Emperor: The Blood of Gods

‘Fidolus! Come out here, you Greek shit-pot! Move!’

The slave was already returning with both mounts. Maecenas slapped his hands off the reins and leapt on, wincing as the cold leather met his testicles.

‘Sword! Bring me a weapon. Run!’

Agrippa mounted as Fidolus raced across the yard and into the house. It was true that his horse was far stockier in build than those of the others. It was tall and powerful and shone black in the morning sun. As it took his weight, the animal blew air from its lips and pranced sideways. Agrippa patted its neck absently, thinking through what Maecenas had been saying.

‘I swear by Mars, there had better be some assassins riding around here,’ Maecenas snapped, turning his mount. ‘I’ll be black and blue after half a mile.’

A fresh clatter of hooves sounded outside the grounds, getting louder with every moment. Octavian rode back through the gate, his face pale. He looked surprised to see his friends mounted and Fidolus rushing out with swords clasped awkwardly in his arms.

Octavian’s stare snagged on Maecenas, whose shift had ridden up so that his bare buttocks were revealed.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

Maecenas tried to stare back haughtily, but he couldn’t summon his dignity in such a position.

‘Don’t you know all young Romans ride like this now? Perhaps it has not spread to the provinces yet.’

Octavian shook his head, his expression bleak.

‘I came back to tell you both to pack up your belongings. We need to get to Brundisium.’

Agrippa’s head jerked up at the word, but it was Maecenas who spoke first.

‘I was just explaining to the keen sailor why that is the last place we would want to go, at least until the city settles down. It will be chaos out there, Octavian. Believe me, every Roman family is doubling their guards right now, ready for civil war.’

‘You’re right,’ Octavian said. ‘The legions are at Brundisium as well.’

‘So tell me why that isn’t the last place in the world we should visit,’ Maecenas said.

He saw Octavian’s gaze turn inward, his eyes shadowed as he lowered his head. There was silence in the yard for a moment before he spoke again.

‘Because those men were loyal to Caesar – to my family. If there is anyone left who wants to see revenge for his murder, they will be in that camp by the sea. That’s where I must go.’

‘You realise there could also be men there who would think nothing of killing you?’ Maecenas asked softly.

Octavian’s gaze flickered to him.

‘I have to start somewhere. I can’t let them wipe their hands clean and just go on with their lives. I knew him, Maecenas. He was … a better man than the snapping dogs in Rome, every one of them. He would want me to walk into their houses and show them the mercy they showed him.’

Agrippa nodded, rubbing a hand through his beard.

‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We have to get back to Brundisium. Out here, we’re too far away to know anything.’

Maecenas looked from man to man and for once there was no wry humour in his expression.

‘Three men?’ he said. ‘Against the legions of Rome?’

‘No, not against them, with them,’ Octavian replied. ‘I know those men, Maecenas. I have served with hundreds, no, thousands of them. They will remember me. I know them better than the greyheads of the Senate, at least.’

‘I see. That is … a relief,’ Maecenas said.

He looked to Agrippa for some sign that he wasn’t going along with this madness, but Agrippa was watching Octavian with a fierce intensity. The young man who dropped lightly from his horse and strode across the yard had impressed him from the first time they met, two years before. It was not just that Octavian was a blood relative of Caesar, or had seen the great cities of the east. The young Roman was a man who saw through the febrile twitching of merchants, nobles and soldiers to what really mattered. Agrippa remembered watching him hold court at a party, speaking so well and fluently that even the drunks were listening to him. Octavian had offered them pride in what they could bring to the world, but Agrippa had heard the other strand woven into the words – the cost and burden that they must shoulder to represent the city. He’d listened in awe to concepts and thoughts that had never intruded upon his father’s endless quest for more wealth.

One of the drunkest nobles had laughed at Octavian. With a quick jerk, Agrippa had tossed the man over the balcony. He grinned as he remembered the amused shock on Octavian’s face as half the crowd rushed past them both. It had been enough to begin a friendship neither man had been looking for. They’d drunk and talked until dawn and Agrippa thanked his gods he’d chosen to go out that night at his father’s urging. He’d found no new deals to make, nor rich daughters to court, but the following morning he’d gone to the docks and joined his first legion galley. His father hadn’t spoken to him since that day.

Sweat patches stood out on Octavian’s tunic and his horse was already lathered in strings of spit. Yet his orders were clear and precise to Fidolus as they walked back into the house to pack.

‘You did not mention the sickness that struck him last night,’ Agrippa observed in a low voice. Maecenas glanced at him.

‘It didn’t happen. Or if it did, he’ll be the one to bring it up.’

Maecenas dismounted and flicked his reins over a post before walking inside to dress. Agrippa watched him go and, when he was finally alone, allowed a smile to spread across his face. He liked them both, a constant wonder for a man who did not make friends easily. For all his studied cynicism, Maecenas had been willing to ride out with his buttocks in the wind the moment he thought Octavian was in danger.

Agrippa took a deep breath of Greek air, deliberately filling his lungs and releasing it slowly. He was a man who valued Roman order, the stability and predictable nature of military life. His childhood had taken him to a dozen different cities, watching his father close a thousand deals. The fleet had saved him from that boredom and given him a home where he felt he was part of something that mattered at last. The talk of chaos worried him more deeply than he would ever say. He hoped Maecenas was wrong, but he knew enough to fear that his noble friend had told the future well. The divine Julius was gone and a thousand lesser men would be rushing to fill the gap he had left. Agrippa knew he might see the Republic torn to pieces as men like his father struggled for advantage. He dismounted and rolled his heavy shoulders, feeling his neck creak. At a time like that, a man should choose his friends with care, or be swept away.

He could hear Maecenas yelling orders inside the house and Agrippa grinned to himself as he tossed the reins over the holding post and followed. At least he would be swept towards Brundisium.

Brutus looked out over a city lit by speckles of fire. The flickering yellow and orange resembled a disease ruining healthy skin, spreading too fast to control. The window brought a warm breeze into the little room, but it was no comfort. The house was in the perfume district, a mile east of the forum. Three floors up from the ground, Brutus could still smell the destruction of the previous days. The odour of rich oils mingled unpleasantly with wet ash and he wanted a bath to rid himself of the scent. He was sick of smoke and the roars of distant clashes. As soon as darkness fell to hide the seething masses, they came out again, in greater and greater numbers. Those with guards had barricaded themselves to starve in their homes. The poor suffered worst, of course. They always did, easier prey to the raptores and gangs than those who could fight back.

Somewhere close by, Brutus could hear the tramp of marching soldiers, a sound as familiar to him as anything in the world. The legions in the Campus Martius had not mutinied, at least so far. The Senate had drafted rushed orders to bring them in, a thousand men at a time. Two separate legions had spread through the city, hard-pressed even so as the mobs gave ground step by bloody step. Brutus rubbed a spot on his forearm where a thrown tile had caught him a glancing blow earlier that day. He had been protected by a century of men, but as they escorted him to his house on the Quirinal hill, the roofs nearby had filled with rioters and a rain of stones and tiles had come arcing over. Had they been waiting for him, or was it just that nowhere was safe?

He clenched his fist at the memory. Even a century could be overwhelmed in the narrow streets. The Senate had reports of soldiers hemmed in on all sides, battered from above, and even one atrocity where oil pots had been thrown and set alight, burning men alive.

With tiles and stones shattering all around, he’d given the order to take a side street. They’d marched away from the location, intending to double back quickly on parallel streets to kick in doors and trap their assailants. He recalled the hooting jeers of lookouts above their heads, watching every step. The roofs had been empty by the time his men reached them, just a litter of broken tiles and scrawled messages. He’d given up on reaching his house and gone back to the safe area around the forum, where thousands of legionaries patrolled.

‘I think it’s getting worse, even with the new men in from the Campus,’ Cassius said, dragging Brutus back to the present. Like him, the senator was staring out over the city.

‘They can’t go on much longer,’ Brutus said, waving his hand in irritation.

The third man in the room stood to refill his cup with rich red wine. The two at the window turned at the sound and Lucius Pella raised his white eyebrows in silent question. Cassius shook his head, but Brutus nodded, so Pella filled a second cup.

‘They are drunk on more than wine,’ Pella said. ‘If we could have saved the senate house, I think it would be over already, but …’ He shook his head in disgust. A stone building should not have fallen just because wooden benches burned inside. Yet as the fire reached its height, one of the walls had cracked from top to bottom. The great roof had come crashing down, collapsing with such speed that it actually extinguished the fires within.

‘What would you have me do, Lucius?’ Cassius asked. ‘I have brought in legions. I have secured the permission of the Senate to kill those who ignore the curfew. Yet it goes on – no, it spreads! We have lost whole districts of the city to these cattle with their clubs and iron bars. A million citizens and slaves cannot be stopped by a few thousand soldiers.’

‘Mark Antony walked to his house today, with just a few men,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘Did you hear that? He is their champion, after his speech appealing to the mob. They don’t touch him, while my name is howled like a wolf pack. And yours, Cassius – and yours, Pella!’ He crossed the room and downed his wine in three long gulps.

‘I have to hide like a wanted criminal in my own city, while the consul acts the peacemaker. By the gods, it makes me want …’ He broke off, impotent in his anger.

‘It will pass, Brutus. You said it yourself. It has to run its course, but when they are starving, they will quieten.’

‘Will they? The gangs emptied the grain stores on the first evening. There were no guards to stop them then, were there? No, they were all in the forum, fighting fires. You know the Casca brothers have already left?’

‘I know,’ Cassius said. ‘They came to me and I had them escorted out. They have an estate a few hundred miles to the south. They’ll wait it out there.’

Brutus watched the senator closely.

‘Almost all the men who bloodied their hands with us have run with their tails between their legs. You know Decimus Junius is still writing letters to be read in the forum? Someone should tell him his messengers are beaten to death.’ He paused, sick with anger. ‘You are still here, though. Why is that, Cassius? Why haven’t you run yet to your vineyards?’

The senator smiled mirthlessly.

‘For the same reason as you, my friend. And Pella here. We are the “Liberatores”, are we not? If we all seek safety away from the city, who knows what will happen when we are gone? Should I give Mark Antony the power he wants? He will have Rome in the palm of his hand as soon as the crowds stop murdering and burning. I should be here for that. And so should you.’

‘Did he plan this, do you think?’ Pella asked, refilling his cup. ‘He inflamed the commoners with his cursed mannequin. He must have known what could happen.’

Cassius thought for a moment.

‘A year ago, I would not have believed it of him. I was sure then that Mark Antony was not a subtle man. When he proposed the vote for amnesty, I thought … I thought he was recognising the new reality. Even now, I don’t think he saw the flames that would follow his funeral oration. Yet he is not such a fool that he won’t take advantage when the opportunity is handed to him. He is a danger to us all, gentlemen.’

Pella shrugged, the flush of wine staining his cheeks.

‘Have him killed, then. What does one more body matter now? The streets are filled with them and disease will follow like night and day, be sure of it. When the plagues come, Rome will be hollowed out from within.’

His shaking hand made the cup clink against the jug and Brutus saw for the first time how terrified the man was.

‘Well, not me!’ Pella said, slurring slightly as he raised his cup in a mock toast to the other two. ‘I did not kill Caesar to die at the hands of bakers and tanners, or coughing out my lungs in some vile sickness of the dead. That is not what you promised me, Cassius! Hiding in the dark like thieves and murderers. You said we would be honoured!’

‘Be calm, Pella,’ Cassius snapped, unmoved. ‘Remember your dignity. You should not leave your wits at the bottom of a jug, not tonight. If you want to get out of the city, I will arrange it. At dawn, if you wish.’

‘And my wife? My children? My slaves? I will not leave them to be torn apart.’

Cassius showed a glint of his anger then, his voice cold.

‘You sound frightened, Pella. Of course they can travel with you. This is Rome and we are both senators. Most of the unrest is in the western half. Do not make it sound worse than it is. In a dozen days at most, there will be order again. I will send for …’

‘You said three days at the beginning,’ Pella interrupted, too dulled by wine to see the deadly stillness of Cassius.

‘Go home now, Pella. Ready your family and gather your possessions. You will be spared any further attack on your dignity.’

Pella blinked at him, his mind wandering.

‘Go home?’ he said. ‘The streets are not safe. I thought you said it was too dangerous to leave after dark.’

‘Nonetheless, you have made your point. Walk with your head held high and if someone stops you in the road, tell him you are a senator. I am sure they will let you pass.’

Pella shook his head nervously.

‘Cassius, I’m sorry. I should not have said such things. It was the wine. I would prefer to stay here with you, at least until dawn. I can …’

He broke off as Cassius crossed to the door that led out to stairs and the street. As it opened, the constant noise of shouts and crashes in the background grew louder.

‘Go home,’ Cassius said. He wore a dagger on his belt and he deliberately dropped a hand to the hilt.

Pella stared open-mouthed. He looked to Brutus but saw no pity there.

‘Please, Cassius …’

‘Get … out!’ Cassius snapped.

Pella’s shoulders drooped and he did not look at either man as he left. Cassius tried hard not to slam the door after him.

‘Do you think he will get through?’ Brutus asked, turning back to the open window.

‘It is in the hands of the gods,’ Cassius said irritably. ‘I could not bear his babbling weakness any longer.’

Brutus would have replied, but in the distance he saw a new bloom of fire spreading. He cursed under his breath and Cassius came to stand by him.

‘That’s the Quirinal, isn’t it?’ Cassius asked. He knew Brutus had property on that hill and his voice was dismayed on his behalf.

‘I think so. They never touch Caesar’s properties, did you know that?’ He rubbed the back of his neck, unutterably weary. ‘It’s hard to tell distances in the dark. I’ll know in the morning, if I can find enough men to walk with me.’ He spoke through gritted teeth at the thought of the people of Rome pawing his possessions. ‘We need those legions from Brundisium, Cassius! Another thirty thousand men could cut through these mobs. We need to smash them, to show enough force that it stops their mouths.’

‘If I could have brought them, I would have. Caesar’s officers won’t answer the messages of the Senate. When this is over, I will have them decimated, or their eagles struck down and made into cups for the poor, but for now, I cannot make them move.’

Somewhere in the streets near the house, a man screamed long and loud. Both of them started at the sound, then deliberately ignored it.

‘I could go to them,’ Brutus said after a time.

Cassius laughed in surprise. ‘To Brundisium? You’d be slaughtered as soon as they heard your name. You think I am unpopular, Brutus? Your name is the one the mobs chant loudest when they are calling for Caesar’s vengeance.’

Brutus blew air out, frustrated to the point of shaking.

‘Perhaps it is time to leave, then. To have your Senate make me governor of some city far from here. I have not seen the rewards you promised me, not yet …’ He caught himself, unwilling to beg from the hand of Cassius. Yet Brutus had no civil post and no wealth of his own. His private funds were already dwindling and he wondered if a nobleman like Cassius even understood his predicament. ‘Caesar would be laughing if he could see us hiding from his people.’

Cassius stared into the night. The fires on the Quirinal had spread at breathtaking speed. In the distance, hundreds of burning houses lit the darkness, like red cracks in the earth. There would be blackened bodies by the thousand in the morning and Pella was right, disease would follow, rising from the dead flesh and entering the lungs of healthy men. He made a sound in his throat and Brutus looked to him, trying to read his expression.

‘There are legions in Asia Minor,’ Cassius said at last. ‘I have considered going out to them as the representative of the Senate. Our eastern lands must be protected from the chaos here. Perhaps a year or two in Syria would allow us to put these bloody days behind.’

Brutus considered, but shook his head. He remembered the heat and strange passions of Egypt and had no desire to return to that part of the world.

‘Not Syria, not for me at least. I have never visited Athens, though I knew Greece well when I was young.’

Cassius waved a hand.

‘Propraetor then. It is done. I will have your command and passes drawn up, ready for use. By the gods, though, I could wish it had not turned out like this! I have not brought down one tyrant only to see Mark Antony take his place. The man is a greased snake for slipperiness.’

‘While we stay, the riots go on,’ Brutus replied, his voice hard. ‘They hunt for me, whoreson gangs of filthy slaves, kicking down doors looking for me.’

‘It will pass. I remember the last riots. The senate house was burned then, but the madness faded eventually.’

‘The leaders died, Cassius, that was why those riots came to an end. I had to move twice yesterday, just to be sure they could not box me in.’ He made a growling sound, at the end of his patience. ‘I would be happier if Mark Antony had fallen on the first day. Yet he walks where he pleases, with no more than a few guards. They do not hunt him, not the noble friend of Caesar!’

There was a crash from outside and both men jerked round, staring at the door as if it would burst open and bring the ugly mobs of Rome surging into the room. A woman screamed nearby, the sound suddenly choking off.

‘We underestimated him, it seems, or at least his ability to survive,’ Cassius replied, speaking more to break the silence than from thought. ‘I too would be happier if Mark Antony was another tragic casualty of the riots, but he is too careful – and right now, too well loved. I know a few men, but they are as likely to tell him of a plot as carry it through.’

Brutus snorted. More crashes and screams sounded from the street, though he thought they were moving on.

‘Draw up the orders then,’ he said wearily. ‘I can spend a year or two governing Athens. When the sting is drawn from Rome, I will see her again.’

Cassius pressed a hand to his shoulder.

‘Depend on it, my friend. We have come too far together to see it all lost now.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Brundisium had never been as busy. It was like an overturned beehive, with soldiers and citizens scurrying everywhere and no sign of the languor of Rome. In the port city, everyone hurried, moving supplies for the fleet and legions: wooden casks of water, iron nails, ropes, sailcloth, salted meat and a thousand other essential goods. Despite being allowed to pass by the outer fleet, it was almost noon before the ship had its turn through the massive gates across the inner harbour, winched open each morning by teams of sweating slaves.

As the merchant vessel reached the quay, the sailors threw ropes to dockers, who heaved them in the last few feet and tied them to great iron stanchions set in the stone. A wide wooden bridge was lifted up and over, forming a path from the ship to the quayside. Octavian and Agrippa were the first to step off as Maecenas settled the fee with the captain and remained to oversee the unloading of the horses. A dozen workers and two empty carts trundled over to carry crates and chests from the ship, men who had bought the right to that section of the docks and charged high fees for the privilege. By the time the horses were led out, even Maecenas was complaining about the venal nature of the port, which seemed designed to take every last coin he had.

‘There isn’t a room or a stable free for thirty miles or more,’ he reported when he joined them. ‘According to the dockers, six legions are encamped and the officers have taken every tavern in the city. That makes it easier to find one who might know you, Octavian, but it will take time to find lodgings. Give me half a day.’

Octavian nodded uneasily. His plan to get an audience with the senior officer in Brundisium had seemed a lot simpler before he’d seen the chaos of the city. Its population had quadrupled with soldiers and he needed Maecenas more than ever. His friend had already employed runners to carry messages for him, sending them sprinting off into the maze of streets away from the port. Octavian didn’t doubt he’d find somewhere to store their belongings before the sun set.

‘What is your business in Brundisium?’ a voice said behind him. ‘You can’t leave that lot here, you know, blocking the docks. Tell your captain to cast off. There are two more ships waiting already.’

Octavian turned to see a bald man in optio’s armour, short and powerful with a sword on his hip and two robed clerks in his wake.

‘We are arranging porters, sir. Right now, I need to know the name of the commander in Brundisium and to arrange a meeting with him.’

The officer smiled wryly, running a hand over the polished dome of his head and flicking away sweat.

‘I can think of at least seven men who might answer your description. But you won’t get to see them, not without a few weeks of waiting. Unless you are a senator, perhaps. Are you a senator? You look a bit young for that.’ He smiled at his own humour.

Octavian took a deep breath, already irritated. At Caesar’s side, he had never been questioned. He looked at the man’s amused expression and realised he could not bluster or threaten his way past. He could not even give his true name while there was a chance he was being hunted.