The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,49
open market square, the busy crowd fell silent and again he could hear the name of Caesar like a breeze through them. His group swelled again, doubling and redoubling in size until it felt as if he led a procession through the heart of the city. By the time he reached the foot of the Capitoline, he was surrounded by hundreds of men and women, all craning for a glimpse of the single man at the centre. His new name was called and shouted from groups and always the numbers swelled. Octavian kept his gaze stern as he walked the horses onward.
‘Don’t look now,’ Maecenas said, bringing his horse in close, ‘but I think we’re being followed.’
Octavian gave a snort, the break of tension almost reducing him to undignified laughter. He went on up the Capitoline hill and did not pause when the horses reached the crest. Pompey’s theatre lay below on the other side, a vast building three times the size of the old senate house in pale stone. There were no flags flying on the roof as the crowd streamed down the hill. The Senate were not in session that day, though Octavian did not doubt they would have heard of his progress across the city. He smiled grimly to himself. Let them hear, he thought. Let them wonder.
At a crossroads, Agrippa nudged him at the sight of Roman legionaries standing guard. Those men looked on in sheer astonishment at the undisciplined rabble coming out of the city. Octavian could see the soldiers arguing as he passed and he did not look back to see if they had joined the rest. They would find out soon enough what he intended.
Beyond Pompey’s theatre, the vast space of the Campus Martius opened up, though it was far from empty. For centuries, it had been the place where Romans exercised and came to vote, but the field of war was also the muster spot for legions about to march. Those who had gathered at Julius Caesar’s orders for the campaign against Parthia had been there for much longer than they had planned or expected and the marks were everywhere, from toilet pits and trenches to thousands of oiled leather tents and even small buildings dotted around the plain. Octavian led his column towards the centre of them.
The Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina legions were in a twin camp laid out to specifications created long before by Caesar’s uncle, the consul Marius. Nothing had changed in almost half a century and Octavian felt a wave of nostalgia as he reached the outer boundary. Only respect for the ancient Roman plain had prevented the legions from raising a great barrier of earth as set down in the regulations. Instead, the camp was marked with massive wicker baskets, tall as a man and filled with stone and earth, a symbolic structure rather than a true obstacle.
As he approached the line, Octavian glanced back and blinked in surprise as he saw how many had come from the city. At least a thousand walked with him, their faces bright as if they were on a public holiday. He shook his head in silent amazement, then took heart from it. This was the power of the name he had been given. It was also a reminder that they supported Caesar rather than the Senate that had killed him.
The afternoon sun was hot on his back as he halted. Two legionaries stood at the entrance to the encampment, staring forward without looking at the man facing them. Octavian sat his mount patiently, patting the animal on its broad neck. He had seen soldiers entering the camp ahead of him, racing to carry the news. He was content to wait for the officers to come to him, accepting the advantage it gave him as his due.
As if echoing his thoughts, Maecenas leaned in close to speak in a low voice.
‘No doubts now, my friend. Show them a little noble arrogance.’
Octavian nodded stiffly.
Four horsemen came trotting through the camp, visible over the boundary from some way off as they moved down the wide avenue. From the distance of a few hundred paces, Octavian could see that two were cloaked, wearing ornate armour in silver, with markings of brass that spread down onto layered leather tiles over their bare thighs. Their companions wore simple togas, with a large purple stripe running along the edge.
Agrippa looked at Octavian in satisfaction. It had not been that long ago that they had struggled to