The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,56

least for now. Yet one of the men who murdered Caesar on the steps of Pompey’s theatre is still in Italy, in the north. Decimus Junius believes he has moved far enough from Rome to be safe from any vengeance.’

He paused, watching the expressions change as they began to believe in him.

‘I see the men of six legions before me. Decimus Junius has a region near the Alps with barely a few thousand soldiers to keep the peace. Is he safe from us? No, he is not.’ He showed his teeth as his voice grew in strength. ‘You called for vengeance for Caesar. I am here to give it to you.’

They responded with cheering as wild as their anger had been only moments before. Mark Antony stood back, satisfied. The Senate had intended him to lose face in decimating the legions. Instead, for the lives of a hundred criminals, he had won them to him. He smiled at the thought of Bibilus and Suetonius hearing the news.

He turned to the legates, his expression changing to a frown at the sight of the man he had ordered to resign, still present and pale as wax.

‘What legion do you lead?’ Mark Antony demanded.

‘Fourth Ferrata, sir.’ For an instant, desperate hope of a reprieve shone in the legate’s eyes.

‘And who is your second in command?’

The man’s expression was sickly with fear, his career in ruins.

‘Tribune Liburnius, Consul.’

‘Tell him to see me, that I may judge his fitness for command.’

The legate chewed his lip, summoning his dignity.

‘I believe that is a Senate appointment, sir,’ he said.

‘And I have told you. Today, I am the Senate, with all their powers to appoint or dismiss. Now leave. If I see you again, I will have you killed.’

The man could only stand back and salute with a shaking right hand before walking away. Mark Antony transferred his attention to the other legates.

‘All of you, with me. We have a campaign to plan.’ A thought stopped him as he was on the steps down to the square. ‘Where is the war chest for Parthia?’

‘In Rome, sir. We had it here, but Caesar gave orders for it to be sent to the Campus Martius and Seventh Victrix.’

Mark Antony closed his eyes for a moment. The riches of Caesar had been within his grasp and he had let them slip. The gods gave him legions and then took away his ability to pay them in the same breath.

‘Never mind. Come, gentlemen, walk with me.’

Agrippa rubbed weariness and sweat from his eyes. He had found a spot to take the weight off his feet, against a pile of oat bags under a temporary wooden shelter. He needed just a few moments, then he would go on, he told himself. Octavian was like a winter gale blowing through the Campus Martius. Before his arrival, the legions had been adrift. To an observer, they might have seemed the same as before, with guards exchanging watchwords, and food lines and the forges of smiths working all hours to keep the legion in a high state of readiness. Agrippa tried to stifle a yawn and his jaw cracked painfully.

He had once seen a sailor struck on the head with a falling mast in a storm. The rain had washed the blood away and the man continued to work, fastening down sails and tying off loose ropes while the wind howled. Some hours later, when the storm had passed, the sailor was walking back from the prow when he gave a great cry and fell unconscious to the deck. He had never woken and they had put his body over the side a day later. In a similar way, the legions had been stunned by the death of Caesar. They had continued with their duty but had been just as glassy-eyed and mute as the sailor. Octavian’s arrival had changed all that, Agrippa thought. He had given them a purpose once more. Agrippa saw it in the cheerful greetings of strangers as they recognised him as one of Caesar’s friends. He saw it in the bustle that revealed what had gone before as listlessness and despair.

He smiled at the sight of Maecenas jogging through the camp with two horses on long leads behind him. The Roman noble was flushed and sweating and they exchanged an amused look of mutual suffering as they passed.

‘Resting those heavy bones, are we?’ Maecenas called over his shoulder.

Agrippa chuckled, though he did not move from the spot. He had never appreciated