The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,51
moment to bring in wine and water on a tray. Octavian waited for the drinks to be served and raised his cup.
‘To Caesar, then,’ he said. The legion men were already echoing the toast as he added, ‘And to revenge on his killers.’
Flavius Silva sputtered into his wine cup, almost choking. He was red-faced by the time he could breathe clearly again.
‘You don’t waste words, do you?’ he said, still coughing into his fist. ‘Is that your purpose in coming here? Caesar, I …’
‘You have failed in your duty, your sworn oath,’ Octavian snapped. He hammered his fist on the table with a crash. ‘Both of you! The Father of Rome is murdered in daylight, while you drink wine on the Campus and what? What happens? Do his loyal soldiers enter Rome and demand the trial and execution of his killers? Do you march on the senate house? No, none of these things. The Senate declare an amnesty for murdering filth and you accept it meekly, reduced to keeping order in the city while those who do care for justice and honour take to the streets! How sickening, that those without power must do what you will not – and then see you draw swords on them, serving the very masters responsible for the crime! You asked me why I came here, Legate Silva? It was to call you to account for your failures!’
The legionary with the wine jugs had fled. Both legates and tribunes were leaning away from the table as Octavian rose from his seat and harangued them. They reacted as if his words were the lashes of a whip, staring down at the table in horrified humiliation.
‘How dare you sit there while the dogs who killed your master, your friend, still sit in the Senate and congratulate each other on their success? Caesar trusted you, legates. He knew that you would stand for him when all the world was against him. Where is that honour now? Where is that trust?’
‘The Senate …’ Titus Paulinius began.
Octavian rounded on him, leaning over the table in his fury.
‘The Senate did not command your legions until you meekly handed them over. You are Caesar’s right hand, not the servants of those old men. You have forgotten yourselves.’
Legate Flavius Silva stood slowly, his face ashen.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I cannot speak for Titus, but when we had the news, I did not know what to do. The world changed in a day and the senators were quick to send new orders. Perhaps I should not have accepted them.’ He took a deep, slow breath. ‘It does not matter now. With your permission, I will see to my affairs.’
Octavian froze, struck by the precise phrasing Flavius Silva had used. It was too late to take back what he had said and he thought furiously as the legate waited for permission to leave. Octavian had accused him of vast and irretrievable dishonour. He knew with sudden clarity that Flavius Silva would take his own life, the only choice Octavian had left him.
He had depended on a show of Roman arrogance to bring him to this point. He could not retreat from it. He firmed his mouth, resting his fists on the table.
‘Sit down, Legate,’ he said. ‘Your responsibilities cannot be so easily evaded. You will live, so that you can put right every stain on the honour of the Seventh Victrix.’
Outside the tent, he could hear the sound of marching men. The two legates were instantly aware of it, as a ship’s captain might notice a change of course almost before it had begun. Flavius Silva lost some of the wintry look in his eyes, dragged back by Octavian’s scorn and the noise of his men moving. He resumed his seat, though his gaze flickered to the great flap of the door and the dust-speckled light that shone into the darker tent.
‘I am at your command, Caesar,’ he said. The words brought colour back to his pale cheeks and Octavian allowed himself to relax a fraction.
‘Yes, you are,’ he replied. ‘And I need you, Flavius Silva. I need men like you – and you, Titus. Men who remember Caesar the Imperator and everything he achieved. The Senate will not shelter murderers from us. We will root them out, one by one.’
The noise beyond the tent had grown and Octavian frowned at the interruption, just when he needed to weigh every word. He gestured to the door without looking.