The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,89

drinking only a little water and thinking back over the death of Decimus Junius. He had hoped for some feeling of satisfaction, but he had never met the man before and it was not there in him. Even so, he offered up a short prayer to Julius that he would bring the same justice to the rest of the Liberatores, one by one.

When the assembly of officers had gathered, he went out to stand before them.

‘You know why I am here now,’ he said, making his voice carry. ‘If you did not understand before, you know why I let Mark Antony leave the field yesterday. My enemies are those who murdered my father Caesar, divine Imperator of Rome. I have moved rashly before and made decisions I cannot take back. I stand here with you because I remember Caesar and he knew the wisdom of the legions he commanded.’ He paused to let the compliment sink in before going on. ‘With you, I am the right hand of Rome. I am the sword that will cut out traitors like Decimus Junius. Without you, I am no more than one man and the legacy of my father ends with me.’

‘What do you ask of us, Caesar?’ someone shouted back at him.

Octavian looked over to the massed officers.

‘Talk to each other. Talk to your men. We have eight legions and that is enough for any task. Caesar told me you could be wise, so show me. Let me know what I should do.’

He stepped deliberately away from his position, so that the officers did not feel bound to remain. To his satisfaction, he heard conversations begin among them and after a time he walked to his tent and lay in the gloom, listening to the murmurs and shouts and laughter of the men as they discussed what to do.

Barely three summer hours had passed when Justinius came to find him, the legate staring as if he could see Octavian’s heart with eyes alone.

‘The men have decided,’ Justinius said.

Octavian nodded, walking with him back to the same spot. They had gathered once more to answer him and he saw many were smiling.

‘Which of you will speak for the rest?’ Octavian called to them.

Hands went up and he picked one at random. A burly centurion rose to his feet.

‘Caesar, we are honoured to have been asked.’

A great bellow went up and Octavian had to raise his arms and pat the air for silence.

‘There are some who think you should take over from Decimus Junius in the north,’ the centurion said.

A few men cheered, but the majority remained silent as he went on.

‘The rest – most of us – have considered that Rome has at least one consular post fallen vacant,’ he said. They laughed at that and Octavian smiled with them. ‘You are too young, it’s true. No man can be consul before the age of forty-two in normal times. But exceptions have been made in the past, not least for the divine Caesar himself. We think the presence of eight legions at your back will be enough to persuade the Senate that your age is not a barrier to election as consul.’

They roared to show their support and Octavian laughed aloud. Standing at his side, Maecenas bent close to his ear.

‘I’m sure it is just a coincidence that they are suggesting exactly what you wanted to hear,’ he murmured, smiling. ‘You are getting better at this.’

Octavian looked across at him, his eyes bright. As they quietened to hear his response, he took a deep breath.

‘You have spoken and I have heard. Yet if I go south to stand for consul, it will not be as the head of an invading army. I will ask the citizens of Rome for their vote, but I will not take legions into Rome, not again. If the people see fit to make me consul, I will gain the justice that has been denied to me – and to you – for too long. Is it your wish that we return?’

The response was never in doubt, but still Octavian was pleased at the battering roar that came back to him, quickly echoed instinctively by the mass of legionaries further out. They would hear the news in time. They were going home to elect a new Caesar as consul.

In the tents of the healers, Consul Pansa heard the roar and sucked in a molten breath. In his weakness, his tongue slipped back into his throat, the fat length of