The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,130
his hands slipping down and tickling her so that she shrieked and squirmed. He went on regardless, ignoring her protests and struggles until there were tears in her eyes.
‘You are a monster!’ she said, laughing. ‘And you do not listen to me.’
He shook his head. ‘I do, you know. There is a part of me that wants nothing more than to walk as a free man, with his freedom bought and earned for Rome. I want that, but I will not be ruled by kings, not again. Not by Mark Antony and certainly not by Octavian. I will stand against them one last time and, if the gods smile on me, I will walk with you on my arm in Rome while all the younger men stare at your beauty. And I will be content.’
There was sadness in her eyes as she responded, though she tried to smile.
‘I hope so, my love. I will pray for it.’
She rested her head against his chest, easing into him so that for a time they sat together in silence, staring out over the plain where his legions were preparing the evening meal.
‘I loved him too, you know,’ Brutus said. ‘He was my greatest friend.’
‘I know,’ she replied drowsily.
‘I fought once against him, Portia. Here in Greece, at Pharsalus. I wish you could have seen it. He was incredible.’ He breathed out slowly, the memories bright before his eyes. ‘He broke the forces of Gnaeus Pompey and after the battle he came to find me on the field. He held me in his arms, as I am holding you – and he forgave me my betrayal.’
His voice caught as he spoke, the memory bringing back old griefs and a half-buried anger. From that moment, Brutus had been the man forgiven for his treachery by the noble Caesar. His place had been set in tales and poems of Rome: the weak traitor blessed by a better man. Brutus shuddered slightly, feeling goosebumps rise on his arms as he held his wife. He had not admitted to Portia how he felt on that day in Greece, years before. He had told her he feared for the Republic when Caesar brought Cleopatra and his son to Rome. He had spoken of his belief that they had begun a dynasty to rule the world.
It was all true, yet only part of the truth. Caesar’s fate had been written on that day at Pharsalus, when he had broken and tortured his friend by forgiving Brutus in front of them all.
Portia seemed to be dozing in his arms and he raised her up, kissing her forehead.
‘Come on, love. Let me experience this herb chicken of yours.’
She stirred, yawning and stretching like a cat while he looked fondly down at her.
‘The day is very warm,’ she said. ‘Is there much further to go now?’
‘Not so far, though I will send you back to Athens when I meet Cassius’ legions.’
‘I would prefer to stay with the camp,’ she said.
‘So you’ve said a hundred times, but a legion camp is no place for you, I know that much. I’ll see you safe before we march to the coast.’
‘I don’t know why you have to march to meet his men when the coast is in the opposite direction.’
‘He’s bringing more than half the army, Portia. It makes sense to let them see each other before the horns start blowing. And there aren’t too many plains where ninety thousand men can form up, not in these hills.’
‘What was the name of the place where we’re going?’ she said.
‘Philippi,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It’s just a town, like any other.’
Octavian let the breeze fill his lungs. Standing on the cliffs at Brundisium, he could see for miles out to sea. The sun was strong on his back and yet he could not relax, especially in the company of Mark Antony. Separated by a gulf of more than thirty years, he had to struggle not to be intimidated by a man who had known a very different Rome, before Caesar had risen to command the city and the world beyond it.
Even from the height of the rocky path, he could not see the coast of Greece, somewhere across the haze. His attention was on the stretch of dark blue sea outside the port, where two fleets of galleys battled it out. They were like toy ships, too far away for him to hear the orders roared and the crack of catapults sending grapnels and stones soaring