Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) (19 page)

He smiled at the sight of Maecenas jogging through the camp with two horses on long leads behind him. The Roman noble was flushed and sweating and they exchanged an amused look of mutual suffering as they passed.

‘Resting those heavy bones, are we?’ Maecenas called over his shoulder.

Agrippa chuckled, though he did not move from the spot. He had never appreciated his choice of a naval life as much as he did then. A centurion captain was master of his vessel and he rarely had to walk far or move the mountains of supplies and equipment that these men took everywhere with them. There had been no news of fresh orders for the fleet. Maecenas had been right about that. Yet he too had been swept up in Octavian’s progress, dragged along despite his misgivings. There had hardly been time to reflect on what they had achieved before Octavian was off again, driven by some source of manic energy Agrippa could only envy.

Even a fleet officer like Agrippa had to admit to being slightly impressed at the way the legion formed up to march. The routines and lines of command were so deeply entrenched that they could go from apparent chaos to shining ranks of sword and shield in no time at all. Yet this was more than a sudden rush to battle formations. Octavian had given orders for the entire camp to be packed up, and as the morning progressed, the soldiers finished their tasks and stood in silence, facing the city. Agrippa looked into the distance, his eyesight sharp for detail after years of peering at horizons. Like Maecenas, he had been staggered at Octavian’s ambitions. It felt like madness and treachery to consider a march into the centre of the city in the teeth of the will of the Senate. He shook his head, smiling wryly to himself. Yet he did not follow Octavian. He followed Caesar. If Caesar sent his men into Hades, they would follow without hesitation.

Agrippa moved when a dozen workmen came to shift the sacks onto carts. The Campus was bare as far as he could see in all directions: toilets filled in and raked, wooden buildings taken down beam by beam and packed. He walked to the front, where a legion servant waited patiently with a helmet and horse.

Maecenas and Octavian were already there, with the constant shadow of Gracchus watching everything with bright eyes. Legates Silva and Paulinius were splendid in the sunshine, their armour burnished to a fine glow. They looked almost younger since the first moments he had seen them. Agrippa mounted up, ignoring the protest from his sore muscles.

As the sun reached its highest point, noon-bells began to sound across the city, rung in temples and markets and workshops to mark the change of shift. Agrippa looked back at ten thousand legionaries and another four thousand camp followers in their wake. They shone, the greatest fighting men of the greatest nation. It was not often that he recognised a moment as important in his life. As a rule, the decisions that mattered could only be understood months or even years later. Yet for once he knew. He took slow breaths as he savoured the sight of so many. The name of Caesar would not have been enough on its own. Octavian had found the words to call them. Agrippa pulled down his helmet and tied the leather strap under his chin.

Octavian looked left and right at Agrippa and Maecenas, his eyes bright with humour and possibility.

‘Will you ride with me, gentlemen?’ he said.

‘Why not, Caesar?’ Maecenas said. He shook his head in wonder. ‘I would not miss a moment.’

Octavian smiled. ‘Give the signal to march, Legate Silva. Let us remind the Senate they are not the only force in Rome.’

Horns blared across the Campus Martius and behind them the Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina legions began to march in step towards the city.

The gates of Rome were open to the legions as they came in from the Campus Martius. Beyond the shadow of the walls, citizens were gathering, the news spreading across the city far faster than men could march. The name of Caesar flew before them and the people came out in droves to see the heir to Rome and the world.

At first, Octavian and the legates rode with stiff backs and hands tight on the reins, but they were greeted with cheering and the crowds only grew with each street. There had been many processions before in the city. Marius had demanded a Triumph from the Senate of his day and Julius Caesar had enjoyed no fewer than four of them, celebrating his victories and scattering coins as he went.

For those with eyes to see, the citizens were thinner than they had been before the riots. Much of the city still lay in ruins or charred beams, but they had pride even so and they roared their appreciation. Octavian felt their excitement like a jug of wine in his blood, raising him. All that was missing was the slave at his shoulder to whisper ‘Remember thou art mortal.’

All the previous Triumphs had ended in the great forum and the crowds seemed to understand that, running ahead of the legions so that the roads grew more and more choked. Citizens and slaves began to chant the name of Caesar, and Octavian felt his face redden, overwhelmed. On his horse, he and his friends were at the level of the lowest windows overhanging the street and he saw women and men leaning out as far as they could, just a few feet from his head.

At three separate street corners, other men shouted furious insults and were shouted down in turn by those around them. One of the agitators fell senseless after a crack round the head from a middle-aged tradesman. The legions moved on towards the heart and Octavian knew he would never forget the experience. The Senate may have turned on his family, but the people themselves showed their adoration without shame.

They came over the Capitoline hill, walking the same route the assassins had taken. Octavian clenched his jaw at the thought of those who called themselves Liberatores holding out their red hands in pride. Of all things, that brought him fastest to rage. Murder was an old thing for the Republic, but masking the crime in dignity and honour was not. He hated the Liberatores for that, as much as for their jealousy and greed.

He did not doubt the Senate were sending feverish messages to their houses, calling each other in for the emergency. Octavian smiled bitterly at the thought. Without the might of the legions, they were just a few hundred ageing men. He had revealed that, throwing back the curtain that concealed how weak they truly were. He hoped all those who had voted for amnesty could hear the noise of the crowd as they welcomed Caesar. He hoped the sound chilled them.

Even the vast open space of the forum could not hold two legions at full strength. The first few thousand marched right across, allowing the rest to enter the heart of Rome. Legates Silva and Paulinius began to send runners back down the column, ordering their men out in all directions rather than have the crush increase. Every temple would house a few hundred. Every noble mansion would be the billet for as many men as it could take. When those were full, the legions would make their camps in the streets themselves, closing all the roads leading to the forum. Cooking fires would be lit in stone gutters for the first time and the centre of Rome would be theirs.

It took time to halt and organise the column, with both the legates and their officers working hard. The clot of men at the centre spread out in every direction, legionaries walking in and sitting down wherever there was space. They closed off the forum, allowing the crowds to filter out as the day wore on. Only the House of Virgins was untouched, as Octavian had ordered. Apart from the debt he owed to Quintina Fabia, the presence of legionaries among those young women could only result in disgrace or tragedy. He began to appreciate the difficulties Caesar had faced with any large movement of soldiers, but the legion structure was designed to respond to the commands of one man and he did not have to think of everything, only to trust that his officers would work hard and well for him.

The evening light was still soft as horns called across the forum, across the heads of thousands of men. They could not raise tents on the stones, even if there had been room. They would sleep out in the sun and rain, to sweat and freeze in turn. Those same soldiers had cheered him on the Campus and they did not complain at being led by a Caesar into Rome.

The site of the old senate house had been cleared of rubble, ready to be rebuilt. Its foundations lay exposed, rough brick and stone still heat-scorched and dark yellow against the grey cobbles. It made a sort of sense to have the legates construct a rough building there, their legionaries hammering in spikes to bind the beams, then heaving great leather sheets over to form a roof. Before it was fully dark, the shelter was snug and proof against rain, with couches, tables and low beds laid out inside like any command post on campaign. As if to make them prove their competence, dark clouds came in as the sun set. A light drizzle dampened the holiday atmosphere of the legions as they cooked a meal and found whatever shelter they could.

Octavian stood looking out on the darkening forum, with one shoulder resting against an oak beam, much marked and holed from previous use. Around him, legionaries moved with lamps and oil, refilling and trimming wicks so that the legates would have light. He had gambled everything on this one action and for that night at least he was the power in Rome. All he had to do was keep it.

He yawned, pressing a hand to his mouth.

‘You should eat, sir,’ Gracchus said. The legionary held a wooden plate covered in strips of various meats, sliced thin. Octavian smiled wearily.

‘I will, in a while.’ On impulse, he decided to speak again, addressing a problem he had ignored for days. ‘I am surprised to see you still here, Gracchus. Is it not time for you to return to Tribune Liburnius?’

The legionary just stared dully at him.

‘Are you even on my side?’ Octavian continued. ‘How can I tell? It wasn’t so long ago that you were thinking of flogging me in the street for disturbing your tribune.’

Gracchus looked away, his face shadowed against the warm light from the lamps.

‘You were not Caesar then, sir,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Send him home to Brundisium,’ Maecenas called from behind them. His friend was already seated with Agrippa and the two legates, enjoying a spread of cold food and warm wine.

‘You are not a client of mine, Gracchus, nor your family. I have seen the lists now. You owe me nothing, so why do you stay?’ Octavian sighed. ‘Is it the thought of gold?’

The legionary considered for a moment.

‘Mainly, yes,’ he said.

His honesty surprised Octavian into laughing.

‘You’ve never been poor, sir, or you would not laugh,’ Gracchus said, his mouth a thin line.

‘Oh, you’re wrong, Gracchus, and I’m not laughing at you. I have been poor – and starving. My father died when I was very young and if it hadn’t been for Caesar, I suppose I could very well be standing where you are now.’ He became serious, studying the man who had almost strangled him in a tavern.

‘Gracchus, I need men around me who are loyal, who will take the risks with me and not think of the rewards. I am not playing a game. I will see these Liberatores destroyed and I don’t care if I have to spend all Caesar’s fortunes to do it. I will throw away the years of my youth for the chance to break those men. Yet if gold is your only ambition, you can be bought by my enemies.’

Gracchus looked at his feet, frustration making him grim. In truth, it was not just the thought of gold that kept him there. He had lived with these men for some of the most extraordinary days of his life.

‘I am not a man who speaks well,’ he said slowly. ‘You cannot trust me, I know that. But I’ve lived with the fear of senators, no … I’m not making it clear. You are taking them on. It’s not just about coins …’ He waved a hand, almost dropping the plate. ‘I’d like to stay. I’ll earn your trust in time, I promise.’

The rest of them were quiet at the table, hardly bothering to pretend they were not all listening. Octavian leaned away from the beam, intending to invite Gracchus to join them for the meal. As he moved, he felt the weight of a pouch at his waist. On impulse, he untied the leather thongs that bound it to his belt and held it up.

‘Put the plate down and hold out your hands, Gracchus,’ he said.

The legionary went to the table and returned.

‘Hold them out, go on,’ Octavian prompted.

He emptied the pouch into Gracchus’ hands, a stream of heavy gold coins. The legionary’s eyes widened at the sight of a small fortune.

‘Twenty … two, twenty-three aurei, Gracchus. Each one worth around a hundred silver sesterces. What is that? Five or six years’ pay for your rank? At least that much, I should think.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Gracchus said warily. He could hardly drag his eyes away from the yellow coins, but when he did, Octavian was still watching him.

‘You can take that and go now, if you want, without censure. You have finished your work for me and for Tribune Liburnius. It’s yours.’

‘But …’ Gracchus shook his head in confusion.

‘Or you can give it back to me and remain.’ Octavian gripped his shoulder suddenly, passing by the legionary and moving to the table. ‘It’s your choice, Gracchus, but I must know, one way or the other. You are either with me to the death, or you are not.’