‘Too late for that, Consul,’ Oppius snapped. ‘I just hope this is what you wanted. Now move, sir. Or will you stand and see us all killed?’
More of the black stones flew. Mark Antony could see movements in the crowd, swirling and shoving like patterns in water. There were thousands of angry men in that forum and many of the weaker ones would be trampled to death before their anger gave out. He swore under his breath.
‘My feelings exactly, sir,’ Oppius said grimly. ‘But it’s done now.’
‘I can’t leave the body,’ Mark Antony said desperately. He ducked as another stone came past him and he saw how quickly the chaos was spreading. There was no holding them back now and he felt a sudden fear that he would be swept away.
‘Very well. Get me clear.’
He could smell smoke on the air and he shivered. The gods alone knew what he had unleashed, but he remembered the riots of years before and the flashing memories were ugly. As he was borne away in a tight mass of soldiers, he looked back at the body of Julius, abandoned and alone, as men clambered up to the platform bearing knives and stones.
The bitter smell of wet ash was heavy in the air across Rome. Mark Antony wore a clean toga as he waited in the outer hall of the House of Virgins behind the temple of Vesta. Even so, he thought he could smell burnt wood in the cloth, hanging on him like a mist. The air of the city carried the taint and marked everything passing through it.
Suddenly impatient, he jumped up from a marble bench and began to pace. Two of the temple women were watching him idly, so secure in their status that they betrayed no tension even in the presence of a consul of Rome. The virgins could not be touched, on pain of death. They devoted their lives to worship, though there had long been rumours that they came out on the festival of Bona Dea and used aphrodisiac drugs and wine to toy with men before killing them. Mark Antony glowered at the pair, but they only smiled and spoke to each other in low tones, ignoring the man of power.
The high priestess of Vesta had judged his patience to a fine degree by the time she finally came out to him. Mark Antony had been on the point of leaving, or summoning soldiers, or anything else that would allow him to act rather than wait like a supplicant. He had sat for a time once more, staring into space and the horrors of the previous day and night.
The woman who approached was a stranger to him. Mark Antony rose and bowed only briefly, trying to control his irritation. She was tall and wore a Greek shift that left her legs and one shoulder bare. Her hair was a shining mass of dark red, curling across her throat. His gaze followed the path of the locks, pausing on what looked like a tiny splash of blood on the white cloth. He shuddered, wondering what horrible rite she had been finishing while he waited.
There were still bodies in the forum and his anger simmered, but he needed the goodwill of the priestess. He made himself smile as she spoke.
‘Consul, this is a rare pleasure. I am Quintina Fabia. I hear your men are working hard to bring order back to the streets. Such a terrible business.’
Her voice was low and educated and he reassessed his first impression. He had already known the woman was one of the Fabii, a noble family that could call on the allegiance of a dozen senators in any year. Quintina was used to authority and he let the anger seep out of him.
‘I hope there has been no trouble here?’ Mark Antony asked.
‘We have guards and other ways of protecting ourselves, Consul. Even rioters know not to trouble this temple. What man would risk a curse from the virgin goddess, to see his manhood fall limp and useless for ever?’
She smiled, but he could still smell wet ash in the air and he was not in the mood for pleasantries. It was annoying enough that he had been forced to come himself, with so much else to do. Yet his messengers had been turned away without a word.
‘I have come to take charge of Caesar’s will. I believe it is lodged here. If you will have it brought to me, I can get back to my work. The sun is almost setting and each night is worse.’
Quintina shook her head, a delicate frown appearing between dark brown eyes.
‘Consul, I would do everything in my power to help you, but not that. The last testaments of men are my charge. I cannot give them up.’
Mark Antony struggled again with rising temper.
‘Well, Caesar is dead, woman! His body was burned in the forum along with the senate house, so we can be reasonably sure of that! When will you release his will, if not today, to me? The whole city is waiting for it to be read.’
His anger washed over her with no noticeable effect. She smiled slightly at his harsh tone, looking back over her shoulder at the two women lounging on a nearby bench. Mark Antony was seized by a sudden desire to grab her and shake her out of her lethargy. Half the forum had been destroyed. The Senate were forced to meet in Pompey’s theatre while the seat of government lay in rubble and ashes, and still he was being treated like a servant! His big hands clenched and unclenched.
‘Consul, do you know why this temple was founded?’ she asked softly.
Mark Antony shook his head, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Could she not understand what he needed?
‘It was raised to house the Palladium, the statue of Athena that was once the heart of Troy. The goddess guided her likeness to Rome and we have been its guardians for centuries, do you understand? In that time, we have seen riots and unrest. We have seen the walls of Rome herself threatened. We have watched the army of Spartacus march past and seen Horatius go out to hold the bridge with just two men against an army.’
‘I don’t … What has this to do with the will of Caesar?’
‘It means that time passes slowly within these walls, Consul. Our traditions go back to the founding of the city and I will not change them because of a few dead rioters and a consul who thinks he can give orders here!’
Her voice had hardened and grown louder as she spoke and Mark Antony raised his hands, trying to placate the suddenly angry woman before him.
‘Very well, you have your traditions. Nonetheless, I must have the will. Have it brought to me.’
‘No, Consul.’ She held up a hand herself to forestall his protest. ‘But it will be read aloud in the forum on the last day of the month. You will hear it then.’
‘But …’ He hesitated under her stare and took a deep breath. ‘As you say then,’ he said through a clenched jaw. ‘I am disappointed you saw no value in gaining the support of a consul.’
‘Oh, they come and go, Mark Antony,’ she replied. ‘We remain.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Octavian woke in the late morning, feeling as if he had drunk bad red wine. His head pounded and his clenching stomach made him weak, so he had to lean against a wall and gather his strength as Fidolus brought out his horse. He wanted to vomit to clear his head, but there was nothing to bring up and he had to struggle not to heave dryly, making his head swell and hammer with the effort. He knew he needed a run to force blood back into his limbs, to force out the shame that made him burn. As the house slave went back inside for the saddle, Octavian pounded his thigh with a closed fist, harder and harder until he could see flashing lights whenever he closed his eyes. His weak flesh! He had been so careful after the first time, telling himself that he had caught some infection in a scratch, or some illness from the sour air in Egypt. His own men had found him insensible then, but they had assumed he’d drunk himself unconscious and saw nothing too odd in that, with Caesar feting the Egyptian queen along the Nile.
He could feel a bruise begin to swell the muscle of his leg. Octavian wanted to shout out his anger. To be let down by his own body! Julius had taught him it was just a tool, like any other, to be trained and brought to heel like a dog or a horse. Yet now his two friends had seen him while he was … absent. He muttered a prayer to the goddess Carna that his bladder had not released this second time. Not in front of them.
‘Please,’ he whispered to the deity of health. ‘Cast it out of me, whatever it is.’
He had woke
n clean and in rough blankets, but his memory ceased with the scroll from Rome. He could not take in the new reality. His mentor, his protector, had been killed in the city, his life ripped from him where he should have been safest. It was impossible.
Fidolus passed the reins into his hands, looking worriedly at the young man who stood shaking in the morning sun.
‘Are you well, master? I can fetch a doctor from the town if you are ill.’
‘Too much drink, Fidolus,’ Octavian replied.
The slave nodded, smiling in sympathy.
‘It doesn’t last long, master. The morning air will clear your head and Atreus is feeling his strength today. He will run to the horizon if you let him.’
‘Thank you. Are my friends awake?’ Octavian watched closely for a sign that the slave knew something about his collapse, but the expression remained innocent.
‘I heard someone moving about. Shall I call for them to join you?’
Octavian mounted, landing heavily and making the mount snort and skitter across the yard. Fidolus began to move to take the reins but Octavian waved him off.
‘Not now. I’ll see them when I come back.’
He dug in his heels and the horse lunged forward, clearly happy to be out of its stall with the prospect of a run. Octavian saw movement in the doorway of the house and heard Agrippa’s deep voice hail him. He didn’t turn. The clatter of hooves on stone was loud and he could not face the man, not yet.
Horse and rider surged into a canter through the gate. Agrippa came skidding into the yard behind him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stared after Octavian for a while, then yawned.
Maecenas came out, still wearing the long shift he slept in.
‘You let him go alone?’ he said.
Agrippa grinned at seeing the Roman noble so tousled, his oiled hair sticking out at all angles.
‘Let him work up a sweat,’ he said. ‘If he’s ill, he needs it. The gods alone know what he’s going to do now.’
Maecenas noticed Fidolus, who had stayed back with his head down.
‘Get my horse ready, Fidolus – and the carthorse that suffers under my friend here.’
The slave hurried back into the stable block, greeted with whinnies of excitement from the two horses in the gloom. The Romans exchanged a glance.
‘I think I fell asleep about an hour ago,’ Maecenas said, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘Have you thought what you’re going to do now?’
Agrippa cleared his throat uncomfortably.
‘Unlike you, I am a serving officer, Maecenas. I do not have the freedom to make decisions. I will return to the fleet.’
‘If you had bothered to use that fascinating mind you hide so well, you’d have realised the fleet at Brundisium no longer has a purpose. Caesar is dead, Agrippa! Your campaign won’t go ahead without him. Gods, the legions of Rome are there – who will lead them now? If you go back, you’ll be floating without orders for months while the Senate ignore you all. Believe me, I know those men. They will squabble and argue like children, snatching scraps of power and authority now that Caesar’s shadow has gone. It could be years before the legions move again, and you know it. They were loyal to Caesar, not the senators who murdered him.’
‘Octavian said there is an amnesty,’ Agrippa murmured uneasily.
Maecenas laughed, a bitter sound.
‘And if they passed a law saying we should all marry our sisters, would it happen? Honestly, I have grown to admire the discipline of the army, but there are times when the entire board is reset, Agrippa! This is one of them. If you can’t see that, perhaps you should go and sit with thousands of sailors, writing your reports and watching the water grow sour as you wait for permission to take on fresh food.’
‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Agrippa demanded angrily. ‘Retire to your estate and watch it all play out? I don’t have a patrician family to protect me. If I don’t go back, my name will be marked “Run” and someone somewhere will sign an order to have me hunted down. I sometimes think you have lived too well to understand other men. We do not all have your protection!’
Agrippa’s face had grown flushed as he spoke and Maecenas nodded thoughtfully. He sensed it was not the time to anger him further, though Agrippa’s indignation always made him want to smile.
‘You are correct,’ he said, gentling his voice deliberately. ‘I am related to enough of the great men not to fear any one of them. But I am not wrong. If you go back to Brundisium, you’ll be picking worms out of your food before you see order restored. Trust me on that at least.’
Agrippa began his reply and Maecenas knew it would be something typically decent and honourable. The man had risen through the ranks by merit and occasionally it showed. Maecenas spoke to head him off before he could vow to follow his oath, or some other foolishness.
‘The old order is dead with Caesar, Agrippa. You talk of my position – very well! Let me use it to shelter you, at least for a few months. I will write letters of permission to have you kept from your duties. It will keep the stripes off your back and your rank intact while we see this through! Think about it, big man. Octavian needs you. At least you have your fleet, your rank. What does he have now that Caesar is gone? For all we know, there are men riding here to finish the job they started in Rome …’ He broke off, his eyes widening.
‘Fidolus! Come out here, you Greek shit-pot! Move!’
The slave was already returning with both mounts. Maecenas slapped his hands off the reins and leapt on, wincing as the cold leather met his testicles.
‘Sword! Bring me a weapon. Run!’
Agrippa mounted as Fidolus raced across the yard and into the house. It was true that his horse was far stockier in build than those of the others. It was tall and powerful and shone black in the morning sun. As it took his weight, the animal blew air from its lips and pranced sideways. Agrippa patted its neck absently, thinking through what Maecenas had been saying.
‘I swear by Mars, there had better be some assassins riding around here,’ Maecenas snapped, turning his mount. ‘I’ll be black and blue after half a mile.’
A fresh clatter of hooves sounded outside the grounds, getting louder with every moment. Octavian rode back through the gate, his face pale. He looked surprised to see his friends mounted and Fidolus rushing out with swords clasped awkwardly in his arms.
Octavian’s stare snagged on Maecenas, whose shift had ridden up so that his bare buttocks were revealed.
‘What are you doing?’ he said.
Maecenas tried to stare back haughtily, but he couldn’t summon his dignity in such a position.
‘Don’t you know all young Romans ride like this now? Perhaps it has not spread to the provinces yet.’
Octavian shook his head, his expression bleak.
‘I came back to tell you both to pack up your belongings. We need to get to Brundisium.’
Agrippa’s head jerked up at the word, but it was Maecenas who spoke first.
‘I was just explaining to the keen sailor why that is the last place we would want to go, at least until the city settles down. It will be chaos out there, Octavian. Believe me, every Roman family is doubling their guards right now, ready for civil war.’
‘You’re right,’ Octavian said. ‘The legions are at Brundisium as well.’
‘So tell me why that isn’t the last place in the world we should visit,’ Maecenas said.
He saw Octavian’s gaze turn inward, his eyes shadowed as he lowered his head. There was silence in the yard for a moment before he spoke again.
‘Because those men were loyal to Caesar – to my family. If there is anyone left who wants to see revenge for his murder, they will be in that camp by the sea. That’s where I must go.’
‘You realise there could also be men there who would think nothing of killing you?’ Maecenas asked softly.
Octavian’s gaze flickered to him.
‘I have to start somewhere. I can’t let them wipe their hands clean and ju
st go on with their lives. I knew him, Maecenas. He was … a better man than the snapping dogs in Rome, every one of them. He would want me to walk into their houses and show them the mercy they showed him.’
Agrippa nodded, rubbing a hand through his beard.
‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We have to get back to Brundisium. Out here, we’re too far away to know anything.’
Maecenas looked from man to man and for once there was no wry humour in his expression.
‘Three men?’ he said. ‘Against the legions of Rome?’
‘No, not against them, with them,’ Octavian replied. ‘I know those men, Maecenas. I have served with hundreds, no, thousands of them. They will remember me. I know them better than the greyheads of the Senate, at least.’
‘I see. That is … a relief,’ Maecenas said.
He looked to Agrippa for some sign that he wasn’t going along with this madness, but Agrippa was watching Octavian with a fierce intensity. The young man who dropped lightly from his horse and strode across the yard had impressed him from the first time they met, two years before. It was not just that Octavian was a blood relative of Caesar, or had seen the great cities of the east. The young Roman was a man who saw through the febrile twitching of merchants, nobles and soldiers to what really mattered. Agrippa remembered watching him hold court at a party, speaking so well and fluently that even the drunks were listening to him. Octavian had offered them pride in what they could bring to the world, but Agrippa had heard the other strand woven into the words – the cost and burden that they must shoulder to represent the city. He’d listened in awe to concepts and thoughts that had never intruded upon his father’s endless quest for more wealth.
One of the drunkest nobles had laughed at Octavian. With a quick jerk, Agrippa had tossed the man over the balcony. He grinned as he remembered the amused shock on Octavian’s face as half the crowd rushed past them both. It had been enough to begin a friendship neither man had been looking for. They’d drunk and talked until dawn and Agrippa thanked his gods he’d chosen to go out that night at his father’s urging. He’d found no new deals to make, nor rich daughters to court, but the following morning he’d gone to the docks and joined his first legion galley. His father hadn’t spoken to him since that day.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 181