The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Here she is at last,’ Agrippa said under his breath.

  Octavian snapped back from his reverie as the priestess of Vesta came out. He had been searching the crowd for the faces of men he knew. If Brutus had been there, he did not know what he would have done, but there was no sign of the man he wanted to see dead above all others. Two days in Rome had been enough to hear the details of the assassination and he burned with new energy at the thought of those Liberatores who sought to profit from murdering a good man. In the silence of his own thoughts, in the shadow of the temple of Vesta, he swore oaths of vengeance. The state of the city was the crop they had sown, the result of their greed and jealousy. He had not known what strength could come from hate, not before seeing Rome again.

  As the priestess unbound the will of Caesar from its box and lead straps, Octavian continued to glance back at the crowd. He recognised some faces he thought might be senators, but in cloaks and mantles against the morning cold, he could not be certain. He had been away too long.

  Agrippa nudged him to pay attention as the priestess scanned the first tablet, a line appearing on her forehead. When she looked up, she seemed to stare straight at Octavian. He waited, his heart thumping painfully in his chest and his mouth drying, so that he ran his tongue around the inside to free his lips.

  ‘“For the honour of Rome, hear the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,”’ she began.

  Octavian clenched his fists, hardly able to stand the tension. He felt Gracchus look over at him, the man’s expression unreadable.

  ‘“Gaius Octavian is my heir. I acknowledge him as blood of my blood and, by these words, I claim and adopt him as my son.”’

  Octavian felt a great shudder run through him and he would have staggered if Agrippa hadn’t put out an arm. His hearing vanished in the pounding of his pulse and when he felt an itch on his face, he scrubbed at it, leaving a red welt on his skin. It was too much to take in and he hardly heard the lines that followed, watching the priestess of Vesta hand down the tablets as she read them out. At one point, the men and women in the crowd cheered raucously and Octavian could not understand why. He was numb with emotion, overwhelmed at the hand of Caesar reaching out from death to touch him.

  The face of Gracchus was the picture of sourness as he considered the fortune his patron could have had, with a tenth of Caesar’s wealth. It was almost a legend, how much gold the leader of Rome had brought back from his conquests, at one point flooding so much of it into the city that it devalued the currency by almost a third. Octavian was the heir to all of it and Gracchus decided on the instant to be a more amenable companion. He would never again stand in the presence of such wealth, he was certain. Reaching out, he was about to clap Octavian on the back, but Maecenas caught the wrist and just smiled at him.

  ‘Let’s not make a show, not here,’ Maecenas said in a low voice. ‘We are unknown to the crowd and that is the way it should stay until we have had a little time to think about all this.’

  Gracchus forced a sickly grin and nodded, jerking back his arm from a grip of surprising strength. He had not seen Maecenas spar or train in their rush from the coast and he never noticed the short blade in the noble’s other hand as he let go, or the fact that Agrippa was behind him, ready to hammer him into the ground at the first sign of aggression.

  The list of clients and individual bequests seemed to take an age. Octavian glowered in disgust when he heard the name of Brutus and the huge sum of gold left to him. There was no mention of Cleopatra and the son that she had borne. All Maecenas’ friends knew was that she had left Rome after the assassination, presumably to go home to Egypt.

  ‘“The rest is the property of Gaius Octavian, adopted as my son, into the house of Julii. I leave Rome in your hands.”’

  Octavian felt his eyes sting. It was too easy to imagine Julius sitting in some quiet room, writing the words in wax, with the future laid out before him. Octavian began to wish he was alive for the thousandth time since hearing the news, then wrestled himself free of the thought as it formed. There was no going back, no wishing away of the new Rome.

  The priestess handed down the last tablet and saw it placed with reverence back into the chest. One of her acolytes put out a hand and she stepped down, her part finished. Octavian looked around him as the crowd exhaled held breaths and began to talk. He saw Mark Antony nod to his men and begin to move.

  ‘Time to go, I think,’ Maecenas said softly by his ear. ‘We can use the house of Brucellus this evening. It is untouched by the riots and he promises to provide a fine meal for us. There is a lot to discuss.’

  Octavian felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him away from the temple of Vesta. He resisted, suddenly sick of being made to walk in secrecy in his own city.

  ‘Priestess!’ he shouted, without warning.

  Maecenas stiffened at his side.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed. ‘Half the Senate have spies here! Let me get you away first and then we can decide what to do.’

  Octavian shook his head.

  ‘Priestess!’ he called again.

  Quintina Fabia paused in the act of accepting a mantle of rich cloth from one of her followers. She looked around, finding him from the reaction of the crowd as they stared.

  ‘I am Gaius Octavian, named as heir in the will you have just read,’ he said clearly.

  Maecenas groaned, keeping his dagger ready in case one of the crowd attacked them. None of them knew their enemies in the city, not yet.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ she said. It was rumoured that she had been an actress in her youth. Whether that was true or not, she had a performer’s instinct, ignoring the offered cloak and stepping back onto the low platform.

  ‘I wish to record a change of name with you, as the keeper of records.’

  The priestess cocked her head slightly as she thought. The young man she faced in the crowd had just been given incredible wealth, if he could live long enough to lay hands on it. She glanced over to where Mark Antony watched the scene playing out between them. Her first instinct had been to tell Octavian to wait for an audience, but under that sulphurous gaze, the corner of her mouth quirked.

  ‘What name would suit the heir to Rome?’ she said.

  ‘Only one,’ Octavian replied. ‘Gaius Julius Caesar, that I may honour the man whose name I will bear.’

  Quintina Fabia smiled wider at that, delighted at the bravado of the young Roman. His friends stood in shock around him, while she wanted to applaud.

  ‘You will need two witnesses of good standing to swear to your identity,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Come and see me at noon, in the House of Virgins.’ She paused again, watching Mark Antony from under her lashes. The consul was standing like a stunned ox.

  ‘Welcome home, Octavian,’ she said.

  He nodded, mute. Away on his right, the consul began to stride off and Octavian turned to follow him.

  ‘Consul!’ he shouted.

  Maecenas put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Octavian,’ he murmured. ‘Let him go.’

  Octavian brushed off the hand and kept going.

  ‘He was Caesar’s friend,’ he said. ‘He will hear me.’

  ‘Agrippa!’ Maecenas called.

  ‘Here.’

  The big man was already moving, pushing through the packed crowd after Octavian. With a curse, the legionary Gracchus followed in their wake.

  As Mark Antony watched the priestess talk with the young man, he shook his head, feeling sweat break out on his skin. It was too much to take in. The Senate had summoned him for a meeting at noon and he wanted to bathe first, so that he could face them fresh and clean. He turned away, his lictors and centurions all around him. He heard his title called across the forum but ignored it. He had barely gone twenty paces before the bristling awareness of his men made his temper rise. The group of four were pushing closer as he reached the edge of the crowd.

  ‘Consul!’ Octavian called again.<
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  Mark Antony hunched his shoulders. His lictors were tense at being approached from behind and the two centurions had drifted back to put themselves between the groups. With a raised hand, Mark Antony halted them all. He could not be seen to scurry away, as if he had something to hide.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snapped.

  Before him he saw a young man with grey eyes and dark blond hair bound at his neck. He supposed Octavian was in his early twenties, but he looked younger, with a smooth face and no sign of a beard. Somehow the sight of the young man served only to irritate Mark Antony further. He wanted nothing to do with some distant relative of Caesar intruding on him with his demands.

  Octavian drew to a sudden stop at the harsh tone, the smile dying on his lips. As the consul watched, Octavian straightened subtly, his eyes hardening.

  ‘Octavian …’ Agrippa muttered warningly at his side. The lictors with the consul were not just an affectation of power. With a word from Mark Antony, they would unstrap their axes and rods, driving anyone guilty of insult from the forum or killing them on the spot.

  ‘I thought I would greet an old friend,’ Octavian said. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken.’

  The reply seemed to rock Mark Antony. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning his dignity.

  ‘I am in error, Octavian. I have not congratulated you on your adoption.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Octavian said. ‘I am pleased to see you thriving in such sad times. That is why I came to you. The will must be formally affirmed in Senate. I need a Lex Curiata. Will you propose it for me today?’

  Mark Antony smiled tightly, shaking his head.

  ‘You may have noticed the city is only now recovering from riots. There is more than enough business to occupy the Senate until the end of the month. Perhaps then I will ask for time for your request.’

  Octavian stood very still, aware of the lictors watching him.

  ‘It is just a formality. I thought that, for Caesar’s memory, you might move a little faster.’

  ‘I see. Well, I will do what I can,’ Mark Antony replied carelessly. He turned and walked away quickly.

  Octavian would have spoken again, but both Agrippa and Maecenas laid hands on him, holding him still.

  ‘Don’t say another word!’ Agrippa said. ‘Gods, you will get us all killed if you can’t rule your mouth. You’ve made your request; now let him go.’

  Maecenas was a study in concentration as he watched the consul depart the forum. He looked over at Gracchus, standing uncomfortably as if he were not sure of his place in the small group.

  ‘I believe your part in this is at an end, Gracchus,’ Maecenas said. ‘I think it is time for you to report back to your master in Brundisium, is it not?’

  Gracchus glowered at him.

  ‘That’s not for you to decide,’ he said. ‘Liburnius told me to keep your friend safe. I can send a message back along the road.’

  Maecenas dropped his hand from Octavian’s shoulder and stepped right up to the legionary.

  ‘How can I put this, so you will understand?’ he said. ‘I would like to talk to my friend before he gets himself killed. I do not want your ears flapping while I do. You know we will be at the House of Virgins at noon – you heard the priestess yourself. So why don’t you walk over there and wait for us?’

  Gracchus stared back impassively, too old a hand to be intimidated. Without another word, he stalked off, his sandals clacking on the stones of the forum. Maecenas relaxed slightly. He raised his hands and moved his two friends into a clear spot. The crowd had thinned to avoid the consul’s party of lictors, so it was not hard to find a place where they could not be overheard.

  ‘By all the gods, Octavian! If the consul had thought it through, he could have had your inheritance in exchange for a single order. His lictors would have cut you down and Agrippa and me as well!’

  ‘I thought he would help,’ Octavian said stubbornly. ‘So much has changed. I can barely take it all in.’

  ‘Well, put your head in a fountain or something,’ Maecenas snapped. ‘You need to be sharp now.’

  Both Agrippa and Octavian looked at him in surprise. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Have you any idea of the importance of that will to you, to those in power?’

  Octavian shrugged. ‘I know the sums are great, but until I can lay hands on them, I …’

  ‘I’m not talking about the gold, Octavian! Though you are now the richest man in the richest city of the world. I’m talking about the clients! Do you understand now?’

  ‘Honestly, no,’ Octavian said.

  Agrippa looked similarly mystified and Maecenas took a deep breath. He had grown up in a world where such things were common knowledge, but he saw that neither of his friends truly appreciated Caesar’s gift.

  ‘Jupiter save me from common men,’ he said. ‘Noble houses secure their power with clients, families in their pay. You must know that much.’

  ‘Of course,’ Octavian said. ‘But …’

  ‘Caesar had thousands of them. He was famous for it. And they are all yours now, Octavian. His adoption of you gave you more than just a house name. You can call on the service of half of Rome, half of the legions of Rome if you want to. For all we know, Tribune Liburnius is now sworn to your service and Gracchus with him.’

  Octavian furrowed his brow.

  ‘I can’t inherit them like a jewel or a house.’

  ‘The adoption says you can,’ Maecenas insisted. ‘Oh, there will be a few malcontents who fall away – there are always honourless bastards. But you are the son of the divine Julius, Octavian. Have you realised? The oaths of service they swore will pass to you.’

  ‘But I don’t even know who they are!’ Octavian said. ‘What good does this talk of thousands do me? I have the clothes I am wearing and a horse somewhere back on the road to Brundisium. Until the Senate pass the Lex Curiata, it is all in the breeze anyway.’

  Maecenas did not reply immediately. He looked across the forum to where the old senate house lay broken and burned, the worst of many scars they had seen in the city over the previous two days.

  ‘There will be lists somewhere, but they don’t know you have nothing, Octavian. From now on, you must play the game, for your life – and for the destruction of your enemies. Taking his name was brilliant. You want to see these Liberatores brought down? Then walk as the heir to a god and the richest man in Rome. Walk as one who can call down the wrath of Mars with a snap of his fingers.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It was a mistake asking for help from the consul. You may already have enough loyalty in the Senate to force a vote through without him.’

  Octavian stared. ‘I can walk any way I choose, but it will not bring me the gold I need, nor the clients.’

  ‘You have a meeting at the House of Virgins in a couple of hours,’ Maecenas said. ‘Octavian, your favour is a token any man in Rome would want, from this day onwards. You do not need to seek them out. They will come to you.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Octavian felt refreshed as he approached the House of Virgins. For a few coins, he, Agrippa and Maecenas had found a serviceable bath-house and eaten at a roadside vendor. It was true he wore a second-hand toga loaned to him by one of Maecenas’ friends, but he felt more confident. In the steam, with the bath-house slaves told to wait outside, they had made their plans. As the sun reached its height, he walked to the temple with confidence, striding past Gracchus and the guards outside as if he had every right to ignore them. They did not challenge him and in a few steps the three men were out of the heat and in cool rooms dedicated to worship. Perhaps older men would not have stared quite so openly, but the Vestals were renowned for their beauty as well as their innocence, a combination that interested even so jaded an appetite as that of Maecenas.

  Quintina Fabia appeared from a stone doorway to welcome them. She had changed out of the morning’s formal robes into a fine cotton stola that revealed her figure rather than keeping it hidden.

  Sh
e approached Octavian with light steps, taking his hands in hers and kissing his cheek.

  ‘I grieve for you and with you,’ she said. ‘I only wish Caesar’s ashes could have been gathered for a tomb, but the riots were terrible. For a time, no one dared to go out. I am so sorry.’

  Octavian blinked. He had not been expecting sympathy and it threatened to reach the part of him where sorrow was still raw.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think you are the first person in the city to say that to me.’

  ‘You must forgive the men in power, at least for that. They have had their hands full with the unrest. Honestly, you have no idea how bad it was for a time.’

  ‘What of these “Liberatores”? Where are they hiding?’ Octavian said.

  ‘A few like Lucius Pella were killed by the mobs. The rest read the wind quickly enough after that and scattered to their estates and provinces. You will not find them here, not this year, though they have their supporters in the Senate still. In time, I do not doubt they will creep back to Rome, hiding their faces.’ She shrugged, gripping his hands tightly. ‘I am glad of it. They tried to remove the shame from what they did, but the citizens would not allow it. In all the chaos, there was at least that.’

  ‘Shall we go through, Quintina?’ Maecenas said.

  She looked over at him.

  ‘I see you are still around, Maecenas. How long has it been?’

  ‘A few years, I suppose. You look well.’

  ‘I am well enough. Shall I take your greetings to your mother, or will you visit her yourself?’