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‘He’ll have to leave the gladius here, sir,’ the soldier said.
Something in the way Brutus looked at him made him drop his hand to his own hilt, but Cassius chuckled.
‘Oh, hand it over, Brutus. Don’t embarrass the man.’
With ill grace, Brutus untied the scabbard rather than pull a bare blade and frighten the soldier. He gave up his sword and strode to catch Cassius, suddenly angry, though he could not have said exactly why. Julius had never been stopped at the door of that building. It was irritating to be reminded of his lack of status at the very moment of his triumph. In the senate house, Brutus was no more than an officer of Rome, a senior man without civil rank. Well, that could be put right. Now Caesar was dead, all the failures and setbacks of his life could be put right.
More than four hundred men had crowded into the senate house that morning, their bodies warming the air, so that there was a noticeable difference inside, despite the open doors. Brutus looked for faces he recognised. He knew most of them, after many years of standing at Julius’ side, but one new face arrested his sweep. Bibilus. Years before, the man had stood with Caesar as consul, but something had happened between them and Bibilus had never appeared in the Senate again. His sudden return spoke volumes about the shift in power – and about how many already knew. Brutus saw Bibilus had aged terribly in the years of isolation. He had grown even fatter, with dark and swollen pouches under his eyes and a web of broken blood vessels on his cheeks. His jowls were scraped raw as if he had shaved for the first time in months. The man’s gaze was fever-bright and Brutus wondered if he had been drinking, already celebrating the death of an old enemy.
It did not look as if Cassius’ news would cause much shock in that chamber. Too many of the senators had smug and knowing expressions, exchanging glances and nodding to each other like virgins with a secret. Brutus despised them all, hated them for their effete manners and their pompous sense of their own worth. He had seen Egypt, Spain and Gaul. He had fought for the Republic, murdered for it, while they sat and talked the days away and understood nothing of the men who bled for them in the field.
Cassius approached the rostrum. Once it had been an artefact of Roman power, carved from the prow of a warship of Carthage. That one had been burned in riots and, like so much else in the building, it was now just a lesser copy of what it had once been. Brutus raised his eyes to the man standing behind it and grew still. He realised he had been the subject of cold scrutiny since he’d entered the chamber.
Mark Antony’s latest consular year was not yet over. Before the events of that morning, he had been little more than a figurehead for Caesar, but that had changed. The Republic had been restored and Mark Antony held the reins. He dominated the room and Brutus had to admit he looked the part. Tall and muscular, Mark Antony had the features and strong nose of old Roman bloodlines. None of the Liberatores had known how he would jump when they planned their assassination. One of their number, Gaius Trebonius, had been given the task of distracting the consul. Brutus saw the young senator on the seats nearby, looking so pleased with himself that it made Brutus’ stomach twist.
Mark Antony stared over the seated heads at him and Brutus sensed his knowledge and his shock. The consul had been told, or had heard the news as whispers went around the chamber. Caesar was dead. The tyrant was dead. They all knew, Brutus was suddenly certain. Yet the words still had to be spoken.
Cassius took his position at the base of the rostrum, standing a head lower than the consul looming over him. As Brutus watched, Cassius raised his right arm and touched the wood like a talisman. Into the silence, Cassius spoke.
‘On this day, the Ides of March, Rome was set free from an oppressor,’ he said. ‘Let the news fly from here to all nations. Caesar is dead and the Republic is restored. Let the shades of our fathers rejoice. Let the city rejoice. Caesar is dead and Rome is free.’
The words brought forth a wave of sound as the senators cheered, striving to outdo the men around them with sheer volume. They were red-faced as they roared and stamped, making the stones tremble. Mark Antony stood with his head bowed, the muscles in his jaw standing out like tumours.
Brutus thought suddenly of the Egyptian queen in the fine Roman house Caesar had given her. Cleopatra would not yet know what had happened to the father of her son. He imagined her panic when she heard. He did not doubt she would pack her jewels and get out of Rome as fast as good horses could run. The thought made him smile for the first time that morning. So many things would be made new in the months to come. Caesar had been like a weight on the city, pressing them all down. Now they would spring up, stronger and better than they had been before. Brutus could feel it in the air. This was his time at last.
The Senate had almost forgotten how things used to be. Brutus could see the little men revise their opinions of their own power. They had been mere servants. In a morning, in a raw-throated bellow, they had become men again. He had given them that. Brutus lowered his head in thought, but when he heard Mark Antony begin to speak, he looked up, suspicion flaring.
‘Senators, be still,’ Mark Antony said. ‘There is much to be done today, now that we have this news.’
Brutus frowned. The man was a famous supporter of Caesar. His time was over. The best he could do was leave the chamber with dignity and take his own life.
‘There are legions in the Campus Martius waiting for Caesar to lead them against Parthia,’ Mark Antony went on, oblivious to Brutus’ irritation. ‘They must be brought to heel, before they get the news. They were loyal to Caesar. They must be approached with care, or we will see them mutiny. Only the authority of the Senate stands between us all and anarchy in this city. Senators, be still.’ The last words were a command, deeper and louder in order to silence the last of the excited chatter.
At the door Brutus shook his head in sour amusement. Mark Antony was not a fool, but he overreached himself. Perhaps he thought he could be part of the new era, despite fawning on Caesar for so many years. It was more politics, but Brutus knew the senators were still numb, still feeling their way in the new world that had been thrust upon them. The consul might even save himself, though he would have to choose each step with care. There were old grudges to be settled yet and Antony would bear the brunt of many of them. Even so, for that morning at least, he was still consul.
‘There must be a formal vote before a single one of us leaves,’ Mark Antony continued, his strong voice rolling across the chamber. ‘If we grant amnesty to the murderers of Caesar, it will choke a rebellion before it begins. The citizens and the legions will see that we have restored justice and law, where it was once trodden down by a single man. I call that vote.’
Brutus froze, a worm of unease itching in his head. Cassius stood at the rostrum with his mouth slightly open. He should have been the one to call a vote for amnesty. It was all arranged and the Liberatores knew they would win. To have Caesar’s favourite pre-empt them with that vital step made Brutus want to bellow out in accusation. The words bubbled up in him, clear in his mind. Caesar had given Rome to Antony when he left the city to attack his enemies. Antony had been his puppet consul, the mask that let him hide tyranny beneath the old forms. What right did that man have to speak as if he now led the new Republic? Brutus took a half-step forward, but Mark Antony’s voice continued to echo over them.
‘I ask only this: that in death, Caesar be given his dignity. He was first in Rome. The legions and the people will expect to see him honoured. Will the men who brought him down deny him that? There should be no suspicion of shame, no secret burial. Let us treat the divine Julius with respect, now that he is gone from the world. Now that he is gone from Rome.’
In frustration, Cassius stepped up to the raised dais, so that he stood at Mark Antony’s side. Even then, the consul was a powerful figure beside his slight frame. Before he could speak, Mark Antony leaned close to him and murmured.
‘You have your victory, Cassius. This is not the time for small men and small vengeance. The legions will expect a funeral in the forum.’
Cassius remained still, thinking. At last, he nodded. Brutus stayed where he was, his right fist clenched over the empty space on his hip.
‘I thank Consul Mark Antony for his clear thinking,’ Cassius said. ‘And I concur. There must be order first, before law, before peace. Let this vote take place and then we will be free to manage the common citizens, with their petty emotions. We will honour Caesar in death.’
The senators looked to Cassius, and Brutus nodded fiercely at the way he had taken control. There were legal officers whose task it was to announce votes and debates in that place, but even as they rose from their seats around the rostrum, Cassius spoke again, ignoring their presence. He would not allow a delay on that morning, nor another to speak until he was done. Brutus began to relax.
‘Those in favour of complete amnesty to be granted to the liberators of Rome, rise and be counted.’
Brutus saw the sweating bulk of Bibilus leap to his feet with the energy of a younger man. The rest followed a bare moment later. Those who were already standing, like Mark Antony, raised their right hands. There was a beat of silence and Cassius nodded, tension flowing out of him.
‘Dissenters?’
The assembly sat down as one and not a single man rose. Somehow, it hurt Brutus to see. Half of them owed Caesar their lives and fortunes. Their families had been tied to his, their rise to his. He had picked them one by one over the years, men he wanted to honour in his wake. Yet they would not stand for him, even in death. Brutus found himself obscurely disappointed, for all he understood it. They were survivors, who could read the wind as well as anyone. Yet Caesar deserved better from Rome, on that day of all others.
Brutus shook his head in confusion, aware again of the blood on his hands as it dried and cracked. There was a fountain not far off in the forum and he wanted to be clean. As Cassius congratulated the Senate, Brutus slipped out into the sunshine. He collected his sword from the guards and walked stiffly down the steps and across the open ground.
There was already a crowd around the fountain, men and women of the city in colourful robes. Brutus felt their eyes on him as he approached, but he did not look at them. He knew the news would be on the wing already. They had not tried to hide it.
He rubbed his hands together in the freezing water, brought by aqueduct from distant mountains, drawn through narrowing lead pipes until it rushed out clear and sweet in the forum. Someone gasped as they saw the red stain that spread into the water from his skin, but he ignored them.
‘Is it true?’ a woman asked suddenly.
Brutus looked up, then rubbed his wet hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble. Her stola robe was fine, revealing a bare tanned shoulder, her elegance accented by hair piled and caught in silver pins. She was beautiful, kohl-eyed like a courtesan. He wondered how many others across the city were asking the same question at that moment.
‘Is what true?’ he asked.
‘That divine Caesar is dead, that he has been killed? Do you know?’ Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears as she stared at the man washing blood from his hands.
Brutus remembered the blow he had struck a few hours and a lifetime before.
‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, turning away.
His gaze drifted to the Capitoline hill, as if he could see through it to the vast building of Pompey’s theatre. Was the body still there, lying on the stone seats? They had left no orders for Caesar to be tended in death. For an instant, Brutus felt his eyes sting at the thought of Julius alone and forgotten. They had been friends for a long, long time.
PART ONE (#ulink_4363da45-1ead-559d-9b14-50129e96b071)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d8b0c581-c478-531b-a397-f7f5d070136f)
Octavian winced as he felt the heat of the rocks burning through his thin sandals. Though Rome claimed to have finally brought civilisation to Greece, he could see little sign of it in the hill villages. Away from the coast, the people were either suspicious of strangers or openly hostile. Even a simple request to use a well was met with frowns and doors shut in their faces. All the while, the sun beat down, reddening their necks. Octavian remembered how he had smiled when the local praetor said there were places in Greece where a young Roman had about as much chance of survival as a tax gatherer. It had been an exaggeration, but not by much.
He stopped to wipe sweat from his face. The land itself was wild, with canyons that seemed to drop for ever. Octavian took a deep breath, suddenly certain he’d be walking out. Nothing would give the local boys more pleasure than seeing three footsore Romans searching for stolen mounts.
Octavian stayed alert as he climbed, looking for some sign of the group of ragged men they followed. The trail had been easy at first, until it split and split again. Octavian didn’t know if the bandits knew they would be pursued or had just taken different routes home, vanishing into the cauldron of mountains as their ancestors had done for thousands of years. He felt an itch and craned his neck to see as far as he could. It was too easy to imagine a bowman leaning over the lip of some crag and attacking before they even knew he was there.
‘Call out if you see anything,’ he said.
Maecenas snorted, waving a hand at bare rocks. ‘I’m not a tracker,’ he replied. ‘For all I know, they could have passed through here with a herd of goats just an hour ago. Why don’t we go back to the main group and take up the search from there? This is not how I expected to spend my leave. I imagined more wine and less … climbing.’ He grunted as they reached a great step in the rocks.
There was no sign of a path and each man heaved himself up, their sandals skidding and scrambling as they went. The sun was fierce above and the sky was an aching blue. All three were sweating heavily and the single flask of water was already empty.
‘At least the men from the town know these hills,’ Maecenas went on. ‘They know where to search.’
Octavian didn’t have the breath to respond. The slope grew steeper and steeper until he had to use his hands to steady each step, then really climb. He was panting lightly as he reached the top of a crag and stared, judging the best route down the other side. The maze of grey rocks stretched into the distance, empty of life beyond the lizards that skittered away with every step.
‘You’d have me stand by and watch, doing nothing to help them?’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘A rape and a murder, Maecenas. You saw her body. What honour would there be in letting a few farmers chase them down while we stand and watch, confirming everything they say about idle Romans? Come on.’
He jerked his head at a route that would take them to the floor of the canyon and began climbing down. At least the shadowed clefts were cooler, until they climbed back into the burning sun once more.
‘Why should I care what Greek peasants say?’ Maecenas muttered, though he pitched his voice too low to be heard. Maecenas was of such ancient lineage that he refused to claim descent from the twins who suckled at a she-wolf and went on to found Rome. His people, he said, had owned the wolf. When they’d first met, he’d assumed Octavian had known Caesar, so a mere Roman noble could not impress him. Over time, he’d realised Octavian took Maecenas at the value he set for himself. It was slightly galling to have to live up to his own sense of superiority. Maecenas felt that Octavian had rather missed the point of noble families. It wasn’t who you were – it was who your ancestors had been that mattered. Yet somehow that simple faith was something he could not shatter in his friend. Octavian had known poverty, with his father dying early. If he thought a true Roman noble would be brave and honourable, Maecenas didn’t want to disappoint him.
Maecenas sighed at the thought. They wore simple tunics and darker leggings. Any clothing was too hot for climbing in the noon sun, but the leggings were terrible, already dark with perspiration. He was convinced he’d rubbed himself raw under them. He could smell his own sweat as he climbed and skidded down, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The scabbard of his sword caught in a crevice and Maecenas swore as he freed it. His expression darkened as he heard Agrippa laugh behind him.
‘I am glad to provide some amusement for you, Agrippa,’ he snapped. ‘The pleasures of this day are now complete.’
Agrippa gave a tight smile without replying as he came level and then went past, using his great strength and size to take enormous steps down the crag. The fleet centurion was a head taller than his companions and the constant labour on board Roman galleys had only increased the power in his arms and legs. He made the climb look easy and was still breathing lightly by the time he reached the bottom. Octavian was a few steps behind and the pair waited for Maecenas as he clambered down after them.
‘You realise we’ll have to go back up that hill again when we turn round?’ Maecenas said as he jumped the last few feet.
Octavian groaned. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Maecenas. It would be easier if you just accepted we are doing this.’
‘Without complaining,’ Agrippa added. His deep voice echoed back from the stone all around them and Maecenas looked sourly at them both.
‘There are a thousand different paths through these cursed rocks,’ Maecenas said. ‘I should think the bandits are far away from here by now, sipping cool drinks while we die of thirst.’
Gleefully, Agrippa pointed at the dusty ground and Maecenas looked down, seeing the footprints of many men.
‘Oh,’ he said. He drew his sword in a smooth motion, as if he expected an immediate attack. ‘Probably local herders, though.’
‘Perhaps,’ Octavian replied, ‘but we’re the only ones following this path, so I would like to be sure.’ He too drew his gladius, shorter than Maecenas’ duellist’s blade by a hand’s breadth, but well oiled, so that it slid free with barely a whisper. He could feel the heat of the blade.
Agrippa freed his own sword and together the three men walked silently into the canyon ahead, placing their steps with caution. Without planning it, Octavian took the lead, with Agrippa’s bulk on his right shoulder and Maecenas on his left. Ever since they had become friends, Octavian had led the group as if there were no alternative. It was the kind of natural confidence Maecenas appreciated and recognised. Old families had to start somewhere, even when they began with a Caesar. He smiled at the thought, though the expression froze as they came round a spire of rock and saw men waiting for them in the shadows. Octavian walked on without a jerk, keeping his sword lowered. Three more steps brought him into the gloom of the chasm, with rock walls stretching up above their heads. He came to a halt, looking coldly at the men in his way.
There was another path out on the other side and Maecenas noticed laden mules waiting patiently. The men they faced did not seem surprised or afraid, perhaps because there were eight of them, staring with bright-eyed interest at the three young Romans. The biggest of the men raised a sword from another age, a great length of iron that was more like a cleaver than anything else. He sported a black beard that reached right down to his chest and Maecenas could see the bulge of heavy muscles under a ragged jerkin as he moved. The man grinned at them, revealing missing teeth.
‘You are a very long way from your friends,’ the man said in Greek.
Maecenas knew the language, though Octavian and Agrippa spoke not a word. Neither of them looked round with so many blades being pointed in their direction, but Maecenas could feel their expectation.
‘Must I translate?’ he said, dredging up the words from his memory. ‘I know the high speech, but your peasant accent is so thick, I can hardly understand you. It is like the grunting of a dying mule. Speak slowly and clearly, as if you were apologising to your master.’
The man looked at him in surprise, anger darkening his face. He was aware that the death of Romans would make him a wanted man, but the mountains had hidden bodies before and would again. He tilted his head slightly, weighing his choices.
‘We want the one who raped and strangled the woman,’ Maecenas said. ‘Hand him over to us and go back to your short and pointless lives.’
The leader of the bandits growled deep in his throat and took a step forward.
‘What are you saying to him?’ Octavian asked without taking his eyes off the man.
‘I am praising his fine beard,’ Maecenas replied. ‘I have never seen one like it.’
‘Maecenas!’ Octavian snapped. ‘It has to be them. Just find out if he knows the one we came to find.’
‘Well, beard? Do you know the one we want?’ Maecenas went on, switching languages.
‘I am the one you want, Roman,’ he replied. ‘But if you have come here alone, you have made a mistake.’
The bandit looked up the rocks to the blue sky, searching for any hint of a moving shadow that would reveal an ambush or a trap. He grunted, satisfied, then glanced at his sharp-eyed companions. One of them was dark and thin, his face dominated by a great blade of a nose. In response, the man shrugged, raising a dagger with unmistakable intent.
Octavian stepped forward without warning of any kind. With a vicious flick, he brought his sword across so that it cut the throat of the closest man to him. The man dropped his dagger to hold his neck with both hands, suddenly choking as he fell to his knees.
The leader of the bandits froze, then gave a great bellow of rage with the rest of his men. He raised his sword for a crushing blow, but Agrippa jumped in, gripping the sword arm with his left hand and stabbing his short blade up between the man’s ribs. The leader collapsed like a punctured wineskin, falling onto his back with an echoing crash.
For a heartbeat, the bandits hesitated, shocked by the explosion of violence and death. Octavian had not stopped moving. He killed another gaping bandit with a backhand stroke against his throat, chopping into flesh. He’d set his feet well and brought the whole of his strength into the blow, so that it almost decapitated the man. The gladius was made for such work and the weight felt good in his hand.
The rest might have run then, if their way hadn’t been blocked by their own mules. Forced to stand, they fought with vicious intensity for desperate moments as the three Romans lunged and darted among them. All three had been trained from a young age. They were professional soldiers and the bandits were more used to frightening villagers who would not dare to raise a blade against them. They fought hard but uselessly, seeing their blades knocked away and then unable to stop the return blows cutting them. The small canyon was filled with grunting and gasping as the bandits were cut down in short, chopping blows. None of the Romans were armoured, but they stood close to one another, protecting their left sides as the swords rose and fell, with warm blood slipping off the warmer steel.
It was over in a dozen heartbeats and Octavian, Agrippa and Maecenas were alone and panting. Octavian and Agrippa were both bleeding from gashes on their arms, but they were unaware of the wounds, still grim-eyed with the violence.
‘We’ll take the heads back,’ Octavian said. ‘The woman’s husband will want to see them.’
‘All of them?’ Maecenas said. ‘One is enough, surely?’
Octavian looked at his friend, then reached out and gripped his shoulder.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said. ‘Thank you. But we can make a sack from their clothing. I want that village to know that Romans killed these men. They will remember – and I suspect they will break out the casks of their best wine and slaughter a couple of goats or pigs as well. You might even find a willing girl. Just take the heads.’
Maecenas grimaced. He’d spent his childhood with servants to attend to every whim, yet somehow Octavian had him working and sweating like a house slave. If his old tutors could see him, they would be standing in slack-jawed amazement.
‘The daughters have moustaches as thick as their fathers’,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps when it’s fully dark, but not before.’
With a scowl, he began the grisly work of cutting heads. Agrippa joined him, bringing his sword down in great hacking blows to break through bone.
Octavian knelt next to the body of the bandit leader, looking down into the glazed eyes for a moment. He nodded to himself, playing over the movements of the fight in his head and only then noticing the gash on his arm that was still bleeding heavily. At twenty years old, it was not the first time he’d been cut. It was just one more scar to add to the rest. He began to chop the head free, using the oily beard to hold it steady.
The horses were still there when they came back, parched and staggering, with their tongues swelling in their mouths. It was sunset by the time the three Romans reached the village, with two sopping red sacks that dribbled their contents with every step. The local men had returned angry and empty-handed, but the mood changed when Octavian opened the sacks onto the road, sending heads tumbling into the dust. The woman’s husband embraced and kissed him with tears in his eyes, breaking off only to dash the heads against the wall of his house, then crushing Octavian to him once more. There was no need to translate as they left the man and his children to their mourning.
The other villagers brought food and drinks from cool cellars, setting up rough tables in the evening air so that they could feast the young men. As Octavian had imagined, he and his friends could hardly move for good meat and a clear drink that tasted of aniseed. They drank with no thought for the morning, matching the local men cup for cup until the village swam and blurred before their eyes. Very few of the villagers could speak Roman, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Through a drunken haze, Octavian became aware that Maecenas was repeating a question to him. He listened blearily, then gave a laugh, which turned into a curse at his own clumsiness as he spilled his cup.
‘You don’t believe that,’ he told Maecenas. ‘They call it the eternal city for a reason. There will be Romans here for a thousand years, longer. Or do you think some other nation will rise up and be our masters?’ He watched his cup being refilled with beady concentration.
‘Athens, Sparta, Thebes …’ Maecenas replied, counting on his fingers. ‘Names of gold, Octavian. No doubt the men of those cities thought the same. When Alexander was wasting his life in battles abroad, do you think he would have believed Romans would one day rule their lands from coast to coast? He would have laughed like a donkey, much as you are doing.’ Maecenas smiled as he spoke, enjoying making his friend splutter into his cup with each outrageous comment.
‘Wasting his life?’ Octavian said when he had recovered from coughing. ‘You are seriously suggesting Alexander the Great could have spent his years more fruitfully? I will not rise to it. I will be a stern and noble Roman, too …’ He paused. The drink had muddled his thoughts. ‘Too stern and noble to listen to you.’
‘Alexander had the greedy fingers of a merchant,’ Maecenas said. ‘Always busy, busy, and what did it get him? All those years of fighting, but if he had known he would die young in a foreign land, don’t you think he would rather have spent it in the sun? If he were here, you could ask him. I think he would choose fine wine and beautiful women over his endless battles. But you have not answered my question, Octavian. Greece ruled the world, so why should Rome be any different? In a thousand years, some other nation will rule, after us.’ He paused to wave away a plate of sliced meat and smile at two old ladies, knowing they could not understand what he was saying.
Octavian shook his head. With exaggerated care, he put his cup down and counted on his fingers as Maecenas had done.
‘One, because we cannot be beaten in war. Two … because we are the envy of every people ruled by petty kings. They want to become us, not overthrow those they envy. Three … I cannot think of three. My argument rests on two.’
‘Two is not enough!’ Maecenas replied. ‘I might have been confounded with three, but two! The Greeks were the greatest fighting men in the world once.’ He gestured as if throwing a pinch of dust into the air. ‘That for their greatness, all gone. That for the Spartans, who terrified an army of Persians with just a few hundred. The other nations will learn from us, copy our methods and tactics. I admit I cannot imagine our soldiers losing to filthy tribes, no matter what tricks they steal, but it could happen. The other point, though – they want what we have? Yes, and we wanted the culture of the Greeks. But we did not come quietly like gentlemen and ask for it. No, Octavian! We took it and then we copied their gods and built our temples and pretended it was all our own idea. One day, someone will do the same to us and we will not know how it happened. There are your two points, in ashes under my sandals.’ He raised a foot and pointed to the ground. ‘Can you see them? Can you see your arguments?’
