The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,99
their achievement, brought back into the fold by the only man with the power to do it. There was still little trust between them, but they had developed a grudging respect for each other in the days of argument. Mark Antony breathed slowly and calmly as he watched Octavian seal the triumvirate agreement and readied his own ring to add his family’s crest.
‘Five years is enough to put right the mistakes of the past,’ Mark Antony said. ‘May the gods smile on us for that long at least.’
‘Will you come back with me to Rome now, to see this made law?’ Octavian asked him, smiling curiously.
‘I would not miss it,’ Mark Antony said.
The coast of Sicily was a perfect location for a fleet of raptores. The high hills close to the coast allowed Sextus Pompey to read flag signals, then send out his galleys in quick dashes, the oar-slaves straining until the prows cut white through the sea. He squinted against the glare to read the flags as the sun came up, showing his teeth as he saw the red cloth like a distant drop of blood against the mountain peak. It was almost hidden behind the pall of smoke from the volcano on the massive island, the grumbling monster that shook the earth and caused dead fish to float to the surface, where his delighted men could spear them and find them already cooked. At night, they could sometimes see a dim glow from the peak, as molten rock bubbled and spat.
It was a landscape that suited his hatred and it was a heady thing to have both the authority and the ships to enforce his will. No longer did he have to risk the wrath of the Roman fleet whenever he sent out his crews to attack merchant vessels. The Roman fleet was his to command, with orders on waxed parchment, sealed in a great disc of wax and ribbon. The senior officers could only salute and place themselves under his authority when they saw that seal. From that moment, he had possessed a weapon as powerful as anything wielded by Rome. More so, given his stranglehold on the coast. Grain ships from Africa and Sicily itself no longer sailed to the peninsula. Rome was cut off from half the food and supplies they needed and he could do still more.
Sextus Pompey turned to his new second in command, Vedius. It would perhaps have been more conciliatory to appoint one of the senior legion captains, but Vedius had been with him for years as a pirate and Sextus trusted him. Vedius was in his twenties, but he didn’t have the sharp eyes needed to read the flags and he waited to hear the news, almost quivering with excitement. The man had been a tavern wolf when Sextus had found him, making a rough living fighting for coin, most of which he lost in gambling or drink. They had recognised something in each other the first time Sextus had knocked him down, breaking his jaw. Vedius had attacked him three times in the months after that, but each time had been worse and eventually he had given up on revenge and taken an interest in the Roman noble who talked and acted like a commoner. Sextus grinned at the man, who had never known regular food until he joined the galley crews that preyed on Roman shipping. Even a wolf could be tamed with cooked meals, it seemed.
‘The red flag is up. There is some brave soul out there, risking his life to get trinkets through to his mistress.’
In the old days, a second flag would have been vital to know the number of ships. One or two made a target, but more than that was too great a risk and his men stayed hidden in the bays and coves along the coast.
Sextus felt his heart beat faster, an old pleasure. He was standing on the deck of a fine Roman galley, with legionaries and slaves ready to send it surging out. In the small bay where he had spent the night, another five galleys were sheltering at anchor, waiting for his orders. He shouted to the signaller, watching as his own flag ran up to the tip of the mast and the rowers were woken from sleep with a whip cracking by their ears. The other galleys reacted with the sort of discipline he had come to love, heaving up anchors from the seabed and readying their oars