Emperor: The Blood of Gods

‘Come, Maecenas,’ Octavian said uncomfortably. ‘We will find something good to do today.’

‘I have already found something good to do,’ Maecenas replied. He closed the distance quickly, jerking his arm back to make Agrippa flinch. The big man shook his head.

‘Are you sure? That is a weapon for soldiers, not noblemen.’

‘It will do, I think,’ Maecenas replied. As he spoke, he jabbed the point at Agrippa’s broad chest, then back and again at his groin. ‘Oh yes, it will do very well indeed. Defend yourself, ape.’

Agrippa watched Maecenas closely, reading his footwork and stance as well as his eyes. They had sparred many times before and both men knew the other’s style. Octavian found himself a bench and sat down, knowing from experience that he would not be able to drag them away until they’d finished. Though they were friends, both men were used to winning and could not resist challenging each other. Octavian settled himself.

At first, Agrippa merely stepped back from the jabbing point that struck out at him. He frowned as it came close to his eyes, but slid away from it, raising his training gladius to block. Maecenas was enjoying having the big man on the defensive and began to show off a little, his feet quick on the sandy ground.

The end, when it came, was so sudden that Octavian almost missed it. Maecenas lunged fast and hard enough to score a wound. Agrippa blocked with the edge of his sword, then turned from the hip and smacked his left forearm into the spear. It snapped cleanly and Maecenas gaped at it. Agrippa laid his sword along Maecenas’ throat and grunted a laugh.

‘A victory,’ Agrippa said.

Without a word, Maecenas pushed the wooden sword away and reached down, picking up the broken half of his spear. It had been sawn almost through, the cut hidden with brown wax. His eyes widened and he strode back to the row of spears. He cursed as he examined the rest, snapping them one by one over his thigh. Agrippa began to laugh at his thunderous expression.

‘You did this?’ Maecenas demanded. ‘How long did it take you to prepare every spear? What sort of a man goes to such lengths? Gods, how did you even know I would choose one of them? You are a madman, Agrippa.’

‘I am a strategist, is what I am,’ Agrippa said, wiping tears from his right eye. ‘Oh, your face. I wish you could have seen it.’

‘This is not honourable behaviour,’ Maecenas muttered. To his irritation, Agrippa just laughed again.

‘I would rather be a peasant and win than be noble and lose. It is as simple as that, my friend.’

Octavian had risen to see the broken spears. With care, he kept any sign of amusement from his face, knowing that Maecenas would already be insufferable all day and he could only make it worse.

‘I heard there will be fresh oranges in the market this morning, packed in ice the whole way. Cold juice would help my head, I think. Can you shake hands and be friends for the day? It would please me.’

‘I am willing,’ Agrippa said. He held out his spade of a right hand. Maecenas allowed his to be enveloped.

The house slave came trotting into the yard as the two men shook with mock earnestness. Fidolus had always worked hard not to intrude on the guests and Octavian did not know him well, beyond finding him courteous and quiet.

‘Master, there is a messenger at the gate. He says he has letters from Rome for you.’

Octavian groaned. ‘I can feel them calling me back. Caesar is wondering where his favourite relative has gone, no doubt.’

Maecenas and Agrippa were looking at him, their expressions innocent. Octavian waved a hand.

‘He will wait a while longer. It’s been a year since we had the last leave, after all. Make the messenger comfortable, Fidolus. I am going to the market to buy fresh oranges.’

‘Yes, master,’ Fidolus replied.

The three young Romans did not return to the villa until just before sunset. They came in noisily, laughing and brash with three Greek women they had picked up. Maecenas had been the one to approach them in a jeweller’s, recommending pieces that would suit their colouring.

Octavian envied his friend’s talent – it was not one he had himself, despite the masterclass of watching Maecenas. There didn’t seem to be much magic to it. Maecenas had complimented the women outrageously, bantering back and forth as he made them try on various pieces. The shopkeeper had watched with patient indulgence, hoping for a sale. As far as Octavian could see, the young women had known from the outset what Maecenas was after, but his breezy confidence made a joke of it.

Octavian squeezed the slim waist of the woman he had brought home, trying hard to remember her name. He had a nasty suspicion that it was not ‘Lita’ and he was waiting for one of her friends to use her name again so he would not spoil the moment.

As they reached the gate to the house, Maecenas suddenly pressed his companion against the white-painted stone and kissed her, his hands wandering. She wore a new gold pendant at her throat, his gift. Each of the girls wore the same piece, bought with almost all the money they had pooled for the last few days of leave.

Agrippa had not been quite as lucky as the other two. It would have been extraordinary for all three women to be attractive and the one who clung to his arm was fairly heavily built herself, with a dark moustache along her upper lip. Nonetheless, Agrippa seemed pleased. It had been a while since they’d brought women back, and in a drought he could not afford to have high standards. Agrippa nuzzled at her bare shoulder with his beard, making her laugh while they waited for the gate to open.

It took only moments for the house slave Fidolus to come running and unbar the entrance. He looked flushed and his hands slipped on the bar as he heaved it up.

‘Master, thank the gods! You must see the messenger.’

Octavian stiffened in irritation. He had a beautiful Greek girl pressing her warmth into his side and the last thing he wanted was to think of Rome and the army.

‘Please, master,’ Fidolus said. He was almost shaking in the grip of some strong emotion and Octavian felt a stab of worry.

‘Is it my mother?’ he said.

Fidolus shook his head. ‘Please, he is waiting for you.’

Octavian stepped away from the woman on his arm.

‘Take me to him,’ he ordered.

Fidolus breathed in relief and Octavian followed him into the house at a fast walk, trying hard not to run.

Maecenas and Agrippa shared a glance, both men suspecting they would not be enjoying the evening in the way they had planned.

‘That does not sound good,’ Agrippa said. ‘Ladies, there is a bathing room here that has few equals. I suspect my friend Maecenas and I must attend our friend for a few hours, but if you are willing to wait …’ He saw their expressions. ‘No?’ He sighed. ‘Very well then. I will have Fidolus escort you back to the city.’

Maecenas shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, it will wait for a little while longer, I’m sure,’ he said, his eyes wide as he tried to dissuade Agrippa. The woman on his arm seemed equally reluctant and Agrippa grew flushed with sudden anger.

‘Do what you want, then. I will find out what is going on.’

He strode into the house, leaving the gate open. Maecenas raised his eyebrows.

‘I wonder if all three of you would consider teaching a young Roman more about Greece?’

Agrippa’s woman gasped, turning on her heel without a word. After twenty paces, she turned and called to her friends. They looked at each other and for a moment Maecenas thought his luck was in. Some silent communication passed between them.

‘Sorry, Maecenas, another time, perhaps.’

He watched wistfully as they swayed away, young and lithe and taking three gold pendants with them. He let out a sharp curse, then went inside, anger and frustration in every step.

Octavian reached the main hall almost at a run, his nervousness growing by the moment at the blank shock he could see in the house slave. He skidded to a halt when the messenger rose to greet him, holding out a package without a word.

Octavian broke his mother’s wax seal and read quickly. He took a deep breath, then another, feeling prickles rise on his neck and down his bare legs. He shook his head and took a step to sit down on a bench, reading the lines over and over.

‘Master,’ Fidolus began. The messenger leaned close as if he was trying to read the words.

‘Get out, both of you. Fetch my friends and then get out,’ he replied.

‘I was told to wait for a reply,’ the messenger said sourly.

Octavian surged out of the seat and grabbed the messenger by the front of his tunic, shoving him in the direction of the door.

‘Get out!’

In the courtyard, Agrippa and Maecenas both heard the shout. They drew swords and ran to their friend, passing the red-faced messenger as they entered the house.

Fidolus had lit the oil lamps and Octavian paced through twin pools of light. Maecenas was a study in calm, though his face was still pale. Agrippa tapped blunt fingers on his knee, the only sign of an inner agitation.

‘I have to go back,’ Octavian said. His voice was hoarse from talking, but he burned with a brittle energy. As he strode up and down the room, his right hand clenched and opened as if he was imagining striking at his enemies. ‘I need information. Isn’t that what you always say, Agrippa? That knowledge is everything? I need to go to Rome. I have friends there.’

‘Not any more,’ Maecenas said. Octavian came to a stop and spun to face him. Maecenas looked away, embarrassed at the raw grief he saw in his friend. ‘Your protector is dead, Octavian. Has it occurred to you that you will also be in danger if you show your face in Rome? He treated you as his heir and these “Liberatores” will not want anyone who could lay claim to his possessions.’

‘He has an heir: Ptolemy Caesar,’ Octavian snapped. ‘The Egyptian queen will keep that boy safe. I …’ He broke off to curse. ‘I have to go back! It cannot go unanswered. There must be a trial. There must be punishment. They are murderers, in daylight, killing the leader of Rome and pretending they have saved the Republic. I have to speak for him. I have to speak for Caesar before they cover up the truth with lies and flattery. I know how they work, Maecenas. They will hold a lavish funeral and they will rub ashes into their skin and weep for the great man. In a month or less, they will move on to new plots, new ways to raise themselves, never seeing how petty, how venal they are, in comparison to him.’

He resumed his stiff pacing, pounding out each step on the tiled floor. He was consumed with rage, so intense that he could barely speak or breathe. Maecenas waved a hand, deferring to Agrippa as the big man cleared his throat. He spoke as calmly as he could, aware that Octavian was on the edge of violence or perhaps tears and had been for hours. The young man was exhausted, but his body jerked on, unable to stop or rest.

‘Your mother’s letter said they had been given amnesty, Octavian. The law has been passed. There can be no revenge against them now, not without turning the entire Senate against you. How long would you survive that?’

‘As long as I choose, Agrippa. Let me tell you something of Caesar. I have seen him capture a pharaoh from his own palace in Alexandria. I have been at his side when he challenged armies and governments and no one dared raise a hand or speak a word against him. The Senate have as much power as we choose to allow them; do you understand? Allow them nothing and they have nothing. What they call power is no more than shadows. Julius understood that. They pass their pompous laws and the common people bow their heads and everyone declares it is real … but it is not!’

He shook his head, lurching and staggering slightly, so that his shoulder bumped against the wall. As the other two shared a worried glance, Octavian rested there, cooling his forehead against the plaster.

‘Are you ill, Octavian? You need to sleep.’

Agrippa stood up, unsure whether he should approach. He had known madmen in his life and Octavian was at the ragged edge, driven to it by soaring emotions. His friend needed rest and Agrippa considered mixing a draught of opium for him. Dawn had come and they were all exhausted. Octavian showed no sign of relaxing from the rage that knotted and twisted his muscles. Even as he stood there, his legs and arms twitched in spasms underneath the skin.

‘Octavian?’ Agrippa asked again. There was no reply and he turned to Maecenas, raising his hands helplessly.

Maecenas approached Octavian like the horseman he was. There was something about the twitching muscles that reminded him of an unbroken colt and he made unconscious soothing noises, clicking and murmuring in his throat as he laid a hand on Octavian’s shoulder. The skin under the cloth felt burning hot, and at the touch Octavian went suddenly limp, sliding along the wall in collapse. Maecenas leaped forward to catch him, but the unexpected weight was too much and he barely managed to guide his friend to lie along the edge of the room. To Maecenas’ horror, a dark patch grew at Octavian’s groin, the bitter smell of urine filling the close air.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Agrippa asked, sinking into a crouch.

‘He’s breathing at least,’ Maecenas said. ‘I don’t know. His eyes are moving, but I don’t think he is awake. Have you seen anything like this before?’

‘Not in him. I knew a centurion once with a falling sickness. I remember he lost his bladder.’

‘What happened to him?’ Maecenas asked without looking up.

Agrippa winced in memory. ‘Killed himself. He had no authority with his men after that. You know how they can be.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Maecenas replied. ‘Perhaps it is just this once, though. No one needs to hear of it. We can clean him up, and when he wakes, it will be forgotten. The mind is a strange thing. He will believe whatever we tell him.’

‘Unless he knows about the weakness already,’ Agrippa said.

Both of them jumped up at the sound of footsteps. The house slave, Fidolus, was returning.

Maecenas was first to speak.

‘He mustn’t see this. I’ll distract Fidolus, give him something to do. You take care of Octavian.’

Agrippa scowled at the thought of removing urine-soaked clothing. Yet Maecenas was already moving and his protest remained unspoken. With a sigh, Agrippa lifted Octavian in his arms.

‘Come on. Time for a wash and clean clothes.’

The bathing room in the house was small and the water would be cold without Fidolus to heat it, but it would do. As he carried the limp body, Agrippa shook his head at swirling thoughts. Caesar was dead and only the gods knew what would happen to his friend.

CHAPTER THREE

In shadow, Mark Antony pressed his thumbs against his eyes, struggling with weariness. In his twenties, he’d thought nothing of staying awake for a night and then working through the next day. In Gaul, he’d marched through darkness and fought all morning, alongside ten thousand legionaries doing the same thing. He knew that all things pass, that time takes everything from a man. Yet somehow he had assumed his endurance was a part of him, like his wits or his height, only to find it had seeped away like water from a cracked jug.

The forum was filled with citizens and soldiers, come to honour Caesar for the last time. Rich and poor were forced to mingle and there were constant shouts of irritation and outrage as more and more pressed in from the roads around. A woman cried out somewhere for her lost child and Mark Antony sighed, wishing Julius could have been there to stand with him and watch, just watch, as Rome swirled and coalesced around the body of a god.

There could never be enough space for all those who wanted to see. The sun was a hammer on bare heads as they struggled for the best view. The heat had been building steadily from the first moments of dawn, when Caesar had been laid out and forty centurions of the Tenth legion had taken position around him. The body rested on a golden bier, the focus and the centre of the world for that day.

Mark Antony raised his head with an effort of will. He had not slept through two nights and he sweated ceaselessly. Thirst was already unpleasant, but he dared not drink and be forced to leave the forum to empty his bladder. He would have to sip a cup of wine to speak to the crowd, and a slave stood at his shoulder with a cup and cloth. Mark Antony was ready and he knew he would not fail on that day. He did not look at the face of his friend. He had stared too long already as the corpse was washed, the wounds counted and drawn in charcoal and ink by learned doctors for the Senate. It was just a gashed thing now, empty. It was not the man who had cowed the Senate, who had seen kings and pharaohs kneel. Swaying slightly in a wave of dizziness, Mark Antony closed his right hand tightly on the scrolls, making the vellum crackle and crease. He should have stolen a few hours of sleep, he knew. He must not faint or fall, or show any sign of the grief and rage that threatened to ruin him.

He could not see the Liberatores, though he knew they were all there. Twenty-three men had plunged knives into his friend, many of them after life had fled, as if they were joining a ritual. Mark Antony’s eyes grew cold, his back straightening as he thought of them. He had wasted hours wishing he could have been there, that he could have known what was going to happen, but all that was dust. He could not change the past, not a moment of it. When he wanted to cry out against them, to summon soldiers and have them torn and broken, he had been forced to smile and treat them as great men of Rome. It brought acid into his mouth to think of it. They would be watching, waiting for the days of funeral rites to end, waiting for the citizens to settle down in their grief, so they could enjoy the new posts and powers their knives had won. Mark Antony clenched his jaw at the thought. He had worn a mask from the moment the first whispers reached his ears. Caesar was dead and yapping dogs sat in the Senate. Keeping his disgust hidden had been the hardest task of his life. Yet it had been worth proposing the vote for amnesty. He had drawn their teeth with that simple act and it had not been hard to have his remaining friends support his right to give the funeral oration. The Liberatores had smirked to themselves at the idea, secure in their victory and their new status.

‘Cloth and cup,’ Mark Antony snapped suddenly.

The slave moved, wiping sweat from his master’s face as Mark Antony took the goblet and sipped to clear his throat. It was time to speak to Rome. He stood straight, allowing the slave to adjust the folds of his toga. One shoulder remained bare and he could feel sweat grow cold in the armpit. He walked out of shadow into the sun and passed through the line of centurions glaring out at the crowd. In just four steps, he was on the platform with Julius for the last time.

The crowd saw the consul and stillness spread out from that one point in all directions. They did not want to miss a word and the sudden silence was almost unnerving. Mark Antony looked at the grand buildings and temples all around. Every window was full of dark heads and he wondered again where Brutus and Cassius were. They would not miss the moment of their triumph, he was certain. He raised his voice to a bellow and began.

‘Citizens of Rome! I am but one man, a consul of our city. Yet I do not speak with one voice when I talk of Caesar. I speak with the tongue of every citizen. I speak today for our countrymen, our people. The Senate decreed honours for Caesar and when I tell all his names, you will hear not my voice but your own.’

He turned slightly on the rostrum to look at the body of his friend. The silence was perfect and unbroken across the forum of Rome. Caesar’s wounds had been covered in a white toga and undertunic, sewn so that it hid the gashes. There was no more blood in him and Mark Antony knew the toga concealed wounds that had grown pale and stiff during the days of handling and preparation. Only the band of green laurel leaves around Caesar’s head was a thing of life.

‘He was Gaius Julius Caesar, son of Gaius Julius and Aurelia, descendant of the Julii, from Aeneas of Troy, a son of Venus. He was Consul and he was Imperator of Rome. He was Father to his Country. The old month of Quintilis itself was renamed for him. More than all of those, he was granted the right to divine worship. These names and titles show how we honoured Caesar. Our august Senate decreed that his body be inviolate, on pain of death. That anyone with him would have the same immunity. By the laws of Rome, the body of Caesar was sacrosanct. He could not be touched. The temple of his flesh could not be injured, by all the authority of our laws.’

He paused, listening to a murmur of anger that rumbled through the vast crowd.

‘He did not tear these titles by force from the hands of the Senate, from our hands. He did not even ask for them, but they were granted to him in a flood, in thanks for his service to Rome. Today you honour him again by your presence. You are witnesses to Roman honour.’

One of the centurions shifted uncomfortably by his feet and Mark Antony glanced down, then up again, meeting the eyes of hundreds as he looked across the heaving crowd. There was anger and shame there and Mark Antony nodded to himself, taking a deep breath to continue.

‘By our laws, by our Roman honour, we gave oath to protect Caesar and Caesar’s person with all our strength. We gave oath that those who failed to defend him would be forever accursed.’

The crowd groaned louder as they understood and Mark Antony raised his voice to a roar.

‘O Jupiter and all the gods, forgive us our failure! Grant mercy for what we have failed to do. Forgive us all our broken oaths.’

He stepped away from the rostrum, standing over the body that lay before them. For a moment, his gaze flickered towards the senate house. The steps there were filled with white-robed figures, standing and watching. No one had a better view of the funeral oration and he wondered if they were enjoying their position as much as they’d expected. Many in the crowd turned hostile eyes on those gathered figures.

‘Caesar loved Rome. And Rome loved her favourite son, but would not save him. There will be no vengeance for his death, for all the laws and empty promises that could not hold back the knives. A law is but the wish of men, written and given a power that it does not own in itself.’

He paused to let them think and was rewarded with a surge of movement in the crowd, a sign of hearts beating faster, of blood rushing from the outer limbs. He had them all waiting for his words. Another centurion glared up in silent warning, trying to catch his eye. Mark Antony ignored him.

‘In your name, our august Senate has granted amnesty to those who call themselves “Liberatores”. In your name, a vote, a law held good by your honour. That too is sacrosanct, inviolate.’

The crowd made a sound like a low growl and Mark Antony hesitated. He was as exposed as the soldiers around the platform. If he drove them too far in guilt and anger, he could be swallowed up in the mob. He rode a knife edge, having seen before what the people of Rome could do in rage. Once again, he looked to the senators and saw their number had dwindled as they read the crowd; as they read the wind. He smiled wearily, gathering his courage and knowing what Julius would want him to do. Mark Antony had known from the moment he saw Cassius and his conspirators enter the chamber, holding their hands high to show the blood of a tyrant. He would make the people of Rome understand what had been done. He would make them see.

Mark Antony bent down to the line of polished centurions, lowering his voice to speak to the closest man.