Jupiter’s Chosen - Chapter One
Mars shone brightly in the eastern night sky as Gaius Julius Caesar hauled himself up the steps to the battlements that lined the Armenian capital. The city of Tigranakert was still young but the light of countless taverns, whorehouses and other shops bobbed below him as he walked up the stone steps and across the bulwark. Ornate parapets rose on his right hand side, obscuring the menagerie of shops and tenements that lay outside the palace. He savoured the fresh Maius air as he walked, letting the heady scent of perfume and wine fall from his nose. He had been feasting with a coterie of Eastern kings, planning his conquest of Parthia from his new foothold in Armenia, when Brutus had stormed out of the hall. Gaius was happy to escape the stunned silence that followed, and was grateful that he had the strong Eastern wine heavily watered.
Gaius could see the silhouette of his friend up ahead, looking out over the parapets to the north and west as if he could conjure the image of his city and his son just by willing it. Though the night was pleasantly cool, Brutus still huddled in his cloak. His fists bunched around the fabric, and Gaius could make out the missing spot where his little finger on his right hand should have been. Brutus’ hand had been mangled when he double-crossed the traitors who had conspired to kill Gaius on the Ides of Martius the previous year. The wounds of that day had yet to heal, Gaius thought.
Brutus said nothing as Gaius took his place next to him. The sky was a velvet blue, the Via Lactea stretching out across the heavens. They stood together in silence for a long time, each unwilling to be the first to speak. An Ayrudzi guard walked past them, a veil of chainmail cascading down to cover his chin. As a sworn protector of King Artavasdes, he would be impeccably trained and Gaius savoured the moment when he could send the ten thousand cavalry Artavasdes had promised against the light archers of Parthia.
The Imperator brought his thoughts back to the present. He took a breath, ready to try and talk his friend down from his anger but Brutus quickly interrupted. ‘Do not tell me I need to apologise,’ he said. ‘I will not.’ There was a familiar edge in his voice, as there had been all through the two months since Octavian and Antonius had discovered Brutus’ complicity in the failed assassination on the Ides. He turned to Gaius, eyes pleading but back straight. ‘I will not.’
‘He is a prince, Marcus, and our host’s son,’ Gaius said gently, but he could feel frustration beginning to gnaw at him from the inside. ‘And he spoke to King Darius, not you. What of it if the prince insults Darius for deciding to wage war on his own family? He does not insult your honour.’
Brutus rounded on him, red-faced. ‘It is not him, Gaius. And you know it, yet you shy away from it. It is your family that dishonours me. It is Octavian. And Antonius. I do not regret betraying Cassius and Decimus, not for a day, but because of me my cousin is dead. Do not feign ignorance of the way they treat me.’
The gnawing teeth of Gaius’ frustration grew more persistent. He kept his voice cool as he leant in. Brutus’ neck and chin were covered with small rivulets of scars and Gaius could see the anger in the general’s eyes under the bright Armenian moon. ‘You brought dishonour on yourself when you planned to kill me,’ he growled. He saw the hurt flash through Brutus’ eyes just as quickly as it was buried but he did not regret what he had said. Two months travelling with Brutus, Antonius and Octavian shooting daggers at each other had soured the elated spirit he had begun the journey with and his temper had frayed. Though he had forgiven Brutus, there were still moments, often late in the night, when the pain of what Brutus had planned to do washed over him. ‘For the love of the man you planned to kill, you will weather their taunts.’
The silence stretched on again. Another Ayrudzi guard marched past, his discipline iron as he strode past the strange Roman’s glowering at each other in the dark. Brutus waited until the man was out of earshot before whispering back to his oldest friend. ‘I have paid for my mistakes,’ he said. ‘I have given you everything. I have earned my honour back, and I will not let it be tarnished by smaller men.’ Brutus’ jaw jutted out as he spat the challenge.
Gaius’ fist curled in the dark. ‘Twice in your life you have betrayed me. Twice, you have set yourself against me. So do not tell me you have given me everything.’ His words were acid, and he poured all the frustration of the last two months into them. ‘You talk of lesser men, yet you schemed and plotted with the likes of Cassius and Decimus behind my back because you were envious. Because if I was not here it would be you that Cassius and Decimus planned against in their treachery and their fear.’
Brutus stepped back, his face appalled. ‘You think that is why I joined them?’ His mouth was open wide, aghast. ‘You think that little of me?’ Gaius only glowered back at him, his eyes ablaze with anger. ‘I did it because you threaten everything the Republic stands for and when the time came to plunge the knife in I valued my friendship with you over Rome.’
It was everything Gaius could do to not yell. He pushed down the urge to strike Brutus across the face and instead stepped in close to his friend. ‘My accomplishments cannot be weighed equally to your loyalty. I say it again, I forgive you but by all the Gods it is hard to do. Now go inside and make peace.’ Sadness replaced anger in Brutus’ eyes and he nodded, visibly attempting to calm himself. He kept his voice neutral as he looked up at his oldest friend. ‘Again, I am sorry. I will always be sorry. But know as much as I love you, I can only be asked to bow to a king so many times.’
‘Go away, Marcus.’ Gaius felt the rage bubbling up inside him. The twin scars under his ribcage from where he was stabbed by the traitors Cassius and Decimus itched as he turned away from Brutus towards the East. ‘You have already cost me a year of my life.’ He let Brutus storm off ahead of him towards the main hall before following him from a distance. He took a deep breath, trying to let go of the anger as he walked towards the hall where the assembled client kings of Rome had gathered to make their plans. He could not let his personal anger colour his interaction with them. He would have to be strong, precise and focused. He would have to be Caesar.
* * * * *
Octavian looked up as Marcus Brutus stormed back into main hall. It was a wide room, the ceiling high above them supported by sturdy, well-rounded pillars. There was still a freshness to the cut stone, the city only being erected a generation ago. A collection of long wooden benches had been placed through the hall so the collected noblemen and legion officials could meet and feast before the expedition into Atropatene. Atropatene was a small client-kingdom of Parthia and conquering it would consolidate their entire northern flank. Octavian drunk the heady spiced wine that was served to him by a pulchritudinous slave girl, whose dusky kohl-rimmed eyes and sheer garment made him blush. He had been placed at the end of the head table, which stood on a raised area in the northern end of the room. Fortunately, not many people could see him as he blushed into his drink, though he caught the eye of Marcus Antonius sitting next to him, who winked. The general seemed to have begun a drinking contest with General Publius Bassius and both of them had already downed copious amounts of the peppery drink.
Octavian saw their host rise quickly, his ornate robes flowing down in a haze of red and gold as he rose. The hall fell silent as Artavasdes, king of Armenia stood. Brutus came to attention in the centre of the hall and the room descended into quiet. ‘Have you come to apologise to my son, Roman general?’ Artavasdes did not raise his voice, knowing that here in his kingdom his word was law. A gaudily jewelled finger tapped heavily on the oak table as he waited.
All eyes were on Brutus as he walked towards the high table on which both the King and Octavian sat. To the king’s immediate left sat his son Traxias, a sallow faced man with a permanent scowl. Polemon, the calm and well-spoken king of Cilicia sat next to him, his bearded father Zenon by his side. The man seated at the end of the table opposite Octavian was King Darius of Pontus. Traxias had jokingly accused Darius of dishonour for partaking in a war against his cousin Barzanes, the young king who ruled Antropatene with an iron fist. Brutus, only a few seats down from the Armenian king on the other side of the table and stormed out of the room upon hearing it, though Octavian knew Antonius had given him a hard kick under the table as Traxias made the remark.
Now Brutus stood before them, the seats around him crowded with officers who knew and respected him. Marcus Agrippa was seated at a table before Octavian, a half-finished goose breast on the plate before him. The young man was staring intently at his mentor, praying to the Gods he would not to do anything to provoke their hosts in this strange land of Kings.
Brutus opened his mouth to speak, but Traxias stood quickly, spilling his wine. It dripped off the table and he clicked his ringed fingers irritably at a slave to come clean it up, his eyes wafting over her languorously as she bent down to clean his mess. Traxias was handsome, though he had a somewhat horse-like face. He had a large, hooked nose, below which was etched a permanent scowl. ‘I think we should wait for the Roman king to return before the solider says his apologies.’
Octavian did not know if Traxias was deliberately trying to enrage Brutus or was just stupid, but no one in the room dared to correct him. He felt all the officers stiffen at the title though, and a muscle just above Brutus’ eyebrow twitched dangerously. It was taboo for any Roman to claim kingship. Not even Gaius had been popular or charismatic enough to have the Roman populace accept him as a monarch. Octavian was impressed that Brutus’ had managed to keep his anger in check. The man’s temper had been like fire on the trip east, in no way helped by Antonius’ relentless mocking. Octavian had found his own anger simmering at the man constantly, but had done his best to avoid him out of respect for his father. He had avoided Agrippa as well, not trusting himself not to tell his dearest friend the truth about his mentor.
Brutus did not respond to the haughty prince, but glared ahead into the middle distance until Gaius arrived behind him. The Imperator did not look at his friend, and strode quickly past him to take his seat next to Artavasdes. He nodded once at the Armenian king before sitting, the fire from the many lamps that adorned the room flickering across his thinning scalp.
Brutus cleared his throat, and it was hard to tell if any insolence was meant in the abrupt, phlegmatic sound. ‘Prince Traxias,’ he said, haughtily staring at the insolent young man before him. His jaw was tight as he continued. ‘King Artavasdes.’ He looked around the room. The eyes of every Roman officer was glued to him, and he knew he could not shame himself in front of his men. ‘I have to apologise for leaving so abruptly. A rather pretty slave girl said something to me and I’m afraid I do not speak the local language. Surely, you cannot blame me for wanting to find out what she meant. I thought it would be a rare opportunity to sample some fine Armenian culture and I had no wish to miss out.’ There was scattered chuckles from the officers across the room and Bassus let out a drunken guffaw at the head table, though Antonius looked on poisonously.
Traxias grew purple with rage at the jovial apology but Artavasdes cut off his spluttering with a deft hand. ‘Thank you, general,’ the king said, bowing his head, the oiled curls staying perfectly in place as they nestled around the heavy crown he wore. ‘With temptation like that I think we can all understand your hurry. Come, take your seat next to the Divine Julius. Though I am glad you are finding time to enjoy Armenia, we must turn our attention to our cousins in the east.’
The tension left the room as the legionaries relaxed. The officers had enjoyed the feast, and though some had drunk more than most, not one of them enjoyed being seated lower than the kings raised above them. It sat uneasily with their sense of Romanitas. They were hollow titles to the assembled legates, tribunes and centurions. Roman citizenry was what distinguished a man, not the kingship of an exotic satrapy in the east. Many of them privately applauded General Brutus’ deft handling of the situation, and they tucked back into their meal with relish, enjoying the dates and apricots that were now being served.
Brutus sat down lightly next to Gaius, victory in his eyes. To his surprise, his gaze was met with warmth. ‘Well-handled.’ Gaius whispered, before turning around to talk to Artavasdes. They would be setting out to Atropatene in a few days, and the two rulers would need to know how to co-ordinate their forces. Artavasdes had little love for the Parthian empire or King Orodes, who had invaded Armenia in his youth and forced Artavasdes’ sister to marry his son, the Parthian prince Pacorus. The consequence of those actions now took form in the ten thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry that Artavasdes had promised to Gaius’ cause. Brutus nodded at Gaius’ praise, but he ate on in silence. Gaius continued his discussion with the eastern kings as they traded tactics and Brutus couldn’t help but notice how comfortable the Imperator was in their company, and how easily he swayed them to his cause. The wine was sour in his mouth as he finished his feast.
* * * * *
The Hunter was low in the sky as Brutus walked back to the legion camp just outside the city. The feast had finished many hours before but he had walked the walls before returning to the camp, talking to the guards as they passed him about the coming campaign and the Armenian forces. They had been forthcoming, as a general of a beloved ally, and their obvious delight at the coming campaign had been a welcome distraction for Brutus as he cleared his head. He burnt with shame and loneliness as he walked over the plain to the squat earthen forts that marked his current home.
He heard footsteps behind him just in time to turn and feel a wet globule of spit smear itself across his face. He brushed it off angrily, the fire of wrath turning quickly into an icy hatred that was far more implacable as he saw Marcus Antonius walking up the path towards the legionary forts. The general was red-faced and drunk and there was venom in his eyes as he walked obnoxiously towards Brutus. Brutus was relieved to see he was unarmed. It would make what was to come easier.
The fight had been coming for months, ever since the night in Messana where Gaius had told Antonius Brutus’ secret. Both had kept their tensions simmering, unwilling to vent their anger in front of Gaius, not wanting to shame themselves before the Imperator. But Gaius was sleeping in the palace, in a room given to him by a king. Now, under the Armenian sky it was just the two of them.
‘Antonius –‘, Brutus began, his voice a steely warning. ‘Shut up,’ the drunk general spat at him. ‘You don’t have the right to speak to me after what you did.’ He stepped in vicously and swung a wild haymaker at Brutus who danced backwards easily. He thanked the gods he hadn’t drunk much that evening as Antonius swayed heavily. Brutus resisted the urge to kick him hard in the groin but stepped back. The beginning of the Parthian campaign was almost upon them and he wanted nothing more than to enjoy riding forth with Gaius, however conflicted he felt in the present moment. His rage was still there, blistering, but he held onto the image of Gaius looking at him after his response to Traxias, eyes delighted at Brutus’ one-up-man- ship. Surely that was worth more than a midnight brawl, Brutus thought.
Antonius swung again, before jabbing out with a meaty fist. Brutus dodged both, warily moving away. Drunk or not, Antonius was a big man and there was no telling what he would do to Brutus if he could get his hands on him. ‘Don’t want to fight me, cripple?’ An ocean of hate was in Antonius’ voice. ‘Are you a coward as a well as a traitor?’ This time he kicked out at Brutus, who couldn’t step back fast enough and took a glancing blow to the thigh. He grunted, and Antonius laughed. ‘Are you going to run away because your cousin is dead?’ Antonius taunted him. ‘Are you ashamed you tried to kill your best friend?’.
Something snapped inside Brutus. He planted his feet squarely, rotated his hips and let Antonius’ brazen punch fly past him. He reached out with his right hand, the three remaining fingers curling around Antonius’ fist like steel. With his left he grabbed a hold of Antonius’ little finger. He could smell the wine and sweat on the man he used to call friend. ‘I will outlast you,’ he grunted into Antonius’ ear before down with all his might.
A faint snap could be heard as the finger broke and Antonius bit down on a scream. Brutus pushed him away, the anger coursing through his body preventing him from taking any joy in the image of Antonius standing there in the night nursing his broken finger.
Brutus glared at him. The friendship they had shared years ago was a distant memory and only respect for Gaius stopped him from going any further.
He glared at Antonius. ‘Do that again, and I’ll kill you,’ he said. There was no bluff in his voice. He turned on his heel, continuing his journey back to the legionary camp as he started, alone.