Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) (53 page)

‘I will
still
see him,’ he muttered to himself. He looked over to where soldiers waited with a carriage and awning to shade the emperor from the midday sun. A ship waited in the bay below to take him to the tiny island of Planasia, south of Elba, where the only man who carried the emperor’s blood in his veins was still held prisoner. Raising his head, Octavian gathered his toga around him and walked slowly, accepting the strong arm of a centurion to help him climb up.

Octavian had not expected the journey along the west coast of Italy to invigorate him. In the past, he had been a poor sailor and he’d dreaded the effect of the waves on his already weak stomach and bowels. Yet the captains of the three galleys had gone out of their way to make the trip as smooth as possible, with two of them positioning themselves around the central trireme to shelter the emperor from wind and the heaving motion of the sea. As if the gods blessed the enterprise, it had been a clear run, without a sign of bad weather. Octavian had spent twelve days simply resting on the deck, standing for hours until the pain in his lower back grew too fierce and he would order couches brought up for him to rest. He had expected to spend the time thinking of what lay ahead, of the succession to come and the best man to inherit Rome from his hand.

Yet he had ruled that coast for decades and there were sights and memories there from a lifetime, calling his attention away from his own worries and plunging him back to the distant past and the trials of his youth. It was part of growing old, he knew, that the past had such a call on him. Perhaps it was because there was so much of it and so little ahead. His spirit was anchored in decades long gone.

From the deck of the galley, he had caught a glimpse of the canal dug by his friend Agrippa, dead for more than twenty years. That tiny gap in the coast had silted up long before, leaving just a crease in the land where it led back to a deep lake. Yet he knew it was there and his thoughts were on his youthful friends as he passed by.

Agrippa had come surging out to do battle at sea, born from the womb of the land to protect Octavian from the fleet of Sextus Pompey. Octavian blessed Agrippa’s memory. In a brazier on deck, he burned sweet incense for a good man, still missed. He had outlived so
many
of those he had called friends – and enemies. Yet there was no mistaking the signs of death on him, at last. His hands shook all the time and there was always pain somewhere, sharp or dull, but always present. Octavian was determined only to live long enough to choose his heir wisely, his last task in the world.

He set his jaw as his galleys pushed on, west of Rome, where the Tiber emptied to the sea and the port of Ostia bustled. Octavian did not allow a stop there, knowing only too well that there would be messages and work waiting for him. In the city herself, there were law cases still waiting on his ruling. He put them all from his mind, concentrating on the young grandson he would see and judge. Octavian wiped sweat from his eyes, blinking against an old sting as he flicked dark droplets onto the deck and watched them sink into the bone-dry wood. He had not shared everything he knew with Livia. If he had told her the latest whispers that had reached him, it would have led to another furious argument. He was too old to view such marital discord with anything but weariness.

As well as the current charges laid against Marcus, Octavian had been told the young man was involved in a plot to seize power. If the rumours were accurate, young Marcus planned for his grandfather to meet a quiet and sudden end. It seemed his grandson was supported by a good sized faction in the senate. Octavian smiled to himself, knowing he had the names of every man involved on a list in his sea-chest. Fifty years experience as an emperor made their deals and whispers little more dangerous than the squabbling of children. He had seen too many plots to even remember them all – and torn them all out, root and branch. That was what Livia would not understand, if he’d told her. Octavian didn’t
care
if there were plots. If anything, such energy and determination would be welcome in Marcus. By the gods, at least it would show him his grandson
wanted
Rome!

Octavian glowered at the coast drifting past him, land gold and green with water the colour of lapis lazuli passing under the keel. Tiberius would not be plotting against him, he thought scornfully. Good, honest Tiberius would wait patiently for what he had earned. Livia’s son was without doubt the clear choice a man of nearly eighty might make to succeed him. The trouble was that Octavian still remembered his youth. He had been a different man then, one willing to hunt his enemies to the ends of the earth and take his vengeance. Octavian suspected Tiberius would have bored that younger self to madness.

Through his vast network of informants and clients, Octavian had spread word that he would be taking a holiday in a house south of Rome. He told no one of his true destination, beyond Livia herself. Even the three galley captains were informed on route, just before they would have headed into Ostia and the imperial berths. The senators planning to wrench power from Octavian’s hands would have lost track of him for a vital few weeks, lulled at the thought of the old man resting in a fine villa. Octavian clenched his hands on the galley rail, looking down with surprise at the pain in his knuckles as he did so. He
hated
being old, but he
would
finish this last thing. Closing his eyes against the sun, he sent a silent prayer to the spirit of Julius Caesar, that the bloodline would have run true, like unto a thread of gold in clay.

Octavian knew Livia already suspected the truth, but he saw no shame in it. He was first in Rome, the Princeps of the greatest city in the world. Who came after him was his decision, alone. If Marcus showed him
any
sign of Roman dignity, Octavian knew he would have Tiberius quietly killed and his grandson handed the reins of empire. Octavian owed Rome everything he was, he knew that much. He would make the best choice for his city, whether it cost him his marriage or his peace, or his remaining days.

When the galleys reached the channel between the coast and the isle of Ischia, Octavian knew they were no more than a day from the fortress and prison of Planasia itself. Marcus Postumus had been there for almost three months. It had been time enough for the young man to think over his wild life and to consider the best use of his talents.

Octavian went to his cabin early, though he knew he would be lucky to sleep as the galleys anchored in the lee of Ischia and began to bob in the sickening rhythms of the swell. Some men found it soothing, but Octavian’s roiling stomach meant he had to keep a bucket by his bed.

He tossed and turned as night fell, sweating into his blankets and finally losing his patience at around midnight, with the moon high and clear against the stars. In a foul mood, Octavian called for his slaves to wash and dress him in clean robes, then came out onto the deck, breathing deeply in the warm air. With a single order from him, the watch officers set to rousing the crews in the darkness.

Not a whisper of complaint was heard, despite the hour. Octavian’s word was as law and the Roman soldiers raised the anchors quickly, in unison. In the holds below the main deck, rowers were woken and given water. They set their hands on immense oars that they knew as well as their own skins, shoving the lengths of wood across their thighs until they hung above the waves, then lowering them down into the black sea. They waited for the order and the day’s labour to begin, easing aching muscles, blinking at each other in the darkness and accepting handfuls of dried meat and fruit to sustain them.

The three galleys stayed close together as they swept out onto the black waters, with sharp-eyed boys on deck to watch for the white froth that would show them they had crept too close to rocks or a coast. By the time the sun rose, Planasia was visible ahead, with Elba an even larger shadow over on the right side. The day was clear and in the breeze of their movement, Octavian found he was weary after all, so that he went back to his cabin and slept for a time, while the captains brought him into the tiny fortress harbour of his grandson’s prison.

Marcus looked at the Latrunculi board of white and black stones with a carefully cultivated expression of amiable dullness. Being the only prisoner on the little island had few advantages, but one was that the six guards had no one else to impress. If there had been other prisoners, perhaps of lower estate, they might have kept to their roles rather more readily. It had taken Marcus just a few weeks to subtly remind them that he could very well be ruling the empire and paying their salaries before too long. If it hadn’t been so easy, it would have been fascinating to watch them think it over and come to the right conclusions. The sort of men who ended up guarding a little used prison on a tiny island were not perhaps the best Rome had to offer. They were certainly not the richest. With just a few hints and prods, Marcus had them thinking how they might best treat a prisoner who could possibly hold their lives in his hands one day.

The joy of it was that he had not made a single threat or promise. Instead, he had told them stories of his grandfather the emperor, of how Octavian had triumphed against Mark Antony and Cleopatra, or how he had taken the heads of the assassins of Julius Caesar. The guards had done the rest themselves. As the weeks and months passed, the relationship had changed fraction by fraction, until they thought little of seeing him outside his cell, or laughing with a couple of the older ones as they prepared a meal together.

Once a month, two of the guards took a mule and cart across the island to a tiny cove on the north shore. They carried spars and sails with them, bringing them all together with a small boat kept chained and locked on an ancient quay. Even the dullest of them understood a prisoner would be very interested in a sail boat. It was the one time they showed proper vigilance, becoming surly when he offered to help in any way. It had been another small victory for Marcus when two of them agreed to exchange a gold ring for some luxuries from Elba. Of course they’d kept most of it for themselves, but he’d expected that. It was another small step.

After that first time, each month had cost him another ring and though he was down to two, he knew the gifts were worth the loss. He thought he might have gone mad without a few wineskins, decent cuts of meat and most valuable of all, the Latrunculi set to while away the evenings. Marcus had offered two of the valuable rings the previous month to see if they’d bring him back a woman, but they’d only laughed at his cheek, telling him he’d have to wait for freedom, or perhaps until he could catch one of the wild pigs that roamed the island. The two grizzled old soldiers had thought that was a rare joke and Marcus had laughed along with them, while marking each man closely in his memory. He made a point of remembering those who stood in his way, no matter how trivial the offence, just as he could be unbelievably generous with those who helped him. Such things were simple transactions and he kept a little tally block in his mind, marked against their names for good or ill.

Nothing of his thoughts showed in his face as Marcus deliberately made a weak move. The officer, Naevius, thought himself something of an expert at the game. Marcus could only imagine the confidence had come from playing with the man’s children. Their sticky antics and triumphs were often described in great detail, to the point where Marcus thought he would smack their heads hard if he ever actually met them.

Naevius was from a minor noble family, Marcus had learned that much in casual conversation. The gods alone knew who the man had offended or what he had done to be given such a miserable posting, but Naevius seemed cheerful enough in his role – and he had a pouch of coins that Marcus had glanced at once and then never again. On the subject of gambling, Naevius was willing to lecture from a high moral position. It had taken many days for Marcus to bring Naevius to the point where he might be tempted, but then there weren’t many other challenges to occupy his time.

Frowning, Marcus made another poor move, risking complete disaster. Naevius failed to hide his delight as he reached out.

‘Another piece thrown away! You must guard
against
the pin, you see? I have a choice here of two moves now. I could take another of your stones, if I move my king … here.’

Naevius sat back and Marcus scowled, shaking his head.

‘Without stakes, there is no pleasure in it,’ he said. ‘I try to think clearly, but win or lose, it means nothing. I think perhaps I will resign.’

Naevius looked crestfallen, his gaze darting from the board to Marcus and back down.

‘Perhaps then, in this one case, I could allow a small bet …’ he began. ‘If it helps your game. I would return the stakes to you, afterwards, of course.’

Marcus frowned at the older man, an expression of deep suspicion crossing his face.

‘I wonder if all that talk of wicked gambling was to lull me into losing my last rings. Is that your plan?’