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 centuries 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.
‘I had hoped for more by now,’ Pedius said at his side.
Octavian wondered again if he had made the right choice for his co-consul. Pedius was his senior by thirty years, a man with a deeply seamed face and a narrow chin that came almost to a point. Everything about him looked sharp, but Pedius was a nervous little man who chewed his inner lips when he was worried. It was true that he had once been a client and a friend of Caesar. That friendship had not been enough for Pedius to vote against the amnesty, but he was at least a man who had not sided too openly with the Liberatores. Octavian studied him, seeing Pedius as those who came to vote would and sighing to himself. He had been forced to flatter and bribe Pedius with little subtlety to get him to stand. They both knew it was only to keep Bibilus or Suetonius from the second consular post, but still Pedius had debated the proposition as if it might have been his destiny. Octavian looked away from the watery-eyed senator, staring out over the vast Campus with a hundred thousand free men moving across it. Once again, he wished Maecenas had wanted the post. Yet Maecenas would hear none of it and only laughed at him when he asked.
‘Fifty Caesar and Pedius; fifty-three Bibilus and Suetonius!’ the diribitores chanted, bringing a cheer from some of those still waiting to vote. They could not enter the city until the seals were struck from the gates and there was impatience there from some, while others were enjoying a day of enforced leisure away from work and their families.
Octavian clapped Pedius on the back, making him jump.
‘The noble centuries have voted now,’ he said. ‘The merchant classes will support us over Bibilus and Suetonius, I think.’
Pedius moved his mouth as if he were manoeuvring a difficult bit of gristle from his teeth.
‘I hope you are correct, Caesar. I do not need to tell you the danger of losing this particular election.’
Octavian looked west to where forty thousand legionaries waited. He had halted them beyond the Tiber and waited a full day before coming to the senate house and announcing his name for consul. He had done everything he could to remove the sting of an armed threat to the city, but still, there they were. Heads in the crowd turned constantly to see them.Octavian did not think Rome would vote against a man holding a knife to its throat, for all his efforts to hide the blade.
Octavian smiled as the voting tokens began to pile up. He could see Bibilus seething as the tally for Caesar and Pedius grew, but the votes kept coming, a trend becoming a flood as the merchant centuries took their chance to show what they thought of the men they perceived as having murdered Caesar. It helped that the count was public, so that each man approaching the baskets with his token knew already that he was part of the general mood.
Octavian saw their satisfaction and many of the voters bowed their heads to him as they dropped the wooden tokens, hundred after hundred of the citizens of Rome, showing him he had their support. It was intoxicating, he realised. He had wanted the consular role for the power and security it would win for him, but the reality was far greater. The people of Rome had been denied a voice and the riots had been put down with savage force. This was their revenge on the Senate, and Octavian savoured every moment of it.
In the early afternoon, a point was reached where the mass of poorer classes could no longer affect the result. The diribitores conferred, then signalled to the legion cornicens to blow. The notes soared across the Campus Martius and beyond the Tiber, the waiting legions roared like the distant ocean.
The noise spread, from those who had voted to the tens of thousands who would not get their chance. They too wanted to show their approval and the sound crashed at Octavian. He sagged, breathing hard and feeling the sweat that made his toga stick to his skin. He had told himself it was never in doubt, but he became aware of a painful tension that held every muscle tight. The flag on the Janiculum hill was lowered under the formal gaze of the citizens and as the horns sounded, the seals of bronze and wax were hammered into pieces and the city gates opened. Women, children and slaves came out by the thousand to join their husbands, brothers and sons and the festival air grew as they heard the news and celebrated in turn.
Octavian had brought only a pair of guards, all he was allowed for the formal voting. They were unable to stop the thousands who came to speak to him, to touch him and clap him on the back. It was too many and he had to start walking before they clustered too deeply around him, or knocked him down in their enthusiasm. The movement brought some relief, but they still cheered and followed as he strode across the field to where six guards held a white bull in a pen built for the sacrifice. Agrippa and Maecenas were there, looking proud. Octavian nodded to them, knowing they understood what he had gone through to stand in that place. The new consuls woul
d take the omens and almost a hundred priests and officials and scribes had gathered there to record the event. More soldiers created a clear space for the ritual and the omen-takers prepared the bellowing animal.
Quintina Fabia was dressed in blinding white, her face painted so well that it was almost a mask of youth. She bowed to Octavian and Pedius as they approached, holding out an iron sickle with a keen edge. Octavian took it and tested the implement on the hairs of his forearm as he looked over at the massive bulk of the bull.
‘I do not doubt Julius can see you now,’ the high priestess said warmly. ‘He would be proud of his son.’
Octavian dipped his head to show his appreciation. The guards drew ropes on the bull, heaving it over to the edge of the enclosure. It had been drugged with a mixture of opium and other herbs in its feed, so that it was dazed and sluggish. The omens would not be good if they had to chase a wounded animal across the Campus. Octavian fought not to smile at the image in his mind. He knew it was just giddiness, after the election, but he was required to be solemn and dignified until it was done.
The chanting began as the omen-takers and soothsayers implored the gods to send a sign and give their blessing to the consular year to come. Octavian stood mute and Quintina finally had to jog his shoulder to tell him it was time.
He approached the tethered bull, close enough to see its lashes and smell the clean scent of its skin. He placed a hand on the top of its head and saw the animal was chewing idly, unaware of what was going to happen. The image reminded him of Pedius and again he had to struggle not to laugh.
With a jerk, he reached under the powerful neck and drew the blade across in one swift slash. Blood spattered like rain onto bronze dishes held below. The animal grunted and did not seem to feel pain at first. The bowls filled and were replaced, passed to the omen-takers, who stared into the red liquid for patterns into the future.
The bull began to moan and struggle, but its lifeblood still poured. It collapsed slowly onto its knees and the dark brown eyes grew wild. It moaned louder and the ropes grew tight as it tried to struggle up. Octavian watched, waiting for it to die and thinking of Decimus Junius. He was woken from his reverie by a shout from one of the haruspices, pointing at the sky with a shaking hand. Octavian looked up with the rest of the crowd and was in time to see a flight of dark birds cross the city in the distance. He smiled, delighted at the sight of vultures in the air. The history of the city said that there had been twelve as Romulus founded Rome. With thousands of citizens, he counted the dark birds in his head, struggling to be certain as they overlapped and dwindled.
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