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

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Now you will see,’ Agrippa said.

  The ropes had caught the opposing galley at an odd angle. As they grew taut, the opposing crew rushed over to the side where they expected the attack. It unbalanced their ship, which tipped suddenly and violently so that the deck became a slope. More men slid to the lower side, yelling in panic. The oars on one side raised out of the water and on the other the rowers thrashed in panic as the lake came pouring in. Before Agrippa could roar another order, the galley turned right over with a huge crash of water, revealing the shining curve of its hull.

  Maecenas swallowed nervously, knowing he had just witnessed the drowning of two hundred men or more. Even those few who could swim would be hard-pressed to escape as the cold waters poured in. Down on the lake, the first galley crew sat still and stunned at what they had done.

  He looked at Agrippa and saw his friend caught between horror and delight.

  ‘By the gods, I thought …’ He shouted for the galley crew to seek out anyone in the water and wiped sweat from his face.

  ‘Did you know that was going to happen?’ Virgil asked, his eyes wide in shock.

  Agrippa shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘But this was never a game. I will use anything, take any advantage I can get.’

  On the lake, the galley was surrounded by hissing bubbles and they could hear the faint cries of drowning men, still trapped with dwindling air in the rowing deck. Against the odds, some of those inside had struggled out. They bobbed up to the surface, thrashing and yelling, trying desperately to stay afloat long enough to be rescued.

  ‘I need another twenty million sesterces to build the canal to the sea,’ Agrippa said. ‘I will get Caesar the galleys he needs and I will destroy Sextus Pompey, whatever it costs.’

  ‘I’ll see it reaches you,’ Maecenas said, his usual cheer absent as he watched men drown.

  Octavian raised his hand and the other bids stopped instantly.

  ‘Four million sesterces,’ he said.

  The auctioneer nodded and put aside the sealed ownership papers for him to pick up after the sale was finished. No other bidder would risk the displeasure of a consul and triumvir, though the Suetonius estate was a good one, with river access and a fine house on a hill near to Rome. It adjoined another property Octavian had inherited from Caesar and he could not pass up the chance to increase his holdings. Still, it felt a little odd to bid on properties he had caused to come onto the market. Ten per cent of the final price went to whichever citizen had handed over the proscribed owner and there had been appalling scenes since the lists were published, with mobs breaking down the doors of named men and dragging them out into the street. On more than one occasion, only the head of the man had been used to claim the reward.

  The Suetonius estate was unfortunately not one of those. The senator had vanished immediately after the consular elections and Octavian had every spy and client in his employ searching for news of him, as well as the other Liberatores still alive. In his absence, the Suetonius estate had been confiscated and the bulk of the proceeds would go to training and preparing new legions.

  ‘The next lot is a country villa by Neapolis, originally owned by Publius Casca.’

  Octavian knew that name, one of two brothers who had managed to elude those hunting them. He had heard a rumour that the Cascas had thrown themselves on the dubious mercy of Sextus Pompey, but he could not be certain. He had no desire to bid on their property at that time, but he waited even so, to see how much silver would be coming into the war coffers.

  The bidding began weakly as wealthy men in the room tried to guess whether the consul and triumvir would take it from them at the last moment. Octavian felt their eyes on him and shook his head, turning slightly away. The bidding increased to a rapid tempo then, as the estate in the south was renowned for its vineyards and farmland. There was still money in Rome, Octavian thought. His task was to gather as much of it as he could for a campaign that would need an even greater war chest than the one Caesar had collected for Parthia.

  He rubbed his eyes wearily as the price reached four million sesterces and most of the bidders dropped out. Agrippa’s secret fleet was proving to be an appalling drain on the state finances, but he could see no other choice but to pour more silver and gold into the ships. Without a fleet, the legions he controlled with Mark Antony were effectively useless. The price of bread had already tripled and though many of the citizens still hoarded much of the silver Caesar had given them, he knew it would not last much longer before they were rioting again, just to eat. Octavian shook his head at the thought.

  The bidding came to an end at six million, four hundred thousand. He made a gesture to the auctioneer, who paled when he saw it, thinking it was a late bid. Octavian shook his head again and gestured to the batch of sealed papers that represented the estate he had bought. They would be sent on to one of his city houses, the funds disbursed by one of the hundreds of factors and servants working directly for him. The men in the room relaxed visibly as he left.

  The auction house was high on the Quirinal hill and Octavian barely noticed the lictors who fell into step with him as he walked down towards the forum. The new senate house was almost complete and he had agreed to meet his co-consul Pedius at the temple of Vesta to oversee the laying of the final stone. Rome bustled around him as he made his way down the hill and his mouth quirked as he recalled previous times when he could hardly move for cheering crowds. They did not cheer him that day. He shivered as he walked. The air in Rome was growing colder as the year came to an end. In all ways, the new spring seemed very far away.

  As he reached the forum, the sense of the energetic city all around him increased. The open space was filled with thousands of men and women on the business of Rome, from the administration of a thousand trading houses, to senators and specialists in law discussing every topic, many of them with crowds listening. Rome had been made and remade on words and ideas before swords and it still felt young, just as he did. The senators were not isolated from the citizens, at least at certain times each month. They walked among the crowds in the forum and listened to requests and appeals from those they represented. Anything from a problem with a neighbour to a murder charge could be brought to them, and as Octavian walked, he saw Bibilus deep in conversation with a group of wealthy merchants only slightly slimmer than himself. Like Octavian, Bibilus had increased his holdings during the proscription auctions. There was no doubt he had men in the room Octavian had just left, bidding on his behalf for the choicer properties.

  Bibilus saw the stern lictors passing by and his cold eyes sought out Octavian walking in the centre of them. Despite his gains, Octavian knew there was no truce there, not from him. It was because of Octavian that Mark Antony had returned to the Senate with more power and fewer restraints than he had enjoyed before. Octavian could feel Bibilus’ dislike from a distance and he let it warm him. Bibilus did not call a greeting, preferring to pretend he had not seen him pass by.

  Pedius was standing in the entrance to the temple of Vesta, in conversation with Quintina Fabia. Octavian brightened at the sight of the older woman, whose company he enjoyed. He had hardly spoken to her since becoming consul, but she was one of those he had begun to assume were among his supporters, at least for the sake of her nephew Maecenas.

  To his surprise, Quintina Fabia came forward to him with open arms.

  ‘Caesar, I hear I should congratulate you,’ she said.

  Octavian glanced at Pedius, who shrugged. He allowed himself to be embraced with surprising strength.

  ‘On what?’ he asked when she released him.

  ‘Your betrothal, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Ah. I do not take much joy from the prospect of a twelve-year-old wife, Quintina.’

  He had met Mark Antony’s daughter only once since returning to Rome and the marriage to come was little more than a bargaining piece in their negotiations. He felt sorry for Claudia, if anything, but marriages were a currency of Rome and a
statement of their mutual support. It would not interfere with his current popularity among the noble mistresses of the city. Octavian was slim and young and in power, a powerful cocktail that led to a different partner every night, if he chose. He suspected Quintina knew that very well and was teasing him, so he tried to take it with good grace.

  ‘I have other things on my mind at the moment, Quintina; I apologise.’

  ‘Of course. Young men are always in love,’ she replied.

  ‘Perhaps, I cannot say. I dream of new legions, trained and hardened over a winter.’

  He looked to Pedius, who seemed embarrassed by the exchange and somewhat flustered by the attentions of the priestess.

  ‘Report, Pedius. I have not come here to talk of love, not today.’

  The older man cleared his throat.

  ‘With regret, Lady Fabia, I must leave our conversation to another time.’

  ‘Oh very well, though I know a few Roman widows who would be thrilled to meet a mature man as well, Pedius. They are deeper pools than these young girls Caesar favours. Their rivers have not run dry in the years without a man. In fact, the opposite is true. Think on that while you talk away a fine morning.’

  She strolled back into the temple then, leaving the two of them staring after her. Pedius shook his head, caught between the suspicion he was being mocked and genuine interest.

  ‘We’ve raised six new legions and placed their names on the Senate rolls. At the moment, they are little more than farmers and shop boys. They are training around Arretium, but they have to share swords and shields on a rota.’

  ‘So buy more,’ Octavian said.

  Pedius blew air out, exasperated.

  ‘I would if I had the gold to do it! Have you any idea what it costs to make equipment for five thousand men, never mind thirty? The swords must come overland from Spain while Sextus blockades the western coast. A thousand miles, Caesar! Instead of a month at sea, it takes four times as long, but until then, they must train with sticks and mismatched weapons more than a century old. Yet wherever I look for funds, I am told Caesar has been there before me and the chests are all empty.’

  Octavian hardly needed another reminder that Sextus Pompey was harassing the coasts. With Cassius and Brutus growing stronger all the time in Greece and Macedonia, he was only too aware of the strangling grip cutting the life’s blood from the country.

  ‘I have gold coming by land as well, from mines in Spain – and I am working on a solution to the fleet with Sextus Pompey. It is draining the treasury, but I have to be able to protect legions as they cross.’

  ‘I would prefer it if you’d share more of your planning with me,’ Pedius said. ‘Though the proscriptions have silenced some of your enemies, the main problems persist. We cannot begin a campaign without more legions to keep Rome safe and of course ships to carry them. Until we have those, we are trapped on our own mainland.’

  ‘All right, Consul. There is no point in labouring over our difficulties. I have been in worse positions, believe me.’

  To his surprise, Pedius smiled, chewing at the insides of his lips as he looked up.

  ‘Yes you have, haven’t you? And you have come through them. The city still looks to you to make everything right, Caesar, as if you can bring cheap grain once more with just a wave of your hand.’ He leaned a little closer, so the ever present lictors could not overhear. ‘But everything you have won can be taken away, if men like Brutus, Cassius and Sextus Pompey can find another ally in Rome.’

  Octavian looked sharply at the older man, watching his moving jaw.

  ‘Are you seeking to warn me? Mark Antony has cast his lot with me, Pedius. He would not be such a fool as to risk an alliance with men like those.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Pedius replied. ‘I hope you are right. Perhaps I am just a suspicious old man, but it is sometimes a good idea to be suspicious. You are very young, Caesar. The future is longer for you than it is for me. It might be an idea to think of those years as you make your choices.’

  Octavian considered for a moment. He knew Caesar had been warned many times about assassins and always ignored the threat.

  ‘I will be ready for anything, Pedius. You have my word on it.’

  ‘Good.’ Pedius smiled. ‘I have come to enjoy being consul with you, young man. I don’t want it to come to an end too soon.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Brutus smothered his anger, which was more at his own failing stamina than the Greek who danced around him with the training sword. There had been a time when he could have humiliated the younger man with ease, but a large part of his speed had vanished over the years. Only his daily routine of sparring kept his fitness from disappearing completely.

  He knew his face and bare chest were red as he heated up. Each breath felt as if it came from an oven and sweat poured off him while his opponent still looked fresh. It was galling and ultimately pointless, but he wished for just a moment of his youth to return so he could batter the Greek into quick submission.

  Cleanthes was still wary of the Roman governor who had challenged him to a sparring bout. For all the difference of thirty years in their ages, he had not been able to land a crippling blow, only to stripe the man’s arms with the red ink daubed on his wooden blade. Even so, he felt the bout turning in his favour and it did not hurt to have his friends calling their encouragement from the side of the training ground. Athens may have been ruled by Rome, but the crowd were open in their support for the young Greek.

  Driven on by their cheering, Cleanthes blocked an attack with his buckler shield and lunged at the Roman’s throat. It was a dangerous blow, one of the few that could be fatal with the wooden weapons. Brutus tensed with anger as he knocked it aside, launching a series of strikes that forced Cleanthes back step by step. He had once been very, very good and his form was still impressive, though he was panting and sweat spattered from his wet hair.

  Cleanthes hesitated rather than press back. Everything he had learned in the sparring classes had failed to break through the man’s guard. Yet he did not want to win by virtue of exhausting his opponent. He faced Brutus squarely and brought his sword back to the scabbard position on his hip. They wore only leggings and there was no strap to hold the weapon, but his intention was clear. Brutus curled his lip, yet he too had been arrogant once. He accepted the threat and stepped in close, watching Cleanthes carefully as he brought his own sword back to his hip, ready for a single strike. It was the sort of thing that appealed to young men, a test of draw speed alone. Brutus watched the eyes of the younger man, relaxing himself completely.

  The attack came without warning, a blow that Cleanthes had practised a thousand times in his young life. He made the decision to move and his hand whipped the sword up fast. To his shock, Cleanthes felt a line sear across the side of his throat, leaving a red stain that mingled with his sweat and dripped down his bare chest. Brutus followed it with two more quick strikes, one to the inner thigh, where a man would bleed to death quickly, and another to the Greek’s side. It happened in a heartbeat and Brutus grinned unpleasantly at him as he stepped back.

  ‘The second man to move is often faster; did they not teach you that?’ Brutus said. ‘If he is trained, his reaction is swifter than a planned blow.’

  Cleanthes reached up to his throat and the red stain that came away on his fingers. He looked down to see the ink dripping down his right leg. The crowd had fallen silent and he bowed stiffly to the Roman governor.

  ‘I will remember the lesson,’ Cleanthes said. ‘Once more?’

  Heads jerked round at the sound of clapping hands echoing in the training yard. Brutus saw Cassius at the rail, looking fresh and fit. He recognised Suetonius and Gaius Trebonius with him and tensed his jaw. With a quick gesture, Brutus tossed the training sword to Cleanthes, who was forced to catch it.

  ‘Not today,’ Brutus called over his shoulder. ‘It seems I have guests.’

  He walked over to the group of three waiting for him.

&
nbsp; ‘Will you join me in the baths? I need to wash the sweat off.’

  Cassius nodded, though Suetonius looked uncomfortable and wiped a hand across his hair. Gaius Trebonius was staring around him with unabashed interest. They followed Brutus to the training house baths and all four men stripped, handing their clothes to slaves to be brushed and steamed clean. Brutus ignored the others, knowing they would wait on him, whatever it was they wanted. He stood stoically as buckets of water were emptied over him, then headed into the hottest steam room to sweat out the dirt from his skin. Surrounded by strangers, Cassius could hardly discuss their plans and as a group the men sat in silence as the steam billowed around them, then followed Brutus through the cold plunge and finally onto the tables, where other slaves worked oil into their skins and scraped them clean with lengths of ivory, wiping black muck onto their waistcloths.

  A good hour passed before they were left alone. Some men preferred to doze for a while afterwards, while many more wished to discuss their business in private. The slaves left discreetly, though they would be waiting at the outer door in the hope of a few extra coins when the customers went out to the street.

  Suetonius was not aware that his hair had become thin snake tails in the steam and oil, doing nothing to hide his baldness. He lifted his head from the table where he lay and saw the others resting with their eyes closed.

  ‘As pleasant as it is to find a competent Roman house in Athens, there is much to discuss,’ he said.

  Brutus made a sound close to a groan, but he sat up even so. The others did the same, though Suetonius rested his hands over his sagging paunch and wrinkled thighs. The baths stripped away dignity and he wished for his toga to be returned.

  ‘So what has brought you to me here?’ Brutus said. ‘I was hoping to catch the orator Thenes when he speaks in the agora.’