The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,69

unsure what to do, while the others pressed on. The senators had not dared to draw the daggers they all carried. Yet they clustered and shifted, standing in a clot of men that could not be breached without violence. Octavian seethed, knowing that he could give a single order and they would fall back in bloody rags. Maecenas had predicted they would refuse, but Octavian had not expected to see any kind of courage from those men, certainly not to withstand the terror of hardened legionaries coming at them.

‘Stand down, centurions,’ he ordered, furious with them all as well as himself.

The line of legionaries disengaged, leaving red-faced senators in their wake, their togas in crumpled disarray. Octavian could only glare at them, his hand twitching to draw the sword that lay at his hip. He held his honour like iron bands around him, but he could hardly bear the poisonous triumph he saw on the faces of Bibilus and Suetonius.

Silence spread again, broken only by panting men. One of the centurions turned to Octavian and, in doing so, saw movement on the Capitoline hill. A rider was coming down to the Campus at a gallop. Octavian turned to see what had arrested the man’s attention and his heart sank. They had been dreading the news for days and there was only one thing that would send a rider charging out to him that morning. The senators still waited for him to speak and when he did, his voice was low and cold.

‘As I bear the name of Caesar, I will not shed more blood onto these stones. Yet my patience has its limits, gentlemen. I tell you solemnly – do not depend on it again.’

It was not enough to wipe the smirk from Bibilus’ face, but Octavian knew he was out of time. Sick with rage, he turned his horse and trotted out to meet the rider. His centurions formed up and marched with him, leaving the senators behind.

Octavian reined in as he reached the young extraordinarii soldier, breathing hard from his ride through the city. The man saluted and Octavian stared back at Rome. He did not know when he would see it again.

‘Legions sighted, sir. On the Via Appia.’

Octavian nodded and thanked him.

‘Go back and tell Legate Silva to bring the men out at their best pace. I am finished here. I will await them on the Campus.’

It was not long before the first marching ranks appeared over the brow of the Capitoline. They came out of the city without any of the cheering or fanfare that had announced their arrival. They marched in sombre mood, knowing that Mark Antony was approaching Rome with three times as many men.

Maecenas and Agrippa reached him first. Maecenas nodded to him, glancing over to where the Senate still stood watching.

‘They refused?’ he asked, though he had already guessed.

Octavian nodded. ‘I should have killed them,’ he said.

Maecenas looked at his friend and shook his head.

‘You are a better man than I am. It will be remembered that you did not, with legions at your back. They will not be able to accuse you of running wild, at least. That counts for something.’

Octavian looked past him at the gleaming ranks of men marching away from Rome. If all else failed, he had agreed with the legates to head north along the Via Cassia.

‘Does it?’ he said bitterly.

‘Probably not,’ Maecenas replied with a grin. Agrippa snorted, though both men were pleased to see Octavian smile in response. ‘But it might. You still have two legions and we’ll be far enough away in Arretium. I have a small house there and it’s pleasant enough.’

‘Did you recommend a winter at Arretium because you have a home there?’ Agrippa asked in disbelief.

Maecenas cleared his throat and looked away.

‘Not … entirely. It is not as grand as my estate in Mantua, you know. But Arretium is a quiet town and off the main routes.’

Octavian shook his head, his friend’s irrepressible nature cheering him. He had gambled and lost, but Maecenas seemed untroubled. Octavian grinned suddenly, letting his mood lighten.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘The Senate are watching. Let’s ride with a little dignity.’

He dug in his heels, despair and anger tearing into wisps on the breeze.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Exhausted, the Fourth Ferrata called a halt in sight of the walls of Rome, with Legate Liburnius sending riders ahead to take his urgent messages. Before the murder of Caesar, the idea of mutiny of any kind would have been unthinkable. Liburnius