The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,87

battle against an army half the size of our own, but it is better than losing, gentlemen. To victory!’

He raised his cup and they drank. He looked over at the new legates and decided to spend the evening in their company, to learn their strengths and weaknesses. He recognised the most senior of them, who had spoken to him at the end of the battle. Justinius did not look as if he had fought that day. His formal toga was fresh from his baggage and the man himself watched and listened politely as if he were at a Senate banquet rather than a field camp.

Octavian was in the process of crossing the low tent to speak to the man when one of the legionary guards entered and saluted.

‘Decimus Junius has arrived, sir,’ he said to Octavian. ‘He is asking to speak to consuls Hirtius and Pansa.’

‘No easy task,’ Maecenas muttered.

Octavian shot a warning glance at him. Pansa still lingered in the healer tents, his delirium and fever beyond anything they could do for him. Yet Octavian could not be seen to take delight in the way fortune had apparently favoured him.

‘Send him in,’ he said. His tiredness had vanished at the name and he faced the tent flap with bitter anticipation, wondering what he would do.

The man who entered was a stranger to Octavian. Decimus Junius had a round, fleshy face that gave him a look of youth. Yet he was trim enough in the toga of a Roman senator and he looked sternly around the command tent, finally saluting with stiff formality.

‘I am told Consul Hirtius has been killed,’ he said. ‘Who commands now, that I may lay my complaint before him? Who allowed Mark Antony to escape to Gaul when he was in our grasp?’

Eyes turned to Octavian, who said nothing at first. He savoured the moment while Decimus Junius looked around from face to face, confused by the silence.

‘I believe my ranks of propraetor and praefectus entitle me to command,’ Octavian said at last. ‘Either way, I am Gaius Julius Caesar and this army is mine.’

He spoke as much for the benefit of the new legates as Decimus Junius, but the name was not lost on the man, who went pale and stammered as he tried to continue.

‘I … Propraetor Caesar …’ he began, struggling to find words. Decimus Junius took a deep breath and went on, though his eyes were sick with worry. ‘Two thousand of my legionaries are still held at the Castra Taurinorum, guarded by some of Mark Antony’s men. I seek your permission to free them and rebuild the fortresses. I was fortunate that the consul passed me by as he went for the pass, but my supplies are low. If I am to keep my position here, I must ask for food and materials …’ He trailed off under Octavian’s cold stare.

‘Your position, Decimus Junius?’ Octavian asked. ‘It is simple enough. You were one of those who murdered the Father of Rome. As his adopted son, it falls to me to demand justice.’

Decimus Junius paled further, his skin bright with sweat.

‘I … I was granted amnesty by the Senate of Rome, Propraetor,’ he said, his voice shaking.

‘An amnesty I revoke,’ Octavian said.

‘By what authority? The Senate …’

‘Are not here,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘I am the commander in the field and you will find my authority is absolute, at least so far as it relates to you. Guard! Place this man under arrest and hold him for trial. You may choose anyone you like to speak for you, Decimus Junius. I suggest you find someone of uncommon skill.’

The guard laid a hand on Decimus Junius’ shoulder, causing him to jerk.

‘You can’t do this!’ he shouted. ‘I was granted amnesty for bringing down a tyrant. Will you make yourself another? Where is the rule of law in this? I am immune!’

‘Not from me,’ Octavian said. ‘I will convene a court of senior officers for tomorrow morning. Take him away now.’

Decimus Junius slumped, his expression appalled as he was led away. Octavian faced the other men in the tent, focusing on the new legates in particular.

‘Will you criticise me for this?’ he asked them softly.

Justinius was the only one of the new men who met his gaze. The legate shook his head.

‘No, Caesar,’ he said.

The sun was barely above the eastern horizon when the trial began. Eight legions were encamped around a single laurel tree, so that the small space was at the centre of a