Pedius gestured to his assistant to proceed. He had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, but at the same time he had no illusions. With so many cooks in the kitchen, the broth would never boil: it was time for someone to shut them up and get the meal cooked. He didn’t respond to those who asked him to call for order, nor did he try to speak: there were those who would do that for him. He waited for his assistant to open the heavy chamber doors, the noise attracting the attention of many senators and silencing them instantly. Some, perhaps, even guessed what was about to happen. Moments later, the unmistakable form of a fully-armed centurion came into view. The heavy footsteps of Gaius Chaerea, the trusted officer of the Sect of Mars Ultor, resounded through the suddenly silent hall. The creaking of his breastplate echoed through the ranks of speechless senators. In the distance the sound of hobnailed boots approaching could be heard growing louder, announcing the arrival of more soldiers. Many soldiers. The entire praetorian cohort that Octavian had left in Rome to defend his regime and protect his family.
The legionnaires filed out in two rows at the base of the tiers where the senators sat, and, with menacing expressions visible between their helmets’ cheek-guards, stared threateningly at the frightened senators. Only then did the consul take the trouble to speak.
“Distinguished colleagues,” Quintus Pedius said, his tone of voice far more authoritative than when he’d opened the sitting. “In a state of emergency such as this, we are forced to take drastic measures. Debate is a luxury we cannot afford at this perilous time, with the homeland threatened from every side. The populace look to us for safety and stability, and the only way we can provide them with that is to bring Antony back under institutional authority and forestall the danger of an invasion or blockade from the East. By virtue of the authority invested in me as senior Consul, I hereby establish martial law, and authorise a vote to mandate Octavian to seek a truce with Mark Antony and Lepidus, or better still, peace, for the good of the State and the salvation of the Republic. As is customary, all those in favour move to the right.”
The soldiers all moved towards the left flank of the two blocks of tiered seating, pointing their lances forward, right under the noses of the senators sitting on the lower benches.
At least half of the senators moved unhesitatingly towards the opposite side of the hall.
In dribs and drabs, the others followed.
But within a few moments, they were all there. Cicero included.
III
Ortwin reflected. The situation had turned full circle: he was now holding hostage a chief who was no longer a chief and so of no use to him. Unless he could find a way to make him chief again.
Bauto’s son continued to stare at him threateningly, certain that whatever happened he was now king of that small community on the edge of the world. In fact, if Ortwin surrendered, he would claim his inheritance from a man divested of authority, a man who’d stupidly allowed himself to be fooled by a handful of troops. If the German killed Bauto, he would be doing him a favour, and he would be able overpower Ortwin easily, given the numerical superiority of his soldiers.
Unless…
“No, we’re not really in trouble,” Ortwin said finally to Bauto, “not if you decide your son isn’t worthy to succeed you”. And he glanced meaningfully at the weapons he’d taken from the old chief’s warriors, leaving him to understand that he would be willing to give them back.
Bauto understood. He was disconcerted for a moment, then nodded.
“… And if you’re a man of your word,” the German whispered to him, still nursing some doubts about trusting a man who’d already tried to trick him.
“I’m ruthless with my enemies, me, but generous to those who help me,” Bauto said softly, and Ortwin realised he had no choice but to trust him. And hope that he really did want to make his son pay for his volte-face.
He gestured to Veleda, who had heard the exchange and understood instantly, indicating the weapons piled on the ground in front of her. She immediately rushed over to them and began throwing them to Bauto’s men. Ortwin went back to staring at the chief’s son, who looked confused and stood immobile at the edge of the village whilst his men exchanged anxious looks.
Once Bauto’s sword was returned, the men with him turned in unison towards the small army. Ortwin joined the chief, tightening his grip on his weapon, and said with a wry smile, “It looks like there’s a small civil war going on here…”
“Let’s just say it’s a settling of scores,” Bauto replied curtly, as he started to move forward, immediately followed by his men. Ortwin exhorted his men to form a line too: if he was to have any chance of getting through this, he couldn’t just stand back and think. He gave Veleda an intense look, knowing full well that it was useless to insist she keep out of the fray. She advanced as far forward as him and positioned herself on the opposite side, her one remaining hand firmly gripping her sword. However, none of their men had shields, and only a few of their unlikely allies were carrying them, whilst their opponents were fully armed. By uniting their forces Ortwin and Bauto had numerical superiority, but it still wasn’t going to be a walkover.
After marching a few steps, the old chief roared savagely and broke into a run, and his men followed suit. His son’s men had the fence behind them and couldn’t retreat, so they too moved forward to avoid being knocked over by the force of the charge, and hurriedly tried to create a wall with their shields before the impact. Thanks to their greater momentum, Ortwin and his companions managed to dent the barrier, but not to break through it. The German started to rain down blows on the man hiding behind his shield in front of him, forcing him back on the defensive. In the meantime, he couldn’t help but glance over to his right to see how Veleda was doing. He had told her a thousand times that he couldn’t help but worry about her during a battle, and that sooner or later this would distract him and probably get him killed, and it was only after much insistence that he’d managed to convince her to stay away from hand to hand combat. This time, though, he hadn’t had time to, and that little skirmish was about to become even more dangerous for him.
Fortunately, the small army fought with no great conviction. Perhaps they were already regretting their decision to back the young man, and they probably hadn’t expected to actually have to engage in combat. Ortwin rid himself easily of his opponent, breaking the man’s shield in his fury to strike him and running him through from behind as he tried to escape. He switched to the next man, but realised that the fighting had already moved to the edge of the village. His opponents were massing along the embankment that ran round the village – not a smooth, regular one like those the Romans set up around their marching camps, but a simple mound of roughly piled-up soil topped by a few sharpened stakes.
Once again, he turned towards Veleda and thought he could discern her long blonde hair flying loose over the heads of the other warriors. His eyes widened when he realised that she’d jumped onto the back of an enemy soldier and had her legs wrapped around him, clutching him to her chest with her maimed hand and cutting his throat with her sword. A shattering blow to his left shoulder brought him back to the task in hand. A warrior had hurled himself against him, but, fortunately, he’d thrust forward with his shield arm rather than his sword. Unbalanced, Ortwin took a few steps back. His adversary pursued him, launching a powerful downward strike that landed a hand’s breadth from him. The German regained his balance, lowered his head and charged before the man could get another blow in, and this time, it was the Gaul who staggered. Ortwin seized his chance and stabbed him in the throat.
He withdrew his blade in a fountain of blood, saw that there were no other enemies close by and glanced towards Veleda. He caught another glimpse of her hair above the soldiers’ helmets, but this time it was she who was in the grip of an adversary. An enemy warrior had disarmed her and was holding her tightly to him, using her as a shield against the hail of blows raining down upon him. Ortwin immediately realised that he was the chief’s son.
The coward! Incensed, he raced over towards them, ploughing his way through the two sides and hacking furiously to left and right to clear his way. He roared, shoved and ran until he stood in front of his woman, gasping for breath as he stared down his adversary. Bauto’s men stood back, even they were intimidated by his savage expression.
The chief’s son seemed hesitant, afraid. He pointed his sword at Veleda’s throat as she continued to kick and thrash about, stopping only when the blade began to prick her neck. “If I really have to die, I’ll take her with me, you ugly one-eyed German!” the young man cried, pressing the tip of the sword harder against the woman’s skin. Ortwin could see that he was on the verge of panicking and might sink his sword in whatever happened. He looked into Veleda’s eyes, begging for her co-operation, and she understood. In the meantime, the battle had ground to a halt and a tacit truce had broken out between the two ranks of soldiers as they found themselves unable to resist watching the duel.
Veleda gathered her thoughts, then suddenly jerked her head to one side to avoid contact with the blade for an instant. Ortwin had to exploit that instant to attack. With no time to prepare he just hurled his sword, which he’d been holding tightly by his side at hip height. Hundreds of eyes followed its trajectory and the warriors held their breath despite their fatigue.
Ortwin hadn’t been able to get enough force into his throw to keep the sword straight, but it still hit home. The young man was struck by the flat of the blade, and Veleda took advantage of the momentary distraction to break free of his clutches and escape. A Celtic warrior threw Ortwin a second sword and he immediately launched himself back into the fray, managing to get it under the chin of Bauto’s son just as he was about to regain his balance. The young man realised that the rampart behind him impeded any escape and prepared to fight back.
“Leave him to me.”
Bauto’s voice resounded through the village. Ortwin turned and saw the chief moving closer, shoving his way through the mass of soldiers just as Ortwin himself had done a few minutes earlier. Only this time the soldiers stepped aside deferentially to let him pass. By the time he arrived in front of his son, the young man had lost all his remaining bravado.
“So, you want to be king?” Bauto asked him dismissively, as he stepped forward brandishing his sword. “Well, now you have the chance to earn the title fairly.”
Ortwin glanced at Veleda, who was now by his side. Apparently, the chief had decided to jeopardise an almost certain victory. All they could hope was that he knew his son well enough to be certain there was no real risk involved.
*
“I… I’d never have let them kill you, father… I was just playing for time. I knew they wouldn’t kill you,” mumbled the lad, his voice thick with fear. Yes, Ortwin thought, Bauto knew his son well: he wasn’t risking anything. In fact, he was using the occasion to assert his authority over the village.
“But now you’ve got to kill me if you don’t want to be killed yourself,” Bauto replied flatly, moving forward another step, his sword thrust forward.
Wide-eyed with terror, the young man raised his sword, but his father was quicker and struck first. The son managed to block the blade but the blow was so powerful that his sword fell from his hand, and he found himself helpless. Disorientated, he looked at his father, who moved forward a pace, before reaching down to retrieve his weapon. Bauto didn’t hesitate and struck again, the blow landing on his son’s neck just as he was leaning forward to retrieve his sword. A second later, his head rolled onto the beaten earth of the battlefield.
A cry of triumph arose. Not from the victor, but from the whole community as they hailed the return of their undisputed leader.
At that point, Ortwin realised he was at Bauto’s mercy. The Gaul’s position was such that he wouldn’t have to comply with the agreement now that he had regained his authority over the village, had the situation in hand and numerical superiority. He looked at Veleda, realising she was thinking the same thing, then at Bauto who stared long and hard at him before speaking.
“The person you’re looking for is in that hut there,” he said, pointing to a house at the edge of the village, “guarded by my men. So he certainly won’t have escaped during all this confusion. Help yourself, but leave someone here to take me to where you keep the gold. In the meantime, I have a few accounts to settle here,” he concluded, turning to the warriors who had backed his son’s attempted coup.
Ortwin breathed a sigh of relief. He motioned for one of the men who had remained with Veleda to hand over the money, and, together with his men, walked towards the hut.
Behind him, he heard the screams of the first warriors being executed.
*
Gaius Chaerea returned to his barracks accompanied by a vague sense of dissatisfaction. For the second time in his life, he had personally imposed his will – the Sect of Mars Ultor’s will – on the Senate. He, a humble centurion, had enjoyed the privilege of overpowering the most important men in Rome. Yet it had given him none of the pleasure he’d felt on the previous occasion when he’d virtually forced the civic fathers to accept Octavian as consul. He couldn’t feel any sense of triumph, unlike his colleague Popilius Laenas who had gone with him to the Curia of Pompey. Laenas, unable to contain his excitement, was talking incessantly and, knowing that Gaius was a member of Octavian’s General Staff, was continually asking him to pass on his praises to the consul and to tell him how much he wanted to be a part of his circle of collaborators.
If Laenas had only known it was a sect he would have done anything to join: he had been an unbridled admirer of Caesar and was now ready to follow his son to the ends of the earth. In fact, he was fantasising about what the young man could achieve once he’d come to an agreement with Antony and the vendettas he could put into action under his patronage.
Chaerea realised that he should have been the first to be thinking like that. And yet, he merely nodded unenthusiastically at his colleague’s hyperbolic talk, which to him seemed puerile and unfounded. Yes, he too felt an instinctive need to take revenge upon the murderers of Caesar, a man he’d admired and respected as a commander, but he also felt that he shouldn’t have to dedicate his life solely to revenge and ambition, as he’d vowed to do when he joined the Sect of Mars Ultor.
He had another goal in life, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to reconcile that with what he’d sworn to do. Even then, he didn’t want to return to the barracks, but to go home to his woman and son in the Suburra. He felt the need for the tenderness only they knew how to give him, and which nothing could replace. And even if army life – which actually suited his nature – was partly compatible with having a family, being a member of the sect made it difficult.
Because Octavia was a member too.
As soon as he set foot in the barracks, his optio told him that Octavia had herself requested that he go straight to her home. His stomach tightened: seeing her was a severe test of his composure, especially as he’d decided a few weeks earlier to put aside all his feelings for her and devote himself exclusively to the woman raising his son.
Octavia’s son.
No, he couldn’t risk being alone with her. He asked Laenas to accompany him, and the centurion agreed, enthusiastic at the prospect of being introduced to his idol’s sister. Gaius walked thoughtfully to the house on the Aventine where Octavia lived with her husband, Marcus Claudius Marcellus, and daughter, Marcella, wondering what she wanted from him. He had made it clear to her that he could no longer indulge the feelings that had bound them in the past and that she had recently attempted to re-ignite. The torment he still felt at having taken advantage of her when she was a young girl had never left him, even though she’d never harboured any rancour towards him – and, indeed, had shown herself willing to renew their relationship.
It was too late, and it wasn’t proper, he reminded himself, ignoring the rhetoric of glory Laenas kept inflicting on him. Octavia had been forced by her family to get rid of the
child she’d had during their fleeting relationship, and he’d taken responsibility for it, finding in his current woman the ideal companion and mother for the baby boy. Nothing a relationship with the high-ranking Octavia, one of Rome’s most high profile matrons, could give him would replace the love and warmth that enveloped him when he went home and played with little Marcus and gave himself up to sweet Fabia’s ministrations.
When he reached the door of Marcellus’s domus, it occurred to him that Octavia might have summoned him for matters pertaining to the sect and that Laenas shouldn’t therefore be present at their meeting, at least not initially. He had the custodian announce him, then said to his colleague: “Wait here, Popilius. She called me, and it might annoy her to find a stranger in the house without anyone having informed her.” The centurion nodded vigorously with the zealous attitude that irritated Chaerea enormously. “Of course, of course. I understand… she might have a message from the consul reserved for his general staff. No need to tell me more. But please, the only thing I ask is that you tell her my name and, if possible, introduce me.”
Gaius forced himself not to raise his eyes to the sky, waited to be called, then entered and followed the custodian, who led him to Marcellus’ tablinum. He had only been waiting a few minutes when Octavia appeared in the doorway. The two looked at each other in silence. She had made an effort to look beautiful for him, as was obvious from her carefully applied make-up and elaborate hairdo, both of which were unusual for that time of night. She wasn’t beautiful, but her grace gave her a certain charm, which always reminded him of the sweet and fearful little girl she’d been a few years before.
Revenge Page 4