The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,57

his choice of a naval life as much as he did then. A centurion captain was master of his vessel and he rarely had to walk far or move the mountains of supplies and equipment that these men took everywhere with them. There had been no news of fresh orders for the fleet. Maecenas had been right about that. Yet he too had been swept up in Octavian’s progress, dragged along despite his misgivings. There had hardly been time to reflect on what they had achieved before Octavian was off again, driven by some source of manic energy Agrippa could only envy.

Even a fleet officer like Agrippa had to admit to being slightly impressed at the way the legion formed up to march. The routines and lines of command were so deeply entrenched that they could go from apparent chaos to shining ranks of sword and shield in no time at all. Yet this was more than a sudden rush to battle formations. Octavian had given orders for the entire camp to be packed up, and as the morning progressed, the soldiers finished their tasks and stood in silence, facing the city. Agrippa looked into the distance, his eyesight sharp for detail after years of peering at horizons. Like Maecenas, he had been staggered at Octavian’s ambitions. It felt like madness and treachery to consider a march into the centre of the city in the teeth of the will of the Senate. He shook his head, smiling wryly to himself. Yet he did not follow Octavian. He followed Caesar. If Caesar sent his men into Hades, they would follow without hesitation.

Agrippa moved when a dozen workmen came to shift the sacks onto carts. The Campus was bare as far as he could see in all directions: toilets filled in and raked, wooden buildings taken down beam by beam and packed. He walked to the front, where a legion servant waited patiently with a helmet and horse.

Maecenas and Octavian were already there, with the constant shadow of Gracchus watching everything with bright eyes. Legates Silva and Paulinius were splendid in the sunshine, their armour burnished to a fine glow. They looked almost younger since the first moments he had seen them. Agrippa mounted up, ignoring the protest from his sore muscles.

As the sun reached its highest point, noon-bells began to sound across the city, rung in temples and markets and workshops to mark the change of shift. Agrippa looked back at ten thousand legionaries and another four thousand camp followers in their wake. They shone, the greatest fighting men of the greatest nation. It was not often that he recognised a moment as important in his life. As a rule, the decisions that mattered could only be understood months or even years later. Yet for once he knew. He took slow breaths as he savoured the sight of so many. The name of Caesar would not have been enough on its own. Octavian had found the words to call them. Agrippa pulled down his helmet and tied the leather strap under his chin.

Octavian looked left and right at Agrippa and Maecenas, his eyes bright with humour and possibility.

‘Will you ride with me, gentlemen?’ he said.

‘Why not, Caesar?’ Maecenas said. He shook his head in wonder. ‘I would not miss a moment.’

Octavian smiled. ‘Give the signal to march, Legate Silva. Let us remind the Senate they are not the only force in Rome.’

Horns blared across the Campus Martius and behind them the Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina legions began to march in step towards the city.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The gates of Rome were open to the legions as they came in from the Campus Martius. Beyond the shadow of the walls, citizens were gathering, the news spreading across the city far faster than men could march. The name of Caesar flew before them and the people came out in droves to see the heir to Rome and the world.

At first, Octavian and the legates rode with stiff backs and hands tight on the reins, but they were greeted with cheering and the crowds only grew with each street. There had been many processions before in the city. Marius had demanded a Triumph from the Senate of his day and Julius Caesar had enjoyed no fewer than four of them, celebrating his victories and scattering coins as he went.

For those with eyes to see, the citizens were thinner than they had been before the riots. Much of the city still lay in ruins or charred