The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,24

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,