The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,58

beams, but they had pride even so and they roared their appreciation. Octavian felt their excitement like a jug of wine in his blood, raising him. All that was missing was the slave at his shoulder to whisper ‘Remember thou art mortal.’

All the previous Triumphs had ended in the great forum and the crowds seemed to understand that, running ahead of the legions so that the roads grew more and more choked. Citizens and slaves began to chant the name of Caesar, and Octavian felt his face redden, overwhelmed. On his horse, he and his friends were at the level of the lowest windows overhanging the street and he saw women and men leaning out as far as they could, just a few feet from his head.

At three separate street corners, other men shouted furious insults and were shouted down in turn by those around them. One of the agitators fell senseless after a crack round the head from a middle-aged tradesman. The legions moved on towards the heart and Octavian knew he would never forget the experience. The Senate may have turned on his family, but the people themselves showed their adoration without shame.

They came over the Capitoline hill, walking the same route the assassins had taken. Octavian clenched his jaw at the thought of those who called themselves Liberatores holding out their red hands in pride. Of all things, that brought him fastest to rage. Murder was an old thing for the Republic, but masking the crime in dignity and honour was not. He hated the Liberatores for that, as much as for their jealousy and greed.

He did not doubt the Senate were sending feverish messages to their houses, calling each other in for the emergency. Octavian smiled bitterly at the thought. Without the might of the legions, they were just a few hundred ageing men. He had revealed that, throwing back the curtain that concealed how weak they truly were. He hoped all those who had voted for amnesty could hear the noise of the crowd as they welcomed Caesar. He hoped the sound chilled them.

Even the vast open space of the forum could not hold two legions at full strength. The first few thousand marched right across, allowing the rest to enter the heart of Rome. Legates Silva and Paulinius began to send runners back down the column, ordering their men out in all directions rather than have the crush increase. Every temple would house a few hundred. Every noble mansion would be the billet for as many men as it could take. When those were full, the legions would make their camps in the streets themselves, closing all the roads leading to the forum. Cooking fires would be lit in stone gutters for the first time and the centre of Rome would be theirs.

It took time to halt and organise the column, with both the legates and their officers working hard. The clot of men at the centre spread out in every direction, legionaries walking in and sitting down wherever there was space. They closed off the forum, allowing the crowds to filter out as the day wore on. Only the House of Virgins was untouched, as Octavian had ordered. Apart from the debt he owed to Quintina Fabia, the presence of legionaries among those young women could only result in disgrace or tragedy. He began to appreciate the difficulties Caesar had faced with any large movement of soldiers, but the legion structure was designed to respond to the commands of one man and he did not have to think of everything, only to trust that his officers would work hard and well for him.

The evening light was still soft as horns called across the forum, across the heads of thousands of men. They could not raise tents on the stones, even if there had been room. They would sleep out in the sun and rain, to sweat and freeze in turn. Those same soldiers had cheered him on the Campus and they did not complain at being led by a Caesar into Rome.

The site of the old senate house had been cleared of rubble, ready to be rebuilt. Its foundations lay exposed, rough brick and stone still heat-scorched and dark yellow against the grey cobbles. It made a sort of sense to have the legates construct a rough building there, their legionaries hammering in spikes to bind the beams, then heaving great leather sheets over to form a roof. Before it was fully dark,