The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,50
get a meeting with a single military tribune in Brundisium. Yet here were two legates and two military tribunes, riding out to meet a man who had not even asked for them.
‘It seems the name of Caesar still has currency,’ Agrippa murmured.
Octavian did not reply, his expression set in stern lines.
The Roman officers reined in facing the crowd from the city, fixing their collective gaze on Octavian. The citizens fell silent and tension grew in the still air. It was a matter of delicacy, as the man with the lower rank should greet the other, but no one knew for certain what rank Octavian held. After an uncomfortable pause, the senior legate cleared his throat.
‘How should I address you?’ he asked.
Octavian looked him over, seeing a man in his late forties with grey temples and a world-weary air. The legate’s face was lined and weathered by a dozen campaigns, but his eyes were bright with interest, almost youthful.
‘Why, address me as Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Octavian replied, as if puzzled. ‘Son of the man who formed your legion and commanded your utter loyalty. You are Legate Marcus Flavius Silva of the Seventh Victrix. My father spoke well of you.’
The older man rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, staring.
‘I am honoured to hear that, Caesar,’ he said. ‘My companion legate …’
‘… is Titus Paulinius of the Eighth Gemina,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘We have met before, in Gaul.’
‘It’s him,’ the other legate muttered. The tribunes might have introduced themselves then, but Flavius Silva nodded and spoke first.
‘In honour of Caesar, you are welcome in the camp. Might I enquire what business has brought such a crowd from Rome? I have had nervous reports for the last hour. The riots are not yet forgotten here, not by my legion.’
He looked with distaste at the crowd behind Octavian, but they only stared back, unafraid and fascinated. Octavian chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. He suspected the legates would be easier to handle if every move and word was not witnessed. He had not planned on having such an audience.
He turned his horse on a tight rein and addressed the crowd.
‘Go to your homes now,’ he ordered. ‘You will know when I have remade Rome. It will be all around you.’
Legate Silva gaped at his words, exchanging a worried glance with his colleagues. Octavian continued to glare at the crowd, waiting. At the back, more than one child was held aloft to see the new Caesar, but the rest were already turning. They were not sure what they had witnessed, but the lure had been inescapable and they were not displeased. Octavian watched them go, shaking his head in wonderment.
‘They just wanted to see me,’ he said, under his breath.
Agrippa clapped him on the shoulder, his voice a low rumble.
‘Of course they did. They loved Caesar. Remember that when you are dealing with the Senate.’
When Octavian looked back, it was to see the legion officers watching him closely.
‘Well?’ he said, remembering Maecenas’ words on Roman arrogance. ‘Lead me in, gentlemen. I have a great deal to do.’
The two legates and their tribunes turned their horses into the camp, with Octavian, Agrippa and Maecenas riding together on the wide road. Gracchus brought up the rear, praying to his household god that he would not be killed that day. He had hardly been able to believe the presence of four such senior men coming out to meet Octavian. He decided to send another message to Tribune Liburnius back at the port as soon as he had a moment to himself.
The command tent of the Seventh Victrix legion was as large as a single-floored house in some respects, supported by wooden beams and a lattice above their heads that would withstand even a gale. The horses were taken by experienced grooms and led away to be watered and fed. Octavian entered to find a long table laid with thick vellum maps piled at one end. Legate Silva saw his glance.
‘Routes and plans for Parthia, months of work,’ he explained. ‘All wasted now, of course. I have not offered my condolences, Caesar. I can hardly tell you the grief felt among the men for your loss. The riots went some way to keeping our minds off the assassination, but it is still keen, still sharp.’
As one, they drew up chairs and took places around the table. Octavian inclined his head in thanks.
‘You broach the very matter that brought me here,’ he said.