The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘What is so important that you must trouble me in my home? Do you think the name of Caesar has such power still?’

  ‘It brought you out,’ Octavian replied.

  Mark Antony waited a beat. Following the letter of the Senate’s orders, he could have gone to Brundisium with just a few servants. The reality was that he was moving his household, including his wife and children. He did not know when he would return and his mind was on the labyrinthine politics of the Senate, not the young man who called himself Caesar.

  ‘It must have escaped your notice that I am busy. See me when I return to Rome.’

  ‘Consul, men speak of you as one who was Caesar’s friend. I have read the text of your oration and it was … noble, no matter what came next. Yet the terms of his will have not been ratified in Senate and will not be, without your support. What of the legacy to the people of Rome?’

  ‘I’m sorry. The Senate have already voted. They will pay the legacy only when the damage to the city is restored. I will be away from Rome for a time, on orders from the Senate. There is nothing more I can do.’

  Octavian stared at him, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. ‘I came to you in peace, because I thought you, of all men, would support me.’

  ‘What you thought is no concern of mine,’ Mark Antony snapped. He turned to the unseen figure on his right. ‘Close the door now.’

  It began to creak shut and Octavian put out a hand to the wood.

  ‘Consul! I will have justice, with you or not. I will see Caesar’s assassins brought down, no matter what they call themselves or where they hide! Will you stand with them, against the honour of your friend?’

  He heard Mark Antony snort in disgust as he walked away and the pressure on the door increased as the man inside threw his weight against it. It slammed shut in his face. Octavian hammered on it, enraged.

  ‘Consul! Choose a side! If you stand with them, I will …’

  ‘By the gods, grab hold of him, would you?’ Maecenas said.

  He and Agrippa took Octavian by the shoulders and pulled him away from pounding on the consul’s door.

  ‘That may have been the worst idea you ever had,’ Maecenas said grimly as they walked Octavian down the hill. ‘Why not shout out all your plans to the Senate, perhaps?’

  Octavian shook him off, walking in stiff rage and looking back at the consul’s door as if he could force it open with anger alone.

  ‘He had to be told. If he has the sense to see it, I am his natural ally. If he wasn’t such a blind fool.’

  ‘Did you think he would welcome you with open arms?’ Maecenas said. ‘He is a consul of Rome!’

  ‘And I am Caesar’s son and heir. That is the key to all locks, with or without Mark Antony.’

  Maecenas looked away, unsettled by his friend’s intensity.

  ‘It’s late,’ Agrippa said. ‘What do you say to going back to the house on the Esquiline?’

  Octavian smothered a yawn at the very thought of sleep. The house was one of five he had inherited that morning, the deeds presented to him by the argentarii.

  ‘Without a law passed in Senate, I am not yet the official heir to Caesar,’ he said. A thought struck him, so that he stopped, bringing the small group to a halt. ‘But thousands heard the priestess read the will. That was enough for the argentarii. What does it matter if the law isn’t passed? The people know.’

  ‘The people have no power,’ Agrippa said. ‘No matter how they riot, they are still helpless.’

  ‘That is true,’ Octavian replied. ‘But there were soldiers there as well. The legions in the Campus know that I am Caesar. And they do have power, enough for anything.’

  By the time night fell, the consul and his retinue were barely three miles out of Rome, trundling along the flat roads east. Mark Antony had called a brief halt at the walls of the city, dismounting to burn a brazier of incense to Janus. The god of beginnings and gates was a suitable patron for everything he hoped to achieve.

  Over a hundred men and women travelled with him. His wife Fulvia was at the heart of it, with their two sons, Antyllus and Paulus, and her daughter Claudia from her first marriage. Around them, dozens of scribes, guards and slaves marched or rode. The reins of his horse were tied to a flat-sided carriage where his wife lounged on cushions, shaded from the vulgar gaze. He could hear his boys bickering through the wooden walls, still annoyed that he had refused their demands to ride ahead with him. Only Fulvia knew all his plans and she was far from a prattler. He jumped down to the road and strode along, stretching his legs for the ride ahead.

  The legions at Brundisium had been loyal to Julius, loyal enough to refuse the orders of a Senate they saw as tainted by the Liberatores. That was the revelation that had come to him while Bibilus spoke in spite. Mark Antony had not planned to be the champion of those who had loved Caesar, but he could take the role. The legions of Brundisium would surely follow him if he asked in Caesar’s name.

  As he walked alongside the carriage, the face of Octavian came to mind and Mark Antony grunted in exasperation. The young man was no more than a distraction, at a time when he could not afford to be distracted. Six legions waited at the coast, no doubt in fear of the Senate’s anger. They had not yet mutinied, at least not formally. If he found the words to call them, they would be his to command. It was exactly the sort of grand stroke Julius would have attempted and the thought warmed him.

  With the energy of a younger man, Mark Antony put his foot on the step and leapt up onto the carriage, clambering in through the narrow door to where his wife and children were eating. Fulvia and her daughter were playing a game with a long string wound about their fingers. They were in mid-laughter as he appeared among them, the sound cut short. Mark Antony nodded to his two sons and stepdaughter, ruffling the hair of Antyllus as he stepped over him.

  In her thirties, Fulvia had broadened across the hips and waist, though her skin and black hair were still lustrous. Claudia moved to give him space and Fulvia held out her arms to her husband. The consul almost fell into them in the low space, landing with a gasp on the bench as his feet tangled in cloth. Paulus yelped and Claudia smacked his leg, making the younger boy glare. Mark Antony leaned close to Fulvia, speaking into her ear.

  ‘I think I have waited my whole life for a chance like this,’ he said, smiling.

  She kissed him on the neck, looking up at him in adoration.

  ‘The omens are good, husband. My soothsayer was amazed at the signs this morning.’

  Mark Antony’s high spirits dampened slightly, but he nodded, pleased that she was happy. If he had learned one thing from the years at Caesar’s side, it was that omens and entrails were not as important as quick wits and strength.

  ‘I’m going ahead. You’ll see me in Brundisium and I hope with more than just a few guards at my back.’

  She winked at him, smiling even as their sons demanded to know what he meant. Mark Antony cuffed their heads affectionately, kissed Claudia and Fulvia goodbye, then opened the door and vaulted down to the road, leaving his wife to deal with the endless questions.

  In just moments, he had gained the saddle of his gelding and untied the reins. His personal guards were mounted and ready, keen to be off. On a Roman road, they had no fear of bad ground in the moonlight. They would be twenty miles clear by dawn.

  The rising sun brought pale light through the blown-glass windows high in the walls. Maecenas sat back, enjoying the sense of utter relaxation that came from a private bath-house. Steam filled his lungs with every breath and he could barely see his companions.

  Caesar’s town house had been in a state of half-life when they entered it, with most of the furniture covered in great sheets of dusty, brown cloth. In just a few hours, the staff had lit the fires and the floors were already warm enough to walk on in bare feet. In the presence of a new owner, they had scavenged fresh fruit from one of the markets and begun to prepare a cold meal. Maecenas thought idly that he was sitting where Caesar himself had s
at. Where Caesar still sat, he corrected himself with a smile, looking through the mist at Octavian. Dripping with sweat and steam, his friend stared into some private vision, his muscles as tight as ropes in his arms and shoulders. Looking at him, Maecenas remembered his friend collapsing, sightless and pale. He did not want to see that again.

  ‘Are you ready yet for the cold bath or the massage?’ he said. ‘It will relax you.’

  At least Gracchus was not present. Maecenas had given him the task of bringing life back to the house. The legionary was still working hard to remain and Octavian had not objected. Despite his misgivings, it was almost pleasant to deal with one whose greed for gold made him transparent.

  ‘Agrippa?’ Maecenas asked again. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Agrippa rumbled, his voice echoing oddly in the steam.

  ‘Oct … Caesar?’ Maecenas said, catching himself.

  Octavian opened his eyes, smiling tiredly.

  ‘Thank you. I must get used to the new name. But we are private here and I do not want to be overheard. Stay.’

  Maecenas shrugged slightly, letting the warm air flow out of his lungs and then sucking in a deep breath.

  ‘I hope today will not be as busy as yesterday, that’s all I am saying,’ Maecenas said. ‘I seem to have gone from a relaxed holiday with friends to the most unpleasant levels of excitement. I have suffered through sea voyages and galloping horses, as well as arguments and threats from sad little men like that tribune. I think perhaps we should relax here for a few days. That would be a tonic for us all. At least I slept well enough. Caesar kept a fine house; I’ll give him that.’

  ‘I don’t have time to waste,’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘The murderers of Caesar have gone to ground and it is my task to dig them out and kill them with a spade. If you were in my place, you would do the same.’

  ‘Well, I am in your place, or at least in the same bath-house. I am not certain of that at all,’ Maecenas replied. He scratched his testicles as he spoke, then leaned back against the cooler tiles, enjoying the heat. Of the three of them, he sat closest to the simmering copper trough that thickened the steam in the room, delighting in the weakness that deep warmth brings.

  ‘I need information, Maecenas. You say I have thousands of clients sworn to support me, but I don’t know who they are. I must have all Caesar’s properties searched and catalogued and his informers contacted, to see if they will continue their work for me. I imagine I need to pay the stipend for thousands more, so I will need educated men by the hundred to arrange such things.’

  Maecenas smirked. ‘I can tell that you have not grown up with servants. You do not manage so many yourself, or you would end up doing nothing else. There will be estate managers on the staff; give the job to them. The sun is barely up, but they’ll have what you need by noon, just to please the new master. Give them the chance to run themselves ragged for you. They love it, believe me. It gives their lives purpose and frees the noble owner from tedious details.’

  Agrippa rubbed a hand down his face, gasping in the heat.

  ‘Listening to you is always an education, Maecenas,’ he said wryly. ‘How your slaves must love you, to have their lives given meaning in such a way.’

  ‘They do,’ Maecenas replied complacently. ‘I am like the rising sun to them, the first name they think as they wake and the last before they sleep. When Caesar here allows us a few days of relaxation, I will show you my estate in the hills near Mantua. It will take your breath away, for sheer beauty.’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ Agrippa replied. ‘For now, though, I have had enough of sipping my breath. I’m for the cold and the massage table.’

  ‘Wait just a little longer, my friend,’ Octavian said as Maecenas began to stand up. ‘Wait and tell me if I have thought it through well enough.’ Both men settled back and he went on. ‘The Senate are seasoned with Liberatores, or at least their supporters. The rest have fled, but we can depend on the Senate to protect them even so, if only to secure their own interests. That much we have learned. They cannot support me, and Mark Antony is my natural ally, if he would but realise it. Still, wherever they’ve sent him, he is away from the city for the present, removed from the board. Those who are left are my enemies almost to a man.’

  ‘I don’t see how that is cause for celebration,’ Maecenas said. ‘They are the ones who make the laws, in case you had forgotten.’

  ‘But they enforce them with the legions,’ Octavian said. ‘Legions that Caesar gathered in the Campus for a campaign. Legions that were either formed by him or sworn to him. As I see it, I can claim that loyalty, just as I can with his clients.’

  Maecenas sat straight, his languor vanishing.

  ‘That is what you meant last night? The legions have spent the last month walking the streets of the city, killing rioters and enforcing a curfew. They are the Senate’s men now, no matter what Caesar intended for them. You cannot seriously be thinking they will mutiny for you.’

  ‘Why not?’ Octavian said angrily. ‘With Mark Antony out of the city, they are ruled by the same toothless traitors who granted amnesty to Caesar’s murderers. No one has answered for that, not yet. I have seen their loyalty, Maecenas. I have seen it in Gaul and in Egypt. They will not have forgotten him. And I am his son, a Caesar.’

  Maecenas stood up and opened the door to the outer rooms. A fire crackled in the grate and two male slaves came over immediately to do his bidding. With a sharp gesture, Maecenas sent them outside, so that he could not be overheard. The steam had grown too thick and his senses swam just as he needed to be sharp. In the colder air, he drew deep breaths.

  ‘Join me in the plunge pool, Caesar. It will clear your head before you commit us to a course which can only see us all crucified for treachery.’

  Octavian glared at him but rose with Agrippa and crossed the room to where a deep pool sat dark and undisturbed. The water was near freezing, but Maecenas stepped down into it without hesitation, his skin prickling in goosebumps as it tightened. Agrippa joined him with a hiss of breath and Octavian slid over the edge, bending his knees so that the chill water reached his neck. When he spoke again, his teeth chattered so much that he could barely be understood.

  ‘You think I should live in the sun, M-Maecenas? As you said Alexander would choose, if he could see his whole life laid out before him? I d-did not believe it then and I don’t now. I cannot rest until the Liberatores are all dead. Do you understand? I will risk your life and mine a thousand times until that is true. Life is risk! I feel the shade of Caesar watching me and who else will bring him justice? Not Mark Antony. It falls to me and I will not waste a single day.’

  The cold bit to the heart of him and his arms were almost too numb to heave himself out and sit on the stone edge. Agrippa was just a moment behind, while Maecenas remained, his brown arms and legs in sharp contrast to the pale skin of the rest of his body. The cold had numbed him, but his heart raced even so.

  ‘All right,’ he said, putting out an arm. ‘Pull me up.’ Agrippa gripped his hand and lifted him out. ‘I do not desert my friends just because they have decided to infuriate the Senate and the legions of Rome.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The group that mounted horses outside Caesar’s town house on the Esquiline was considerably larger than the four weary men who had entered the night before. Octavian had followed Maecenas’ advice and given orders to the most senior slaves to act as factors for him. They were visibly determined to do well for the new master. Bringing in legion-trained mounts from one of the other properties was just the first of a thousand tasks. A dozen other men had gone out from the house on errands to all the holdings of Caesar, including the garden estate on the Tiber, as it had not yet been passed to the people of Rome. What records and accounts existed would be found and made ready.

  Maecenas had insisted Gracchus also bathe before accompanying them. The soldier was still damp-haired and flushed from his hurried wash, but they all felt better for being clean.
It was as if they could put the mistakes and trials of the past behind them, scraped away like the black muck that came off with the brass strigils and oil.

  Turning west down the hill, the wary group drew the attention of a few street boys. Octavian assumed they were after stray coins, but there were no outstretched hands and they kept their distance. He wondered if they had been sent by someone to keep an eye on his progress, the cheapest spies Rome had to offer. Yet every street they crossed added more to the crowd and the newcomers were not mere urchins. Men and women pointed him out in hushed tones, their eyes swivelling in interest as friends hissed the name of Octavian or, more often, Caesar. They too walked with him, until there were dozens then hundreds in the wake of the horses, all heading to the Campus Martius.

  Octavian sat his mount stiff-backed, in a set of armour that had been fitted to him by the house staff. Maecenas was resplendent in armour and cloak, though as far as Octavian knew, he held no formal rank. For himself, he had considered a toga, but unlike Maecenas, he had commanded Roman soldiers, and the officer’s cloak sent a signal to those who watched for such things.

  As they came to an open market square, the busy crowd fell silent and again he could hear the name of Caesar like a breeze through them. His group swelled again, doubling and redoubling in size until it felt as if he led a procession through the heart of the city. By the time he reached the foot of the Capitoline, he was surrounded by hundreds of men and women, all craning for a glimpse of the single man at the centre. His new name was called and shouted from groups and always the numbers swelled. Octavian kept his gaze stern as he walked the horses onward.

  ‘Don’t look now,’ Maecenas said, bringing his horse in close, ‘but I think we’re being followed.’

  Octavian gave a snort, the break of tension almost reducing him to undignified laughter. He went on up the Capitoline hill and did not pause when the horses reached the crest. Pompey’s theatre lay below on the other side, a vast building three times the size of the old senate house in pale stone. There were no flags flying on the roof as the crowd streamed down the hill. The Senate were not in session that day, though Octavian did not doubt they would have heard of his progress across the city. He smiled grimly to himself. Let them hear, he thought. Let them wonder.