Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) (30 page)

Octavian had brought only a pair of guards, all he was allowed for the formal voting. They were unable to stop the thousands who came to speak to him, to touch him and clap him on the back. It was too many and he had to start walking before they clustered too deeply around him, or knocked him down in their enthusiasm. The movement brought some relief, but they still cheered and followed as he strode across the field to where six guards held a white bull in a pen built for the sacrifice. Agrippa and Maecenas were there, looking proud. Octavian nodded to them, knowing they understood what he had gone through to stand in that place. The new consuls would take the omens and almost a hundred priests and officials and scribes had gathered there to record the event. More soldiers created a clear space for the ritual and the omen-takers prepared the bellowing animal.

Quintina Fabia was dressed in blinding white, her face painted so well that it was almost a mask of youth. She bowed to Octavian and Pedius as they approached, holding out an iron sickle with a keen edge. Octavian took it and tested the implement on the hairs of his forearm as he looked over at the massive bulk of the bull.

‘I do not doubt Julius can see you now,’ the high priestess said warmly. ‘He would be proud of his son.’

Octavian dipped his head to show his appreciation. The guards drew ropes on the bull, heaving it over to the edge of the enclosure. It had been drugged with a mixture of opium and other herbs in its feed, so that it was dazed and sluggish. The omens would not be good if they had to chase a wounded animal across the Campus. Octavian fought not to smile at the image in his mind. He knew it was just giddiness, after the election, but he was required to be solemn and dignified until it was done.

The chanting began as the omen-takers and soothsayers implored the gods to send a sign and give their blessing to the consular year to come. Octavian stood mute and Quintina finally had to jog his shoulder to tell him it was time.

He approached the tethered bull, close enough to see its lashes and smell the clean scent of its skin. He placed a hand on the top of its head and saw the animal was chewing idly, unaware of what was going to happen. The image reminded him of Pedius and again he had to struggle not to laugh.

With a jerk, he reached under the powerful neck and drew the blade across in one swift slash. Blood spattered like rain onto bronze dishes held below. The animal grunted and did not seem to feel pain at first. The bowls filled and were replaced, passed to the omen-takers, who stared into the red liquid for patterns into the future.

The bull began to moan and struggle, but its lifeblood still poured. It collapsed slowly onto its knees and the dark brown eyes grew wild. It moaned louder and the ropes grew tight as it tried to struggle up. Octavian watched, waiting for it to die and thinking of Decimus Junius. He was woken from his reverie by a shout from one of the haruspices, pointing at the sky with a shaking hand. Octavian looked up with the rest of the crowd and was in time to see a flight of dark birds cross the city in the distance. He smiled, delighted at the sight of vultures in the air. The history of the city said that there had been twelve as Romulus founded Rome. With thousands of citizens, he counted the dark birds in his head, struggling to be certain as they overlapped and dwindled.

‘I saw twelve,’ Quintina Fabia said loudly and clearly.

Octavian blinked. The birds were passing into the setting sun and he could not be sure. The number was echoed around him and he laughed at last.

‘It is a good omen,’ he said. He had Caesar’s luck, for all he was sure there had been only nine birds. They had gone into the sun, but it was enough. The sighting of twelve would send a message of rebirth to the people of Rome.

When the bull’s liver was cut out, the end of it was folded over and Quintina Fabia beamed. She held up the bloody organ, spattering her white robe with red life that ran down her arms. The omen-takers cheered and the scribes wrote down every detail on wax tablets, to be entered into the city records later that evening. The omens were superb and Octavian could only shake his head in pleasure and send a silent prayer of thanks to his mentor and namesake.

The bulk of the crowd had followed the new consuls to watch the sacrifice. As the omens were read and proclaimed across the Campus, Bibilus and his coterie of supporters remained by the voting baskets. Bibilus swept his hand through the polished wooden tokens, letting them fall back one by one. With a sour expression, he looked at Suetonius and Gaius Trebonius.

‘I have ordered horses brought for you,’ he said, ‘and arranged a ship. You will find it at the docks in Ostia. Go with my blessing.’

His tone was grim with dissatisfaction, but he could feel the tide turning as well as anyone. Octavian had won the highest post of the city and the Caesarians were rising with him. Clients in the Senate would no longer withhold their votes. Bibilus thanked his personal gods that the fleet was not in their grasp. There was at least that, slim straw though it was to ease his disgust.

Suetonius looked over the city and around at the Janiculum hill. He remembered a different election and another Caesar, but he had been younger then and more able to withstand the reverses of capricious fate. He shook his head, wiping a hand over the thinning hair that the breeze picked up and flicked over to reveal his baldness.

‘I will go to Cassius,’ he announced. ‘This is just a single day, Bibilus. Sextus Pompey has the fleet in the west. Cassius and Brutus hold the east. Rome will starve without grain by sea and this city will suffer, held on both sides until it is strangled. This vote, this
obscenity
today, is one small failure, nothing more. I will see this place again, I swear it.’

He turned to Gaius Trebonius, the one who had distracted Mark Antony during the assassination of Caesar. The younger man had been so proud to be named as one of the Liberatores, even though he had not wielded a blade. Now, the legacy of that decision haunted him and he looked ill.

‘This is not right,’ Trebonius said, his voice shaking. He had never left Rome before and the thought of foreign cities filled him with unease. ‘He had Decimus Junius hanged without a proper trial! How does he remain immune while we must run? We removed a tyrant, an enemy of the state. Why do they not see that?’

‘Because they are blinded by gold and names and foolish dreams,’ Suetonius snapped. ‘Believe me, I have seen more of it than I could ever tell you. Good men work in silence and what of their dignity, their honour? It is ignored for those who shout and prance and pander to the unwashed crowds.’

He reached out to grip Trebonius by the shoulder, but the younger man pulled away by instinct, his face flushing. For an instant, Suetonius clawed the empty air, then let his hand fall.

‘I have lived with Caesars. I have even killed one,’ he said. ‘But men like Cassius will not let this rest, believe me. There will be a price in blood and I will be there to see it paid.’

For the first time in many years, the new consuls would not enter the city proper. The senate house was still nothing more than a scorched foundation and Octavian and Pedius walked instead to the open doors of Pompey’s theatre. The crowd followed them right to the point where they passed behind a line of soldiers, there to guard the dignity of the Senate.

Octavian paused at the enormous pillars of white marble, looking at the flecks of bull’s blood on his hands as the senators streamed in around him. Many congratulated them both as they passed and he acknowledged them, knowing that he should begin the subtle web of alliances that he needed to pass even a simple vote. Yet the omens had given him a momentum that the senators would not resist.

Pedius stayed at his side, his mouth working constantly as if he tried to consume himself from within. He alone seemed to take no joy in the omens or the appointment, though it would place his name in the history of the city. Octavian stifled a grin at the older man’s nervousness. He had not chosen Pedius for ideals or a fiery intelligence, far from it. Pedius had been the best choice simply because he was not strong. Octavian had learned from his mistakes, particularly from the disaster of entering the forum with armed legionaries earlier that year. He knew by then that he could not ignore the importance of how he was seen. The people and the Senate would resist a crude grab for power in any form. Even as consul, he would tread warily. Pedius was his shield.

‘Consul,’ Octavian said to him. The older man started at the title, a tentative smile playing around his chewing mouth. ‘I am happy to propose the Lex Curiata myself. It would honour me if you would call the vote to overturn the amnesty.’

Pedius nodded immediately. Octavian had agreed to fund a new home for him in the sea town of Herculaneum, a place where only the richest men of Rome dwelled. Pedius appreciated the delicacy and politeness, but he knew his support had been bought and was nothing more than a formality. Yet he had known divine Caesar and admired him for years. The shame of failing to vote against the original amnesty still stung in him. Though Octavian did not know it, the house by the sea was just froth compared to that.

‘It would be a pleasure, Caesar,’ he said.

Octavian smiled. Rome was his. In the weeks of preparation, one man had never doubted he would become consul on a wave of public acclaim. Mark Antony had written to him, asking for a meeting in a neutral place where they might plan a campaign against the Liberatores. It would begin today.

The river Lavinius wandered across the north. Near Mutina, it had formed a dozen small islands in the water, ranging from rocky outcrops with a single tree to patches of dense woodland surrounded by the current and cut off from the world.

Octavian looked across the flowing waters to where Mark Antony waited for him. Neither man trusted the other completely, which made the island a perfect meeting place. On the other bank, two Gaul legions stood patiently in square formation, but they were helpless to intervene if Octavian planned treachery, just as the Seventh Victrix and Ninth Macedonia would not be able to help, if Mark Antony planned to kill him.

Simply reaching that point had been like an elaborate dance, with the two sides exchanging messages and promises as they came together. Both had guaranteed safe passage for the other, but the reality always involved a final gamble. Octavian looked at Agrippa and Maecenas. They had crossed once before to search the island for hidden soldiers or traps of any kind. It was impossible to be too cautious, Octavian thought. He took a deep breath, looking dubiously at the rocking boat.

‘I think, if we have missed something, if this does not go well, I would like to go to my death with the certain knowledge that Mark Antony will not be long behind me,’ he said. ‘Those are my orders. If I am killed, he is not to leave that island alive.’

He judged the distances, seeing that Mark Antony had picked a spot out of reach of legion spear-throwers.

‘Bring up the scorpion bows and have the teams aim out over the river,’ Octavian said.

His legions had been able to assemble the massive weapons over the previous day and it gave him some relief to watch them dragged up by teams of oxen and aimed at the island. On the far bank, he saw the same thing happening and wondered what it would be like to stand on that small isle and hear the snap of the bows as they sent iron bolts streaking across the water.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked his friends.

Agrippa answered by clambering down into the boat and checking ropes with a tug. Maecenas shrugged, still staring out at the figures waiting for them.

‘You’ve done all you can. If it’s a plot, he won’t live through it, I can promise that much.’

‘Unless he isn’t even there,’ Agrippa said as he settled himself. ‘The big man with the armour could be just an officer to draw us in to a place he can strike with his own catapults and bows.’

‘Always the optimist, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said.

Even so, Maecenas climbed into the boat and took a grip on the tall prow, preferring to stand. There were four rowers already in place in the skiff, all veteran swordsmen with weapons at their feet that they could grab at a moment’s notice. As one, they looked up at Octavian and he nodded to them.