The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,67

be cowed by their anger. For those with the wit to see, I saved more than I killed. More importantly, I brought the rest into the fold. I gave them back their dignity and honour.’

He turned from Saturnius, ending the conversation as he addressed Buccio once more.

‘This Octavian claims a name that rings out to our men. It is not surprising, when Julius Caesar himself created many of the legions represented at this table. Of course they are saying they will not fight against his adopted son! It would be a surprise if they did not.’

He paused, knowing he had to have these men on his side.

‘There are limits to our authority, limits to what we can make the men do. The legions can be pushed only so far – beyond that, they must be led. I have seen it, gentlemen. I have seen Caesar himself talk to mutinous legions, risking his own life.’ He glanced back at Saturnius, his expression scornful. ‘If you treat them as children or wild dogs, they will eventually turn on you. Discipline is the core of what we do, but they are not Greeks or painted Gauls. They are Roman men, who understand something of the Republic, even if they do not always have the words to say it. Well, you must give them the words they need, Buccio, Saturnius. You must remind them that Caesar may be gone but the Republic can still be revived. I will not allow some blond boy to pretend to the authority of my friend, no matter what an old will said about his adoption. There is no new Caesar. Tell them that.’

Buccio had grown thoughtful as the consul spoke, his hands splayed firmly on the table before him, to hide his tension. He had, if anything, understated the position. Some of his most senior officers had dared to come to him and the consul did not seem to understand the seriousness of the situation. Yet with Mark Antony watching him, he could only nod and attack his food in bitter silence.

Mark Antony sat through another two courses before anyone said another word beyond the most strained comments on the food. He was content to spend the time thinking about the Senate and what they would demand from him when he returned. He hoped Octavian would surrender, rather than force him to test his men further. He could not ignore the warnings of the legates, for all he was angry at Buccio for handling things so badly. If ‘Caesar’ could be captured quickly, it would end all the talk Buccio had discovered.

The evening had grown late by the time the meal came to an end. Mark Antony was heavy with weariness, desiring nothing more than a room with a fire to sleep. As he rose from the table, his action copied instantly by the legates, they all heard the clatter of hooves on the stone yard outside. The messenger Buccio had sent entered the tavern and went straight to the consul’s table.

‘Report then,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Have they halted? I am beginning to think I was too quick to promote Liburnius.’

‘They have not halted, sir,’ the messenger said nervously. ‘I rode to the front rank and tried to approach the legate, but three of his officers drew swords as soon as they saw me. As I rode away, they shouted to tell you …’

His voice died away as he realised the enormity of repeating an insult to a consul in the company of legates. Mark Antony had the same sense of foreboding and raised a hand.

‘Just give me the idea,’ he said.

‘They are not coming back, sir. They are going to fight for Caesar.’

Mark Antony swore loudly, cursing the name of Liburnius. His gaze fell on Buccio, who was standing in sick awareness that he had become the target of a consul’s wrath.

‘Get back to your legions. If Liburnius can march through the night, so can we. I’ll run him down, I swear it. Go!’

Mark Antony crushed a yawn as it began, furious with himself and his men. If the legions had been rebellious before, a night muttering to each other about the consul would not improve things. As he called for the horses to be resaddled, Mark Antony decided Octavian had to be killed. The young man had chosen a name that made him too dangerous to be left alive.

The exterior of Pompey’s theatre was as impressive as its long-dead sponsor had intended. Though Gnaeus Pompey had