The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,18
pushed the crowd and ridden them, but he had judged it well. They would go from this place in sombre mood, talking amongst themselves. They would not forget his friend, and the Liberatores would be followed by scorn all their lives.
‘To think,’ he said, his voice gentle, ‘Caesar saved the lives of many of the men who were there, in Pompey’s theatre, on the Ides of March. Many of them owed their fortunes and their positions to him. Yet they brought him down. He made himself first in Rome, first in the world, and it did not save him.’
His head came up when a voice yelled out in the crowd.
‘Why should they live?’
Mark Antony opened his mouth to reply, but a dozen other voices answered, shouting angry curses at the murderers of Caesar. He held up his hands for calm, but the lone voice had been a spark on dry wood and the noise spread and grew until there were hundreds and hundreds pointing to the senate house and roaring out their rage.
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Mark Antony bellowed, but even his great voice was swallowed. Those further back pushed forward mindlessly and the centurions were battered by fists and heaving bodies.
‘That’s it,’ one of the centurions growled, shoving back with all his strength to give himself room to draw a gladius. ‘Time to get away. On me, lads. Surround the consul and stay calm.’
Yet the crowd were not rushing the consul’s platform. They surged towards the senate house and the now empty steps.
‘Wait! They will hear me yet. Let me speak!’ Mark Antony shouted, shoving past a centurion trying to guide him down the steps.
A stone soared from somewhere further back, hammering a dent in an ornate chestplate and sending a senior man staggering. The crowd were levering up the cobblestones of the forum. The centurion who had taken the impact was on his back, gasping for breath as his companions cut the leather ties that bound him into his armour.
‘Too late for that, Consul,’ Oppius snapped. ‘I just hope this is what you wanted. Now move, sir. Or will you stand and see us all killed?’
More of the black stones flew. Mark Antony could see movements in the crowd, swirling and shoving like patterns in water. There were thousands of angry men in that forum and many of the weaker ones would be trampled to death before their anger gave out. He swore under his breath.
‘I can’t leave the body,’ Mark Antony said desperately. He ducked as another stone came past him and he saw how quickly the chaos was spreading. There was no holding them back now and he felt a sudden fear that he would be swept away.
‘Very well. Get me clear.’
He could smell smoke on the air and he shivered. The gods alone knew what he had unleashed, but he remembered the riots of years before and the flashing memories were ugly. As he was borne away in a tight mass of soldiers, he looked back at the body of Julius, abandoned and alone, as men clambered up to the platform bearing knives and stones.
The bitter smell of wet ash was heavy in the air across Rome. Mark Antony wore a clean toga as he waited in the outer hall of the House of Virgins behind the temple of Vesta. Even so, he thought he could smell burnt wood in the cloth, hanging on him like a mist. The air of the city carried the taint and marked everything passing through it.
Suddenly impatient, he jumped up from a marble bench and began to pace. Two of the temple women were watching him idly, so secure in their status that they betrayed no tension even in the presence of a consul of Rome. The virgins could not be touched, on pain of death. They devoted their lives to worship, though there had long been rumours that they came out on the festival of Bona Dea and used aphrodisiac drugs and wine to toy with men before killing them. Mark Antony glowered at the pair, but they only smiled and spoke to each other in low tones, ignoring the man of power.
The high priestess of Vesta had judged his patience to a fine degree by the time she finally came out to him. Mark Antony had been on the point of leaving, or summoning soldiers, or anything else that would allow him to act rather than wait like