The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,75

offer? Why would they even want my legions, if not to punish Mark Antony? Yet he should be fighting with me, not against me! He goes north to attack Decimus Junius, one of those who wielded knives on the Ides of March. Should I join the Senate and prevent him achieving exactly what I would like to see happen? By the gods, how can I join my enemies, to fight against my only ally?’

As he spoke, the sense of excitement drained from the men at the table. For just an instant, they had seen a way through the fear and chaos of their position, but Octavian’s anger snuffed out their hopes.

‘So you will not join the new consuls, Caesar?’ Legate Silva said.

‘No, I’ll join them. I’ll even march north against Mark Antony with them.’ Octavian hesitated, considering how much he could tell them. He had already made his decision. ‘Why would I resist marching north? Mark Antony is right – Decimus Junius is away from Rome, but still in reach. I would be following the same path before too long. Let these new consuls think whatever they like. Let them believe whatever they like. They are bringing me reinforcements.’

Maecenas rubbed his forehead, feeling the tension that would lead to a headache. To avert it, he drank a full cup of the Falernian, smacking his lips.

‘The men around this table came to follow Caesar,’ he said. ‘Heir to the divine Julius. Will you now tell them they must also accept orders from the Senate? From the very senators who voted an amnesty for his killers? They’ve mutinied before for less.’

His words prompted a furious response from Buccio and Paulinius, both men shouting over the other at the insult to their honour. Maecenas looked at them, his own anger simmering.

‘So we march to attack Mark Antony, to save that whore’s whelp Decimus Junius?’ Maecenas continued. ‘Have you all gone deaf, or can you hear me say that?’

Octavian glared at his friend, rising from the table and leaning on his knuckles. His eyes were cold as he stared and Maecenas had to look away as the silence swelled and became uncomfortable.

‘Ever since I came back from Greece,’ Octavian said, ‘my path has been strewn with rocks. I have suffered through fools and greedy men.’ His gaze fell on Liburnius then, who suddenly looked away. ‘I have had my rightful demands scorned by fat senators. I have seen plans turned on their head and ruined in front of my eyes – and yet, despite all that, I find myself here, with four legions sworn to me alone and another four on the way. Would you have me tell you all my plans, Maecenas? For friendship, I will, though it will make the task a thousand times harder. So I ask you this. Put aside the demands of friendship and act, for once, as an officer under my command. I will accept the rank of propraetor and if any man asks how I can put myself under Senate authority, tell that man that Caesar does not share his plans with every soldier under his command!’

Maecenas opened his mouth to reply, but Agrippa shoved his wooden trencher across the table, butting him in the chest.

‘Enough, Maecenas. You heard what he said.’

Maecenas nodded, rubbing his temples where an ache still throbbed.

‘I have no choice,’ Octavian said to them all, ‘but to be the very model of Roman humility and discipline. I will accept the command of Hirtius and Pansa because it suits my aims.’ His voice was hard as he went on. ‘I will have to show these new consuls more than just words and promises. We should expect to be sent first into battle, or any other situation where our loyalty can be tested. They are not fools, gentlemen. If we are to survive the coming year, we have to be sharper and faster than the consuls of Rome.’

Hirtius and Pansa rode on well-groomed geldings in the third rank of their new legions. Both men were in fine form as they trotted along the wide stone route of the Via Cassia. Hirtius looked back over his shoulder at the trudging ranks, reliving old memories and seeing no flaw in the men he had been given. Their very solidity was a balm after the raving chaos they left behind. There were no arguments on the road, no riots. He and Pansa were of one mind, delighted that Mark Antony’s mistakes had raised them to the highest post