The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,28

he felt the coldness of a knife at his throat and stayed still.

‘I’ve been here for just one morning and I am already getting tired of this city,’ Octavian growled into his ear. ‘The tribune will want to see me. Is he in your place or not?’

‘If I shout, his guards will kill you,’ the man said.

Behind Octavian, Agrippa dismounted, dropping his hand to the gladius he wore. He was as weary as Octavian and he could smell hot food wafting from the tavern kitchen.

‘Shout then,’ Agrippa said. ‘See what you get.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes rose slowly to take in the massive centurion. The resistance went out of him.

‘All right, there’s no need for that. But I can’t disturb the tribune. I need the custom.’

Octavian stepped away, sheathing his knife. He wrestled a gold ring from his hand. Given to him by Caesar himself, it bore the seal of the Julii family.

‘Show him this. He will see me.’

The tavern-keeper took the ring, rubbing his neck where the knife had touched. He looked at the angry young men facing him and decided not to say anything else, disappearing back into the gloom.

They waited for a long time, thirsty and hungry. The porters who accompanied them put down their burdens and sat on the cart or the sturdier chests, folding their arms and talking amongst themselves. They didn’t mind holding the horses and wasting the day if it meant more pay at the end.

The street grew busier around them as the life of Brundisium went on with no sign of a lull. Two messengers from the morning managed to find their way back to the listless group, accepting coins from Maecenas as they brought news of a friend with an empty house in the wealthy eastern half of the city.

‘I’m going in,’ Octavian said at last. ‘If only to get my ring back. By the gods, I never thought it would be this hard just to speak to someone in authority.’

Agrippa and Maecenas exchanged a quick glance. In their own way, both had more experience of the world than their friend. Agrippa’s father had taken him to the houses of many powerful men, showing him how to bribe and work his way round layers of staff. Maecenas was the opposite, a man who employed such men on his estates.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Agrippa said, rolling his head on his shoulders. ‘Maecenas can stay to watch the horses.’

In truth, neither of them wanted Maecenas anywhere near a Roman tribune. A man of his rank could order them killed at the slightest insult to his dignity. Maecenas shrugged and they went in, squinting as the light changed.

The tavern-keeper was back behind his bar. He did not speak to them and his expression was something just short of a sneer. Octavian strode up to him, but Agrippa touched him on the shoulder, inclining his head towards a table across the room, far from the dust and heat of the main door.

Two men sat there in togas dyed dark blue, almost black. They were eating from a plate of cold meats and boiled vegetables, leaning over the table with their elbows on the wood and talking earnestly. A matched pair of guards in full legionary armour stood facing the room, just far enough away to give the men the illusion of privacy, if not the reality.

Octavian took heart from the colours of mourning they wore. If they were men who showed they grieved for Caesar, perhaps he could trust them. Yet they had not returned his ring, so he was wary as he approached.

One of the men at the table had a tribune’s cloak draped over his chair. The man looked fit and tanned, his head almost bald with just a band of white hair by his ears. He wore no breastplate, just a tunic that left his arms bare and revealed white chest hairs below the open collar. Octavian took all this in before one of the guards raised a flat palm casually to stop him. The two men at the table continued their conversation without looking up.

‘I need to speak to Tribune Liburnius,’ Octavian said.

‘No you don’t,’ the legionary said, deliberately keeping his voice low as if every word could not be overheard by the men at the table. ‘You need to stop bothering your betters. Apply to the barracks of the Fourth Ferrata legion. Someone will hear you there. Off you go now.’

Octavian stood very still, simmering anger clear in every line of him.