience soak in each point while he planned the next.
‘In me, you have more than a father’s son, though I do not fear to rest my honour on that of Gnaeus Pompey. I have fought against the armies of Caesar in Spain for almost as long as I can remember. Before that, I saw my father stabbed to death by foreign slaves in Alexandria, just to please Caesar. In my opposition to Octavian, you need never fear for my loyalty. I am perhaps the only man in Rome whose enmity is as set as the path of the stars.’
He paused again, knowing Suetonius would prompt him on the subject of the fleet. As the senator opened his mouth, Sextus Pompey went on.
‘I have fought on board ships, Senator. As I said, I have three galleys of my own, each one captured from Caesar’s forces and used to attack more. While he led Rome, I could be nothing more than a pirate with my name and my blood, but you have changed that. This new Caesar who undermines the authority of the Senate, who dares to flout the rule of Rome, will always be my enemy. But if the rumours are true …’ he smiled wryly, certain that he had not misjudged the panicky news flying through the city over the previous few days, ‘then he has an army too great to oppose in Roman lands, at least for this year. When he reaches Rome, he will dig himself under the skin and it will take a hot knife to get him out once more.’
Suetonius was nodding at the summary of all his own fears as Pompey went on.
‘But he does not have the fleet at Brundisium. Not yet, at least. It is the last remaining power at your disposal, at your command and in your gift. I ask only that you seal orders putting me in charge of it. I will use it to bring terror and destruction to this new Caesar, in the name of this Senate. At the very least, I will take it out of his grasp. My name tells you I can be trusted, senators, as you sit in my father’s house.’
‘I am satisfied,’ Suetonius said weakly, resuming his seat.
The ballot passed quickly, with no more than a few abstentions and votes against. Sextus Pompey would command the fleet, an authority almost absolute in its lack of oversight and control. Even those who remembered his father knew it was a great risk, but they knew also that Caesar was marching south to Rome and this time he had eight legions with him. They could not let him have the fleet as well, or the entire Roman world would be at his mercy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The gates of Rome were closed and sealed as the sun rose. The male voting population of the city had come out in darkness to the Campus Martius. Every free citizen was there, arranged in centu
ries of class and wealth, while the city filled with the odour of tens of thousands of meals being prepared for their return.
In times past, the voting days would have had an air of festival, with street performers and food sellers making more money in a day than they could in a normal month. Yet across the Tiber, eight legions camped, a great sea of shining armour waiting for the result. The sight of such a force within range of Rome dampened the spirits of the citizens considerably.
The representatives of each voting century came to cast their votes in huge baskets, filling them slowly with wooden tokens. Octavian stood close by, wearing a simple white toga. He was aware of the awe in the crowds that milled around him and he smiled at anyone who approached, exchanging a few words and thanking them for their support. There were many of those. He looked across to where Bibilus stood and sweated, despite a slave fanning him and another holding a sunshade above his head. Years before, Bibilus had stood with Caesar as consul and Octavian knew the memories would be sharp in him that day. He had heard the stories and it was hard not to glance across to the Janiculum hill, where a flag was raised high. While it fluttered, the election continued, but if the men at the peak saw an army approach, it would drop and the entire city would be made ready to defend itself. When Bibilus had stood before, his friend Suetonius had arranged for the flag to fall when the results went against them. Caesar had planned for the treachery and his men had kept the signal high, long enough to make their master consul. Octavian smiled at the thought.
‘Forty-two Caesar and Pedius; forty-eight Bibilus and Suetonius!’ the diribitores called.
The Senate had used a lot of favours to get so many votes from the first voting centuries. Octavian smiled, unworried. They had less influence with the poorer classes, he knew, while the name of Caesar rang like a bell for all those who had been paid their silver legacy.
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