Sons of Mars
Chapter One
‘And you, Brutus?’
‘Yes,’ Marcus Brutus confessed, his voice low. Brutus ignored the bead of sweat slipping down his temple, steeling his nerve as he stared into the hard agate eyes of Gaius Julius Caesar, Divine Imperator of Rome. His old friend glared at him intently, his eagle gaze boring into Brutus’ over his aquiline nose.
Brutus’ knuckles tightened around the iron ridging of his dagger, the detailed hilt pushing up into the calloused flesh of his palm. The murder in Gaius’ eyes was besieged by sadness and a heavy sigh escaped his lips as he collapsed on a hard bench, the sound bouncing off the wood and marble that clothed the large, empty theatre that functioned as Rome’s Senate House.
The Theatre of Pompey was a massive complex, the walls covered in gleaming frescoes of its creator’s deeds. A large, life-like statue of Magnus Pompeius himself gleamed opposite Brutus, the once mighty general’s stone eyes peering into his soul and accusing him of treachery even through death. Brutus breathed deeply to steady himself, his jaw bunching as he forced himself to speak.
‘Myself, Cassius Longinus, Decimus Junius Brutus, Lucius Tillius Cimbar, Servilius Casca –’. He stopped in surprise to find Gaius’ hand on his shoulder. Gaius’ voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the restrained violence in his tone.
‘You and I will discuss this when this is done.’ Gaius’ eyes flickered across the room to the concrete statue of Pompey. The memory of Brutus’ abandoning him to fight alongside Pompey during the civil war hung heavily between them as Gaius’ grit his teeth. ‘I have forgiven you once. I do not know if I can do so again’.
Rome’s Imperator stood, fists clenched white. Two guards stood expectantly by the open door, their lorica armour polished to a burnished sheen. ‘Bring Marcus Antonius’ Gaius snapped at the waiting guard, ‘and hurry. You,’ he pointed to another, ‘find General Hirtius.’
‘How much time?’, he asked, as the guards tore off down the Theatre’s steps.
Brutus pushed down his guilt, focusing on the task at hand. ‘Enough to lay a trap for them. They weren’t expecting you this early. I have sent a man to tell Cassius you are already here.’
‘How many?’
‘Fourteen, though Trebonius has been sent to distract Antonius.’
Gaius’ jaw tightened as he looked around the room, easing his facial muscles into a calm mask. His personal bodyguard, Milo, had already crossed to the now vacated door, the guard’s expert eye scanning the outside portico for approaching conspirators, fingers drumming a hard rhythm on the hilt of the massive Celtic longsword he wore on his side. Gaius followed his gaze out past the door and into the open air before turning back to Brutus. ‘Three to fourteen’ he said, his voice steady. Brutus tried to smile. ‘We’ve faced worse odds,’ he said. Gaius didn’t smile back.
* * * * *
Gaius Trebonius swore under his breath as he pushed his way through the throngs of people that swarmed through the spool of roads that led to the Aventine Hill. If he was Cassius Longinus’ brother-in-law and not that arrogant traitor Marcus Brutus, then he would have had the honour of being there when the tyrant Caesar was cut down. Instead he was forcing his way through the crush of plebeians, all making their way to Pompey’s Theatre for the gladiatorial games held later that day as he sought to waylay Marcus Antonius. He shook his head, dumbfounded by their stupidity and how simply they had believed the lie. The games were a ruse, an excuse to get Caesar alone in Pompey’s Theatre before the games begun.
Trebonius covered his nose to protect himself from their cloying reek. ‘One more day’, he thought, pushing his way through the crowd. Cassius had promised him a nice comfortable posting as governor of Syria if they were successful and he would make himself rich and fat on the gold that passed through that country. He swore as a plebeian bumped into him and lashed out violently, his fist striking the man’s shoulder as he scurried away. He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm.Everything had to work today. There could be no mistakes.
Movement in the crowd up ahead drew his eye and Trebonius stopped. He wiped the sweaty mop of brown curls from his face. ‘Shit’, he whispered. Marcus Antonius was approaching him at a run, his face red with anger. One of Caesar’s guards ran by his side, the morning sun glistening off the short stabbing swords both men carried. Trebonius swore one last time before turning his back and sprinting toward the Theatre.
* * * * *
Milo’s shoulders heaved as he pushed the heavy wooden door of the theatre shut. Fourteen against three would be a challenge, but he had yet to find anyone in Rome with the strength to wield the massive sword at his waist. He felt a cool hand on his forearm and looked down. His master looked up at him, eyes alight with cool fury. ‘Leave it open,’ Gaius said. ‘They will try again another day if they think have been discovered. This ends today.’
Gaius walked to the middle of the theatre where Brutus stood, head bowed in shame. ‘You want to prove you’re sorry?’, he asked. Milo watched Brutus nod silently. He could not comprehend why the Imperator hadn’t killed him yet. Caesar had already forgiven Brutus once when he fought against him in the civil war against Pompey. If it was Milo, Brutus’ life would have been bled from him on those fields.
‘Cut your arm and let the blood pool on the ground’ Gaius’ voice was cold and Brutus didn’t flinch. He dragged his knife swiftly along his left forearm, silently kneeling on the cool marble and holding his arm out so the blood began to pool. Gaius turned his attention to Milo. ‘Milo, come here. Lie down with your neck over the pool. Put your sword next to you’. The big guard grinned. He could not understand his master’s habit of clemency, but he had great respect for him as a tactician. Like most soldiers, Milo enjoyed tricks and he could see the joy in this one. He smiled, lying down and lowering his eyelids until they were almost closed, his head angled toward the entrance.
His smile wavered when his view was blocked by Caesar lowering his knees onto the floor. ‘Take my gladius’, the Imperator said. There was no reply from Brutus, but Milo tensed as he heard the slither of steel as his master pulled the short sword from its scabbard and the quiet grunt as Brutus took it in his injured arm. ‘Give me your knife’. Milo’s smile returned as he saw his master hide a small blade in his arm away from the door. ‘Now point the blade at my throat.’
* * * * *
Antonius’ breath was steady as he exhaled through his nostrils. It was a crime to carry an exposed weapon in the city, but his gladius was out, its naked steel gleaming dangerously as it chopped through the air as he ran. His thighs strained as his sandals slapped the dusty ground. He was once supremely fit, and though he trained daily, three years spent running the administration of the greatest city in the world meant he was not the man he once was. He took a deep breath in, letting his chest expand as he lowered his head, willing himself to gain on Trebonius.
He had forced a confession from a terrified Servilius Casca in the early hours of the morning. He had feigned not fully understanding him and let him escape, hoping to buy himself time to foil the conspirator’s plot. Now he feared he would be too late. No one had been there to greet him when he had visited Caesar’s house earlier this morning, not even his son Caesarion or the boy’s mother Cleopatra. ‘Regulus,’ Antonius kept his breath measured as he ran, ‘go to Caesar’s estate on the Tiber. They may come for the Queen and the boy’. To his credit the guard that had alerted him didn’t question him and at the next left turned and ran down the winding street. Up ahead, Trebonius was slowing down, and even though Antonius was close enough to hear him gasping for breath, Trebonius didn’t make the amateur mistake of checking to see how near his pursuer was. Antonius couldn’t let him reach Cassius and reveal the conspiracy had been discovered. Raising his right hand and spinning his gladius so the blade pointed to the sky, Antonius heaved, throwing it as hard as he can. The cries of surprise from the people around him couldn’t drown out the sickening crunch of the blade penetrating
Trebonius’ skull. Antonius leapt forward and wrenched the blade free, running fast without breaking his stride. There would be more blood to spill before the morning ended.
* * * * *
Even with six men on either side of him, Cassius Longinus was still nervous as he marched up the theatre’s wide steps. The heavy doors were thrown inward and sunlight streamed into the dark theatre beyond. Marcus Brutus had promised him he would lure Caesar there earlier than planned, just in case Caesar decided not to attend the games. No sign of struggle could be seen in the gloom. Brutus must be in there with the tyrant, Cassius realised, ignoring the twinge of fear for his brother-in-law that sunk its claws into his brain.
He signalled to his fellow conspirators. ‘He may have guards with him,’ he said. Cassius kept his chin high as he looked around at his fellow liberators, keeping his voice low. ‘Keep your knives hidden in your togas and let Tillius Cimber distract him first as planned.’ The men around him nodded, some flicking their eyes down to the ground or up to the Gods, others making a point of meeting his gaze. Decimus Junius Brutus stepped forward, years of military expertise showing in his confident stance.
‘Remember gents, groin or neck,’ Decimus growled. ‘Don’t give him a chance to fight back.’ Together with Marcus Brutus, Decimus and Cassius had spent weeks planning the assassination together, and Decimus gave Cassius an assuring nod as he began to walk up the wide steps. Cassius was surprised to find a solid calmness supplanting the fear in his soul. Together they would light a fire from the embers of a dying Republic. The tyrant would be killed and Rome would be returned to her rightful rulers. Cassius nodded back before striding confidently up the theatre’s steps.
* * * * *
Brutus stared down the length of his gladius, Gaius’ exposed neck only inches away. Even after revealing his part in the conspiracy he could still feel the anger and jealousy he felt for his friend. Though he truly feared for the Republic he had fought for all his life, in his heart of hearts Brutus knew this jealousy was part of the reason he had joined Cassius and Decimus. Gaius had strode the world like a giant, leaving Brutus, his right hand man and greatest friend, unrecognised and unrewarded. Gaius cast all of Rome in his shadow. It was unjust. But he was also a friend and Gaius and Brutus understood each other as no others could. He was more than blood. Brutus looked into his friend’s eyes and knew that all this could be read upon his own face and his cheeks flushed with shame.
Gaius’s anger was white hot, radiating off him in waves. Even kneeling, fists clenched and a gladius at his throat he was imperious. ‘I do not forgive you. I do not accept your apology. We will talk about your betrayal once Cassius has been contained. I gave you everything, and you choose to betray me. Again’ Brutus tried to bite down his anger as each word landed like a blow. The shadow of Pompey’s statue lay between them.
‘I will make it right today, Gaius.’ There was a disapproving hiss from the heap that was Milo at Brutus’ use of the Imperator’s first name, but Brutus pushed on, keeping his voice level. ‘Even though it means taking up arms against both my cousin and brother-in-law I will stand by you. I am sorry. And I will fight fourteen men alone if I have to prove that to you.’
The glint in Gaius’ eyes was harder than the gladius that hovered inches below them. ‘We will talk after. When they enter let them close. Raise your sword as if to strike me then turn and attack. Milo and I will follow quickly. We will use the surprise to take as many down as quickly as possible. Then push for the right flank. Milo and I will be next to you. Once we’re on our feet we find a wall and hold out for Antonius.’ Brutus nodded once, rolling his shoulders, eyes searching for the approaching conspirators. ‘I am the best sword in Rome’, he said, ignoring the sardonic grunt from Milo. ‘We will survive this. And I will face what I have done.’ Milo grunted again quietly, and Brutus turned, squinting into the sunlight as he saw Cassius, Decimus and a group of others he knew well begin to approach the theatre, pausing only briefly before they strode up the marble steps.
Cassius dropped all amiable presence as he took in the scene, his fellow conspirators fanning out around him as he entered the theatre. His hand dropped to the folds of his toga, finding the hilt of his pugio dagger. Decimus moved up next to him as they walked forward. The oversized beefcake that protected Caesar lay dead in a puddle of his own blood and Brutus was panting hard, a fresh gash down his arm. Pathetically, Caesar was on his knees, his hands clenched in humiliation. He looked like the old man he was and Cassius’ heart flared with the joys of victory. Brutus had won, they had won, and now Brutus stood proud with his gladius pointed at the tyrant’s heart. There was no tremor in his hand, and Cassius marvelled at the fortitude it took for the man to threaten his best friend so stoically. The Republic needed such men if it was to be rebuilt.
Brutus kept his gaze steady as he turned to face his brother-in-law. His fellow conspirators were smiling and relaxing in their victory. Only Decimus and Cassius had a blade in hand. Casca walked toward Brutus, arms outstretched. ‘Thank the Gods Brutus, I thought Antonius found out and we would be –’. A thin red line snaked its way across Casca’s necks. Bubbles foamed around the corner of his mouth. The room exploded into violence.
‘What have you done?’ Decimus roared, his voice bouncing off the cold stone of the theatre as he charged forward. Cassius was frozen, caught completely by surprise. Brutus was already moving, jumping right, trying to keep as many of the conspirators on one side as possible. He landed solidly, using the movement to conceal a thrust that whipped out to lacerate Servius Galba’s arm. The old man was only in the room because of a rumour Caesar had an affair with his wife and he moved out of the way, his other hand disappearing into his robes to find a knife. Brutus stepped backward, gladius pointing low to the ground as he moved out of range as several of the conspirators rounded on him.
A bull like yell to Brutus’ left distracted him briefly as a massive blur crashed through his line of sight. Milo was up, taking the senators by surprise. He hadn’t bothered to pick up the sword, opting for speed. His mammoth weight sent three of the conspirators crashing to the ground and his hands were wrapped around Lucius Basilus’ head before the senator could move. A gravelly crunch echoed around the theatre as Basilus’ cranium gave way, the grey matter of his brain oozing out of the broken bag of his head as Milo hauled himself to his feet. Quintus Ligarious lay unconscious at his feet and Milo’s arms streamed with tiny cuts. All the conspirators had their knives out now, retreating to block the doorway.
Gaius rose swiftly to his feet, knife in hand. Two senators had died in nearly as many seconds and a third was unconscious. Three were working to surround Brutus and another four were backing away from Milo. That left three. He could take three. Rome was his city and any fool who thought he could be taken from her would end his day supping in Hades. He sprung back as a knife flicked out at him, grabbing the senator’s arm that slashed at him and pulled his knee up into the man’s groin. Gaius felt something give and smiled as the man collapsed, before ducking another slash. He used the upward momentum as he rose to slam his knife into Tillius Cimber’s throat, the blade punching in all the way to the hilt. Warm blood covered Gaius’ face, momentarily blinding him. A body careened into his side and he hit the ground hard.
Brutus eyes widened as Cassius crashed into Gaius and he lunged forward, brushing away Galba’s feeble thrust with a riposte that left the man’s thighs running red. The old senator wouldn’t be fighting again today, if ever. Brutus moved to the left, fighting to get close to Gaius but was stopped as Pontius Aquila and Pacuvius Labeo threw themselves at him. Brutus screamed as a knife tore into his left bicep and punched his gladius through someone’s groin in response. He didn’t see Pacuvius move behind him as Aquila fell, nor see the awkward slash that missed his neck but sunk into the little finger of his right hand. He felt his skin tear as another knife split the skin across his cheek and he fell into darkness, his face hitting the floor as his gladius clattered uselessly next to him.
Pacuvius smiled, his fists bunched in triumph. He had done it. He had felled the traitorous whoreson that was Marcus Brutus, the first sword of Rome. Only two left now. He grinned the grin of a proven warrior and was still grinning as Marcus Antonius barrelled into him from behind, sword sliding down the nape of Pacuvius’ neck and into his heart.
Antonius hit the ground running, pulling his sword free from Pacuvius’ slumping form and rolling under Caecilius’ wild swing, slashing at the man’s hamstring as he rose. Cassius and Decimus were on top of a struggling Caesar and Antonius let out a furious roar as both men plunged their knives into the Imperator’s flesh. Before he could do anything, Milo crashed into both of them and all three went down. Milo’s hands found Cassius’ neck. The man’s fingers were like steel, and Cassius could feel the surety of victory slipping away as he clawed at the vice-like grip around his throat. Caesar’s blood was pooling next to him, its sticky warmth seeping into his toga. He was glad he would take the tyrant with him to Hades. An animal shriek above him forced his eyes upward and a great weight fell on him as Milo collapsed, Decimus’ knife in his eye. Decimus heaved the big man off him and yanked him up. ‘We run for Gaul and regroup,’ Decimus panted. ‘Caesar has few allies there.’
Marcus Antonius leapt for them both and Cassius’ military instinct took over as he quickly pushed Decimus away to safety. Antonius moved back, standing protectively over Caesar’s body, daring them to fight him. He bent down and picked up Caesar’s knife, hate-filled eyes never leaving his foe. Cassius understood why people claimed Antonius was descended from Hercules and his blood ran cold.
‘Guards are coming!’ Publius Turullius’ cry sliced through the theatre as the distant thud of metal studded sandals filled the air. Antonius stepped forward, gladius low, knife held in the left hand. Cassius noticed his breath was steady, whilst both he and Decimus were spent from their encounter with Milo.
‘Don’t.’ Antonius raised the gladius at him, his voice hard. Decimus grabbed Cassius by the shoulder, hands sticky with drying blood. ‘The tyrant is dead. We will find a safe place to ride this out until the people hear what we have saved them from.’ The four remaining conspirators turned and fled into the city.
Antonius let his weapons fall to the bloodied floor and knelt by Gaius’ broken body. He tore off the metal greave on his arm and held it to Gaius’ lips. A faint mist lit up the steel and Antonius gave a huge sigh of relief. The Imperator’s arms and legs were covered in a score of cuts, and two nasty slits just below his ribs flared imperceptibly with each shallow breath. But he lived. Gaius’ lips moved, and Antonius begged him not to talk but Caesar was never a man to be told what to do and he weakly gestured for Antonius to move closer. ‘What is it, Gaius?’
‘Get to Cleopatra. Get to my son.’ Then he fainted.
Chapter Two
Cletus stifled a gag as the watery stench of the river Tiber clogged his nose. He cast a scowl as one of his men behind him coughed. He had warned them again and again of the need for stealth on their mission to take the Egyptian queen. If the fool behind him carried on that way in the legions, Cletus would have had him whipped for insubordination. But Magnus Pompeius was dead, and Cletus’ old legion shattered, even their name stolen by Caesar’s upstart nephew Octavian. Cletus winced as a twig snapped behind him but said nothing, biting down on his lip in frustration.
The oiled gladius made no noise as he pulled it from its sheath. It was a risk to bring his old legionary blade to the house of Cleopatra, but Lucia was a reminder of who he once was and he would not part with her polished steel. Caesar may have won the civil war in the last year, but Cletus spat on his universal offer of clemency. The Imperator was a sanctimonious tyrant as far as Cletus was concerned, and any true Roman would brave his own way in the world rather than stay in the legions and serve under a dictator. Besides, Cletus was valuable amongst the raptores, the rabid street gangs that patrolled Rome’s underbelly.
He was surprised then when he had been approached in a popina, and was already deep in his drink when a hooded figure slipped in next to him, a fat silver aureus in his hand. Cletus had tensed then. Any man displaying that kind of wealth often found themselves face down in a puddle by dawn, throat cut. But as the man whispered in his ear Cletus began to relax, a warmth radiating in his chest that he hadn’t known for years. The words were like a balm to his soul.
‘We will strike the tyrant. Take the coin. Kill the Egyptian slut and her boy, and more will follow.’
Now, after weeks of planning and several more meetings Cletus was ready. The Ides of Martius would be a day of reckoning not just for Caesar but for all the filthy dogs of Egypt who murdered his old general Pompey. He kissed Lucia’s cool blade for luck as he gave the order for his men to fan out and surround the Queen’s sprawling garden villa. There were guards at the door and presumably more inside with the Queen, but he had the numbers and Lucia was thirsty.
Cletus pricked his ears up, listening intently. Over the murmur of the Tiber he could make out the sound of a horse galloping toward his direction. A score of scenarios raced through his mind, but only one justified a rider approaching so quickly. The ploy in the Senate had to have been discovered. He kicked at the dirt under him in anger as he surveyed his men, searching quickly for the appropriate response. The thugs under his command had almost made a full perimeter now, and he could see at least four hiding near the thick wooden door that marked the entrance to the villa. Sunlight streamed through the trees, and Cletus could easily make out two guards, thick muscled Egyptian warriors with deadly looking scimitars. They glared down the path, as if their gaze itself was an unbreachable wall. There was no weakness there. Cletus forced his mind to think as the hooves grew louder, grinding his teeth until he made his decision. His men would die, but it would be a noble sacrifice. There would not be another chance like this to strike the Queen again, and if Caesar had survived then there would be no more riches from his secret benefactor. He sent a quick prayer up to the Gods before bellowing to his men to attack.
The first guard went down quickly, a knife in his throat, but the burly slave managed to hold onto his attacker, slashing the raptor’s thigh as they both collapsed. Blood flowed quickly and Cletus knew from long experience that it was a fatal wound. The second guard had already felled two of his men, backing away from their knives as he lay about with great, downward strokes. A third man was already tearing through the bushes to bring more men to the gate. It did not matter. No one danced like he and Lucia. He swayed away from a predictable stroke from the remaining guard and pushed forward with his shoulder, ‘Push and thrust’, he thought, grinning as Lucia lanced out and took the man in the groin. A wet crunching sound couldn’t mask the guard’s gasp of surprise as he crumpled to his knees. But Cletus was still dancing, turning around to face the incoming rider. His men on the other side of the villa would be inside already, and he could hear the clash of metal that meant that somewhere else Egyptian blood was being spilt.
Cletus turned his back on the now unguarded door, making way for his fellow ruffians as he moved down the path to face the unknown horseman. He felt powerful. He was a professional killer, honourable and full of Romanitas, and because of his daring at least part of the plot against the tyrant and the queen would succeed. The warmth in his chest flared again as a rider crashed around a corner. Cletus didn’t need to see the long curved scatha sword or the man’s thunderous scowl to know his foe meant him death. He and Lucia had fought cavalry before in Greece, when Caesar’s cavalry had regrouped at Pharsalus and smashed through Pompey’s own horsemen to devastating effect.
He lowered his centre of gravity, Lucia held in his left hand. The man was close enough for Cletus to see the foam around the horse’s mouth and he jumped forward sword held high. Surprised, the warrior chopped down hastily but Cletus was ready for him. The jump was a feint and Cletus landed quickly, rolling backward under the sword, Lucia’s fine edge raking the mount’s flank as he rose. Cletus turned quickly and leapt again, knowing the warrior would turn swiftly now he was behind him. Lucia plunged into the man’s side and Cletus dropped to the ground as the horse shot out from under the warrior and sped away down the road. Lucia lay in the man’s flank, gleaming triumphantly in the sun as blood soaked into the dirt. Cletus couldn’t help but let out a contented sigh as he brushed himself off and walked over to Lucia. It was a beautiful first dance, and he could feel her hunger matching his as he sauntered through the villa’s gates.
* * * * *
‘He’s alive,’ Antonius assured Brutus. It was astonishing Brutus was still conscious. The little finger on his right hand had almost been severed at the middle knuckle, and blood flowed freely from his ruined bicep. Brutus didn’t have the strength to speak but crashed to his knees and bowed his head over Gaius’ blood-soaked body. Wounds like little mouths covered Gaius’ arms and legs, and the two twin wounds in his chest writhed with each shallow inhalation, sending little rivulets of blood down Gaius’ now pink toga. Antonius looked away as he saw tears fall from Brutus’ eyes. He knew it was not for his wounds – the man’s body had seen more injury than all but the most grizzled veteran.
Antonius’ head snapped back as he heard a faint rustle of breath from Gaius. ‘Brutus,’ Gaius breathed. ‘You live.’ Antonius moved swiftly to his side, his knees splashing in the pool of blood that was now filled centre of the theatre.
‘Don’t talk Gaius’, Antonius said hurriedly. ‘Save your strength. I will bring a physician. You stay here with Brutus.’ Antonius was already pulling off his toga as he talked, tearing it into bandages for his friend’s many wounds.
‘No’. The word was the faintest whisper, but there was no replacing the force behind it. ‘Cleopatra is in danger. My son is in danger.’ Blood dripped out in heavy drops from the cuts under his ribs as he struggled to talk. ‘Brutus will go. He will settle his debt there.’
‘No Gaius, he cannot, he is injured.’ Antonius did not know if Gaius had seen how badly damaged Brutus was, or if he just didn’t care, and he did not understand the debt Gaius referred to. Gaius shook his head as his fingers tightened on Mark Antony’s toga. ‘Then now is his chance to prove himself to me.’
‘I will go.’ Antonius protested. ‘I will find a physician and I will go. I have sent someone already.’ But Gaius had lapsed back into unconsciousness again. A fresh stream of blood tricked down from underneath Gaius’ lungs, and Antonius tore at his toga and began to bandage Gaius’ arm, working feverishly, blind to anything else until he heard the scrape of steel on marble. Brutus rose shakily to his feet, his ruined right hand clutching his gladius, blood running down the blade and dripping at his feet. He did not look at Antonius as he
limped toward the door of the theatre. He did not grunt as he tripped down the theatre’ steps and Antonius could only imagine the strength needed just to move as Brutus made his way resolutely toward the Tiber.
* * * * *
Cletus cursed as he rubbed his shoulder. He should have thought to bring an axe. The thick oak door that lay in the heart of the villa would not budge an inch. He could not hurt Lucia against such an obstacle, and instead ordered his men to use the butchered guard’s scimitars. The delay had been long, with far more guards inside than he had thought, but the Egyptian’s lack of armour had been the end of them. They had gone down bravely, Cletus grudgingly admitted, taking all but four of his own men. He shrugged. It would be enough. One boy and one bitch could not escape five raptors. The boy’s muffled cries could be heard through the thick door and Cletus grinned as he heard something crack deep inside the oak.
A clatter behind him made him turn around and a smile spread across his face. Marcus Junius Brutus stood there, blood dripping from a horrific wound in his left bicep, his right hand ruined. There had been rumours of a key figure involved in the plot who was close to the tyrant and Cletus had his secret convictions about who it was. He had fought near Brutus when he tore into Caesar’s ranks on the fields at Pharsalus and had admired the skill of a fellow dancer.
‘Have we won?’ Cletus asked, straining his ears to hear as Brutus tried to find the breath to respond. The surviving thugs turned away from the door, warily assessing the newcomer. Two approached the liberator, raising their scimitars aggressively, not knowing who he was. ‘Stand down’, Cletus snapped at the raptors.
He took a step toward Brutus. ‘Have we won?’ the rat-faced man with the scarred cheeks and the gladius asked again. Brutus only dimly registered how strange it was for a raptor to carry a gladius as he took in the circular antechamber around him. Before him stood five armed men, and Brutus could barely stand, let alone fight. ‘Stand down,’ the rat-face man snapped as two of the thugs stepped forward. Brutus slowly shifted his weight onto his back foot as the men moving toward him stopped, facing him in a curved line. Rat-face stepped forward again. ‘Have we won?’, he asked. There was no suspicion there and Brutus felt himself smile through his pain. ‘I’ve won’, he said, then slammed into the man on his right, his gladius punching through the soft flesh of the man’s neck.
Brutus moved quickly, keeping the gladius buried in the man’s throat so he wouldn’t fall. He spun the corpse towards the other raptors and heard a satisfying thunk as a scimitar tore into his fleshy shield. Brutus quickly pulled the gladius from the man’s throat, ducking around him and ramming the sword up into the next man’s groin. He grunted as flames of pain licked his hand and he almost dropped the gladius, but his nerve held, and he pulled the blade free, half his little finger dangling uselessly from his hand. Rat-face was no longer smiling, and Brutus barely had time to roll away from the rapid thrust at his groin. A scream of rage erupted from Rat-face as a raptor cannoned into the little man in his effort to get to Brutus. The gangster was unused to co-ordinated fighting and was shoved toward Brutus, his scimitar flailing dangerously.
Brutus felt his strength flag as he heaved his gladius across his body, deflecting the heavy blade as he stepped forward to headbutt the man. His vision went black for a second and warm blood poured down his side. The warmth was like a salve, a loving embrace that demanded sleep. Brutus instinctively dodged the follow up thrust, forcing open his eyes and spitting out blood as another wild-eyed raptor awkwardly tried to stab him. His scimitar was not made for stabbing though and Brutus stepped inside his reach and elbowed him in the face. The satisfying crunch gave way to a strangled gasp as Brutus thrust his gladius in the man’s throat, quickly retracting as he pulled away. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the rat faced man. Why was he backing away? Why had he let the raptor attack him alone? Brutus decided he didn’t care. He didn’t need to know. He took a deep breath, ignoring the pain coursing through his right hand. He couldn’t feel his left arm at all, and he didn’t know which was worse. His nose was broken and he could feel blood down the right side of his abdomen. He steadied himself. Rat Face had moved against the wall. Brutus forced breath through his broken nose, the wheeze adding to the gasping breaths of the man he headbutted and Caesarion’s muffled cries of alarm from behind the heavy door.
‘I was there, you know,’ Rat Face growled, pointing his gladius at Brutus’ chest. The cold blue steel was well maintained. ‘At Pharsalus. When they tyrant beat us. I saw you go down. I couldn’t believe that someone could survive that, but you did. You knew how to dance.’ Rat Face began circling him now and Brutus barely had the energy to move his feet to match his. ‘I couldn’t believe the tyrant forgave you either. I thought it was a ruse, a ploy to get the legions to stand down. But it was real, wasn’t it? You were always his little bitch, weren’t you? Rat Face stepped forward on the word ‘bitch’, his gladius snaking out toward Brutus’ groin. Brutus only just managed to deflect it and his weak riposte was ignored completely.
‘I’m going to keep your gladius, old man,’ Rat-Face said. ‘She’ll make a fine dancing partner for Lucia.’ What on earth was the little man talking about? Brutus staggered, his eyesight fading. He could hear Caesarion’s cries grow louder in the next room. Cleopatra could handle herself, but she couldn’t take down a man who moved as fast as the ex-legionary in front of him. Brutus would have to end it here. Before he could register it, his gladius slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor.
‘Pick it up.’ Rat Face spat at him. ‘Real Roman’s don’t surrender’. Brutus could see the man’s face grow pink with anger as he spat the words at him. Brutus right hand was non responsive and his legs seemed made of lead. Caesarion’s cries crescendo-ed from behind the oak door. Rat Face stepped towards him; gladius pointing at the floor. ‘I’m not fighting Caesar’s bitch unarmed.’
Brutus found the last shred of energy he had left and lunged at the man, bellowing in pain as he forced his left hand to grab the man’s sword arm as he dragged him down. The little finger on his right hand had caught in the raptor’s hair but Brutus bit down on the pain and raised his arm before ramming the man’s head into floor. He could feel his bicep tearing as Rat Face struggled to bring his sword to bear and Brutus smashed his head against the marble again. Blood was running down his lower lip as he raised his arm again. His hand curled in the gangster’s coppery hair and they were hot wires against the exposed flesh of his finger. Thinking only of the Queen and the boy in the next room he brought his hand down one last time, his scream matching the raptor’s as his finger was ripped clean off. Brutus felt the thug’s right arm grow slack and he let go, his own left arm dangling uselessly by his side. Brutus’ mangled right hand smeared blood down the man’s shirt and pawed at him until he found what he wanted. Brutus grimaced in pain as he forced his remaining fingers to close around the dagger he found near the man’s belt, and he pushed down on the man’s heart. The skin and muscle gave in as the blade punched its way through.
Brutus had one more job to do though. He heaved himself to his feet, staggering like a drunk to the door. His arms no longer worked and he simply let the weight of his head bang against the wood. ‘Cleopatra.’ The words were a faint whisper. ‘Cleopatra. Gaius sent me.’ The doors opened, and Brutus peered through the blood and bruises to see the woman Gaius loved.
Even with blood dripping into both his eyes he could see the lack of fear in her eyes and the knife in her hand. Cleopatra could not believe what she saw as she heaved the heavy door open. Marcus Brutus was a thing of blood. One eye had almost closed over, and the bridge of his nose had a nasty dent in it. A deep cut above his right hip was oozing blood and she could see flesh and bone through the damaged skin of his left arm. His right arm hung uselessly by his side, the remaining four fingers of his hand shaking violently. How could he still stand? Behind her Caesarion stared at him, wide eyed in fear. At three years old the boy had seen very little of violence and the man in front of him must have seemed like a demon sent by Set. Still, her little prince would be safe. ‘Thank you, Brutus.’ she stepped forward, dropping all bonds of decorum and pulling the man into a hug, knowing he was about to drop. She felt his weight press against her small form and she locked her knees, not wanting to drop him and injure him further. She did not see his frown as she spilled thanks into his ear. ‘Thank you. Thank you. The future king of Egypt and Rome will forever be in your debt’. Brutus was too far gone into his pain to remind Cleopatra that Rome brooked no kings. The world went dark and he collapsed into her arms.
Chapter Three
The warm Maius air that blew through the courtyard made Cleopatra yearn for Egypt. It had been almost a year since she had seen her country and though she loved the brash, youthful energy of Rome she longed for the sounds and smells of her home. As much as she carried Egypt in herself, she needed to return to her kingdom.
It had been a fraught two months since the Ides of Martius. She had bristled at the Roman legionaries who now guarded the villa and shadowed her every step. It was made tolerable by the delight her son Caesarion found in playing games with the legionaries and she had smiled the first time an optio had presented him with his own miniature caligae, the hobnailed military boots worn by the armies of Rome. But the smiles faded as spring rolled on and her little man grew more and more infatuated with the Roman army. She did not want her boy to grow up a Roman. He should not have to settle for something so terrestrial. He was a young God, and it hurt and pleased her equally to see the soldiers dote on the prince. To them he was the son of their illustrious general, birthed to him by an exotic beauty, and they lavished the young boy with attention, teaching him how to hold a gladius and how to stand. They had even taken to putting him on their horses and leading him around the central courtyard of the villa.
His giggling brought a smile to her lips as he wobbled past her on an old, docile mare. Thaddeus was a shrewd centurion, and she knew he would never let anything happen to Caesarion. The eighty men he commanded who oversaw the protection of the villa all worshipped him. He saw her smiling and blushed, the conscious effort to look her in the eye evident. The Romans’ sense of propriety had made her laugh when she first moved here. The sheer, translucent clothing of her people was perfect for a warm spring morning and it had delighted her to see the men steal sidelong glances at her before looking away or blushing if she talked to them directly. But now it irritated her, and she longed for the more sophisticated ways of Egypt. At least Thaddeus seemed to share her belief that Caesar had been overzealous in the protection of the villa, and the smile she saw was genuine.
Movement caught Thaddeus’ eye and her smile faded as she saw Gaius’ great-nephew stride into the courtyard, already glaring at Caesarion. Octavian was eighteen and she could already see the image of Gaius in him, but his stringy bounce and unmasked disdain for her choice of clothing showed his immaturity. He had returned swiftly from his studies in Greece as soon as news of the assassination attempt had reached him and now lived in his Gaius’ sprawling townhouse on the Palatine Hill in the city.
‘Centurion’, Octavian nodded as he stepped into the courtyard. Thaddeus snapped a crisp salute whilst keeping Caesarion’s mare steady. Cleopatra seethed internally that he would address a common soldier before two Gods of Egypt. Octavian turned smartly to her and she couldn’t help but smile as she saw the muscles on his neck tense as he kept his eyes from roving down her body. ‘My uncle wishes –’
‘Who are you talking to, boy?’ She cut him off, not bothering to look at him as she reached up for her giggling little prince as Caesarion slid off the horse and into her arms. She suppressed a grunt, surprised at the boy’s weight but put him down gracefully, enjoying the fleeting feeling of having him in her arms, even if only for a moment.
Caesarion looked up at Octavian, his hand resting confidently on the miniature wooden gladius at his waist, another gift from Thaddeus. ‘My mother is a Queen, brother,’ he said, his high- pitched voice ringing confidently around the courtyard. Cleopatra bit back a smile as she saw the muscles in Octavian’s neck tense even further.
‘And you are a Roman, young cousin,’ he shot back, ‘and Roman’s do not need to bow before foreign queens.’ He turned back to her, the seeds of anger visible in his eyes. Perhaps something in her own gaze warned him, for he took a step back and took a breath. He bowed his head slightly. ‘I did not know formality was required amongst family, my queen’. She nodded, accepting the smooth reply. He would make a skilled politician if he could manage his temper. She leant forward to kiss him on the cheek and was satisfied as his cheeks grew even redder.
‘Why are you here, Octavian?’
‘Caesar wishes me to accompany you to the city. He would have the Queen of Egypt be present as he punishes those who would have him killed.’
* * * * *
On the southern side of the Capitoline hill a crowd had gathered. A sheer cliff, some eighty feet high, stood between the crowd and the hill’s summit, where the three remaining conspirators in Rome knelt, hands tied behind their backs. Cassius and Decimus had escaped but Publius Turullius and Gaius Parmensis had been apprehended as they tried to flee the city. Quintus Ligarious had been bound where he lay in the theatre, knocked unconscious by Milo. No one knew how Cassius and Decimus had escaped, but rumours flew through the city that they were making north for Cisalpine Gaul, aiming for the safety of the Alps. The three captured men had been left to rot in the Tullianum, the dank prison on the other side of the Capitoline hill. Gaius had ordered them hauled them out of their cell and up the long slope in the early hours of the morning. He had promised himself that on the first morning he was strong enough to walk from his house on the Palatine Hill to the gaol unaided he would have his justice.
The crowd swelled as the morning grew and Gaius Julius Caesar smiled as he heard entrepreneurial street vendors plying their wares through the crowd. The Tarpeian Rock, the jutting stone that formed top of the cliff, was rarely used for execution. Strangling was more common by far and the crowd was eager to see this most ancient form of justice. Gaius steadied himself as he walked forward, holding up a hand so Antonius, Octavian and Cleopatra would not help him. He nodded to Thaddeus, resplendent in his lorica armour, who strode forward to wrench the conspirators to their feet. Gaius stepped out to the edge of the cliff, enjoying the feeling of being alive and feeling the wind on his face as he took in the sea of faces below him.
‘It makes me smile to see the city so cheerful,’ he begun, his voice perfectly pitched to carry out and over the crowd. ‘For this is a day of celebration. Those who would strike me down will be thrown from the Tarpeian rock.’ The loud cheer shook the Forum and Caesar waited for it to abate before he began again.
‘These curs would take Roman law into their own hands. They claim that through their deeds they would bring life back to the Republic, but how can one resurrect that which still lives?’ The roar this time was expected, and Caesar took a deep breath to steady himself. He was still weak, and his legs ached from the morning’s work. He pushed the pain down and threw up his arms to embrace the crowd. ‘I look around me and I see only strength. I hear the vital, strong voices of my countrymen cheer and I wonder how any man can find weakness in Rome.’ He savoured the pause, knowing the crowd hung on his every word. ‘Behind me, chests are overflowing with gold on the Campus Martius. To the North and East the Kingdom of Dacia grows strong enough to threaten us once again. Further East than the Parthian Empire taunts us with threats of war.’ Excitement filled his voice as he went one. ‘But I have ensured Rome has the strength to stand against them. The Roman Eagles Parthia has captured from us in our last war will be reclaimed. Their insult to our nation and the murder of the Roman general Marcus Licinius Crassus will be avenged. Is this the action of a weak Republic?’ He waited for applause, but plunged ahead when it didn’t come, knowing he couldn’t lose pace. ‘Below me, I see men and women hungry for justice. We are not weak and any man who says we are does not understand what it means to be Roman. How can such men claim to save the Republic?’
He stopped. He had debated whether to go further, but his fury at his captives and his delight in being alive spurred him on. ‘These men did not just raise their hand to a Consul of Rome.
They raised their hand to the Imperator Perpetua, the person you have chosen to protect our beautiful city.’ His raised his hands again, hiding the pain in his arms as his muscles screamed their protest as he embraced the Forum. ‘They have chosen to make war not just on a Consul, but on one you have seen fit to make a God. And Rome has every right to sit amongst the Gods and hold her head high. Thanks to the strength you give me’, he paused to breath, resisting the urge to scratch the twin scabs below his lungs, ‘I sit with the Gods as a Roman, a representative of each and every one of you. Is this a weak city?’
The returning roar was even louder than before, and he shouted over it, building his voice into a calculated crescendo. ‘They chose to lay their hands on a God. They have committed the very worst crime possible, choosing to shame all of you in the eyes of the Gods and their hubris brings shame to us all. I charge these worthless, feckless men of attempted deicide, and their shame shall be seen by the city they spat on.’ He nodded, and three muscular legionaries pulled the struggling men to the edge of the cliff.
‘I am Rome. In me is each and every one of you.’ Caesar’s voice filled the Forum. ‘Any man who raises a hand against me threatens to sully the sanctity of Rome itself.’ He turned to face the conspirators, all three struggling in the arms of their captors. Gaius filled his lungs, knowing his voice would carry to even the furthest spectator. ‘Now feel the wrath of a God. Feel the wrath of Rome. Feel the wrath of Caesar.’
Three separate screams clashed discordantly as the conspirators plunged eighty feet through the air. Each was silenced with a swift crunch as the remains of each man splattered across the foot of the Capitoline hill.
* * * * *
The cool Falernian wine that poured down Gaius’ throat was like water to a dying man. Scores of scars itched, and everything in his body ached. He grunted as he laid his head back on the couch. He shook his head briefly as Cleopatra glanced at him, worry evident in her large, brown eyes. He would heal. That was enough.
‘I will go north’. Octavian’s voice was strong and sure, and his eyes looked around the room to challenge the other three. Antonius lowered his gaze, showing a rare moment of patience as he waited for the rebuke he knew would come.
‘No.’ Gaius said, willing his voice to be gentle. ‘Antonius will be sent to hunt down Cassius and Decimus. You need to stay here in the city.’ Octavian’s brow furrowed and Gaius held up a hand before his nephew could begin again. ‘It is important that Cassius and Decimus are brought to justice by a Consul. Rome needs to see they will not be tolerated.’
Octavian bowed his head in acquiescence as Antonius cleared his throat before addressing Gaius. ‘Gaius, do you not think you should come north with me? Your presence will send a strong message.’
Gaius shook his head. ‘No. I will leave for Parthia as soon as I am strong enough. The campaign has been planned for the last year and it has been delayed long enough.’ Antonius shifted his large frame uncomfortably on the low divan as Gaius continued.
‘You have led this city for the last three years Antonius,’ Gaius admonished gently. The rebuke was soft. Antonius had not managed his posting as administrator of Rome well, and both men decided to let the matter drop. Gaius forced cheeriness into his voice as he continued. ‘The people will see their brave protector and provider ride north to bring Roman justice to these traitors and that will be enough for them’. The big man in front of Gaius smiled, pleased at the prospect of the upcoming campaign. For all Antonius loved the city, he had been here too long and was chomping at the bit to leave. Gaius pressed on. ‘This is why I ask you to name Octavian as suffect consul when you depart. Octavian will take over from you and learn the running of a city. It a noble job, and the people will love you for it if you do it well.’ He turned to his nephew on the last sentence, willing the hot-headed youth to understand.
Antonius froze where he was. Though he was eager to depart the city, he had no wish to appoint a proxy consul to take his place when he was on campaign. Before he could muster his defence, Gaius held out his hand, cutting off any argument. ‘I will be doing the same. I haven named Publius Cornelius Dolabella as suffect Consul in my stead. He and Octavian will manage the city while you and I are on campaign.’ He smiled, turning all his focus and charm on his friend. ‘I will have need of you, my friend. I will need you with me in the East once you take care of the conspirators.’
Antonius nodded his head. The reality was the upcoming campaign into Dacia and then Parthia made it unlikely he would see the city for years and there was no faulting Caesar’s logic. ‘As you wish, Gaius.’
Octavian had the good sense not to press the point in front of Antonius, merely nodding his thanks quietly to his uncle, though the delight in his eyes was unmistakable. Gaius was almost satisfied. ‘I need a strong leader in the city, boy,’ he said. ‘Someone to remind the people who leads them. You have fought for Rome already and acquitted yourself with pride. This is a different kind of leading, and you will be loved if you do it well’. Gaius smiled at the hunger he saw in the boy. ‘Your will, Caesar,’ Octavian replied quietly.
Gaius gestured for a slave to come refill his wine. ‘It is settled. Antonius will head north with the Sixth, the Seventh, the Eighth and the Ninth legions. Four veteran legions who know Gaul will be enough. You will then march North, crush whatever resistance Cassius and Decimus can raise before marching on Dacia from the north, whilst I attack from the south. We will regroup and then we will sail to Armenia together before entering Parthia. I will take the remaining six legions in the city to meet the six legions stationed in Macedonia before marching East. I anticipate we will reach Dacia before you do, Antonius, so you will be a welcome reserve when you arrive. We will leave a week from today. We have stalled for too long while my strength returned. Now it is back, and the world will know.’
‘And Brutus?’ Antonius asked. Gaius hid a frown as Antonius peered at him quizzically. He could not tell how much Antonius knew of what had passed between him and Brutus, and he had not made Brutus’ involvement in the conspiracy public. But Antonius was a clever man, and it would be foolish to think he did not have his suspicions.
‘He will ride in a cart with the baggage train until he is fully healed,’ Gaius said. ‘He will be strong enough by Macedonia to take control of the legions there.’ Gaius stared carefully at his friend, looking for any sort of resentment or suspicion. But Antonius’ face was free of guile, and the big man relaxed back into his couch. Antonius raised his cup. ‘To King Burebista of Dacia, the man who has to face Rome’s two deadliest generals.’ ‘It will be her three deadliest generals when you arrive,’ Caesar laughed, ‘and I don’t raise my cup to kings.’ He drank anyway, his keen eyes not missing the subtle shift in Octavian from delight to resentment as Antonius drank to his uncle.
* * * * *
Cleopatra’s soft lips found Gaius’ neck as he lay his head down to sleep. ‘It is good to have you back to your normal self,’ she grinned, biting his shoulder gently. He groaned, from pain as much as pleasure, his muscles protesting as he encircled her in his arms. ‘It has been two months and still everything hurts.’
‘Rome saw none of it today, my love,’ she whispered, nuzzling against his chest. ‘They saw only a King.’ She felt his body tense at the taboo word, and her mind flashed back to the festival of the Lupercalia in Februarius, when the Roman people looked on appallingly as Antonius presented Gaius with a crown. Even to mention it could make him blush with rage. It was one of his most private humiliations, and she cursed herself for bringing it up. ‘I did not see a King’, she said, feeling his chest relax. She raised her head as she gently bit his ear. ‘I saw a God.’ She smiled as she felt other parts of his body begin to stiffen. ‘A ruler of Rome.’ She kissed him again, feeling the sharp edge of his jaw. ‘And Gaul’ Her lips found his neck. ‘And Britannia.’ Her breasts pushed up into his face as she kissed the crown of his forehead. She could feel his arms tightening around her waist. ‘And Germania.’ Names of his other conquests fell from her lips until they found his own. After a long, tender kiss she pulled back to look her lover in the face. ‘They will all be our son’s. So will Rome. So will Egypt.’ He looked up at her, and she could see the joy in his face. He had not fully recovered from his injuries, but she could feel the hunger in him. ‘Our boy will have the whole world as his birthright,’ he whispered, his eyes bright in the moonlight.
She lay her head against his shoulder, enjoying the feel of his warm, callused hands on her naked back. ‘He is a little Roman now. Thaddeus and the men adore him,’ she said, a trace of worry in her voice. She did not mean it as praise, but Gaius smiled anyway. ‘But he is of Egypt as well, and he needs to grow up with his people. While you march on Dacia and Parthia, I will raise him in Egypt. You know I cannot stay here. It is only three years. Then we can return to Rome together, as a family, and our boy will inherit the world.’ There were no complaints from Gaius as he pulled her into an embrace and she knew she would have her way.
Far away, in a house on the Quirinal hill, Brutus lay awake. His wife Portia snored lightly beside him. The moon was bright, and he could see her naked body as she lay on top of the woollen blanket. They had made love for the first time since his injury. It had been an act of love and kindness in a life that was now marred in pain. The scar on his left arm was wide and fresh, and the cuts on his cheek and abdomen itched. He could feel the little finger on his right hand itching too, even though he knew it was no longer there. He had been too weak to attend the execution, but he had heard the roars of the crowd, and a slave had reported Caesar’s speech to him. And it was this, more than the pain of his many wounds, or the sight of his loving wife lying next to him, that kept him awake through that long night.
Chapter Four
Marcus Tullius Cicero rubbed his small double chin thoughtfully as he leaned forward in his seat. The hard stone steps of the Theatre of Pompey made rough seats and his old bones protested as the day wore on. He longed for the old Senate house, currently being refurnished after a virulent fire, but in reality it was just as uncomfortable and only fond memory helped maintain an illusion of comfort. He was an old man, that was all.
In front of him and the rest of the newly organised senate was another old man. Gaius Julius Caesar was only seven years his younger, a couple months shy of fifty-seven. Even with a visibly fraying hairline and a body still covered with healing cuts, the man exuded an energy and force that was rarely visible in men half his age. Cicero was wary of him, as well as the scores of new senators Caesar had used to inflate the Senate, all loyal to him. It was wolves like Caesar that threatened the republic he had spent his whole life fighting for.
He shifted uncomfortably, looking across the Theatre to where Marcus Antonius sat. Where Caesar’s motley skin showed a litany of scars, Antonius positively glowed. Cicero could not imagine how Antonius had fought in this very theatre only two months ago and emerged unscathed. Not one person in the Senate had seen Marcus Brutus since that day, and there were rumours he was crippled and mutilated. Cicero knew there were some who applauded Caesar for deliberately choosing to continue to hold court in the Theatre, a sign that he was not bowed by the attempted assassination, but Cicero saw it as an act of extreme hubris, a challenge to those who still loved the Republic in their hearts to strike again before his ambition could consume them all.
Caesar caught him looking and nodded. The Imperator stood behind his great-nephew, Octavian, and another senator. Cicero did not know how to feel that his own son-in-law had been chosen by Caesar to become suffect Consul with Octavian. Publius Cornelius Dolabella had supported Gnaeus Magnus Pompeius in the civil war before switching sides, and Cicero part expected this promotion to Consul to be a subtle manoeuvring on Caesar’s behalf to somehow publicly shame Dolabella. But Caesar and Dolabella had walked the campaign trail together, touring through Africa and Hispania after Pompey’s death in Egypt, and though Dolabella had given himself over to the softer pleasures in more recent years, he had proven himself a capable general. Perhaps Caesar’s trust in him was real. It baulked Cicero that one of his own family was so entangled with the tyrant. He looked across the theatre again and laughed quietly, noting Marcus Antonius’ baleful glare, humoured that for once he and the bull of a man opposite him were in agreement over at least one thing. Antonius’ disdain for Dolabella was legendary, though perhaps he was angry that he would not be enjoying the full term of his Consulship as he imagined.
A general hush descended over the gathered senators as Caesar walked forward. The silence was immediate and profound, causing Cicero to roll his eyes at the fawning sycophants he had to call his colleagues.
‘The life blood of Rome is in this room.’ Caesar’s sonorous voice bounced around the theatre. Cicero shivered as he remembered many summers ago when Cato the Younger had leaned across the Senate seats to him when someone had remarked on Caesar’s skill as a politician and orator before whispering ‘This isn’t even his home ground. Imagine him on the battlefield.’ The finely polished speaker in front of him was nothing less than an ambitious tyrant, one who would bend the whole world to his will if allowed.
Caesar’s voice swelled as he continued to address the room. ‘It fills my limbs with strength to know I can leave our city in such capable hands. Before all of you, I present my legal heir and newly adopted son, Gaius Julius Octavianus Caesar.’ The Theatre of Pompey erupted in cheers, and from the look on Octavian’s face he was just as surprised as Cicero. The old man suppressed a chuckle, wondering if the Queen of Egypt had been told of this development, and what this might mean for her bastard progeny. ‘He has proven himself extremely capable. He has trained with the legions his whole adult life, and in him runs my blood.’ There was no hiding the steely threat in the words. ‘As Consul Marcus Antonius and I plan to leave Rome, he will serve with Publius Cornelius Dolabella as suffect consul.’ Caesar walked out into the centre of the theatre amongst the applause, and Cicero couldn’t help but notice how the two new Consuls felt like Greek Chorus members in their own play. Caesar turned; his arms outstretched as he faced the Senate. ‘Tomorrow morning, I will take six legions from this city and march for Brundisium. I will set sail to Greece and march to Dacia. I do not expect to return to the city for three years. I will send you riches, and glory, and slaves and stories to make you proud to be Roman. I will be proud to represent you in the field. I will be your servant. I will make your city rich and these men,’ ‘he pointed forcefully to the two fresh faced Consul’s behind him, ‘shall make it run. They speak with my voice, the voice you have elected. We have been at war with each other for too long. Rome’s gaze no longer looks in on herself, she looks out to the world and she is hungry.’ He bellowed the last few words, his voice modulating in a perfect crescendo as the senators around him cheered. ‘And we will all feast.’ He threw the words around the room, encircling every patrician with his enthusiasm. ‘Today I leave you and it breaks my heart to leave behind this beautiful city. But I will take her with me and Rome will be where I march and it will be where my legions march and we will make the world in her image.’ The cheering continued as Cicero shrank back into his seat. ‘And for this, I thank you, senators of Rome, leaders of the greatest city in the world.’ He laughed, completely at ease. ‘The burden of your trust sits heavily on me, but I am ready for the challenge. I take my leave of you, my kinsman. I go to make you proud and bring your glory to the world’. Caesar turned; head held high as he took in the Senate for the last time. He nodded at Dolabella and gripped Octavian on the shoulder before walking through the doors of the theatre. He breathed in deeply, a long cool breath of fresh Roman air. He was free.
* * * *
Cassius cursed as he slammed his fist down on the cluttered table. ‘We should have gone East, Decimus. I have support in Greece. We would have six legions coming to my name but instead we command a handful of men between us.’
‘Easy.’ Decimus’ hands were clenched, his fraying temper barely checked. It had been a miserable two months, moving from village to village as they made their way up to the Alps. The pace had been glacial. They had discovered the assassination failed shortly after fleeing Rome and had expected Caesar to pursue them as soon as he was hale. They still had no knowledge of what efforts had been taken to capture them as they warily made their way towards Gaul. There were men in the North who were no friend of Caesar’s, but the northern half of the Italian peninsula was littered with retired legionaries from Caesar’s Gallic campaigns. It had been a sorry two months avoiding farms and roads of known supporters as they plotted their next move.
‘The East was already mobilised’ Decimus said, trying not to ground his teeth. ‘The Macedonian legions were ready for Parthia.’
‘They would not turn on me,’ Cassius growled. ‘I led them out of Parthia a decade ago. Those legions survive because of me.’ Cassius had turned red. Decimus stepped back, slightly stunned. It was easy to forget the thin politician had once been a capable general in his prime, one of the few capable of commanding the respect of the Parthian empire. Decimus took a breath, willing his voice steady.
‘We could not risk walking into the arms of six legions. To claim them would lead to civil war. The Republic –‘
‘The Republic is dead, Decimus. Do you understand? We had our chance. Do you think Cicero will raise a hand to him? Do you think anyone left in the city will? Caesar took the best of us, and we are all that is left. He is King in all but name. Civil war in the republic is no longer possible. Republicans can only fight against the Kingdom of the Julii.’
Decimus nodded acknowledging the point. The cramped room barely had room to hold the two senators and the big man rolled his shoulders. ‘What do you suggest we do?’
Cassius paused, thinking deeply. ‘The Cassia are an old family. We will have friends in the Senate still, and amongst the people. There are those who are no friend of Caesar’s. There is time yet to save Rome from the tyrant.’ He looked out through the small window, the squat, distant form of the Alps smudging the horizon. ‘We have two generals of Rome,’ he said. ‘There will be men in Gaul and Germania we can rally to our side. We can cause enough trouble there to make sure Caesar comes north.’ He began to speak faster, pacing to and fro in the small room. ‘There will be assassins there, Decimus. We can lure him there and end him.’
Decimus walked to the window, shaking the fatigue from his brow. It had been weeks since he had slept in a proper bed and a knot in his back continued to protest. ‘He will outnumber us, Cassius. Twelve legions were stationed in Rome, many of them veterans of Gaul.’
Decimus reached around, trying to massage his aching back. He was not old, at thirty-seven, but every morning he seemed to wake up stiffer. If he made the right choices, he had a whole life ahead of him.
‘We could see what support we can find north of the Alps. When winter comes we could close the mountains. Or . . .’
‘What?’ Cassius’ sharp eyes drilled into his own. Once again Decimus had to remind himself he was not the only seasoned warrior in the room. ‘There are assassins in Rome.’ Cassius nodded. Decimus permitted himself a small smile. ‘There are assassins everywhere.’
The two men stared at each other over the table.
* * * * *
Octavian stood in the spring morning sun, hair gently blowing in the wind. A smile played upon his face as he looked out from the Porta Capena, one of the many large gates set into the thick walls that surrounded the city. Caesar’s legions were finally moving east, marching down the Via Appia to take port in Brundisium, where they would sail to Greece. The large, stone road was almost invisible under the boots of six legions, as nearly forty thousand men and horses marched out to conquer the world.
It was early in the day, and Octavian could still see the two horses that led the column. A palanquin carried by six muscled slaves trailed behind them. Octavian would not miss the Queen carried inside it as she made her way back to Egypt.
Marcus Brutus rode the left horse, his back ramrod straight. The man’s pride was colossal, and he had refused to be carried on the cart provided for him. His right hand must be screaming with every bump and bounce of his stallion, yet Octavian could see no pain on the man’s cold face, only concentration.
Next to Brutus, a rich scarlet cape draped over his back and flowing down over his horse’s flanks rode Gaius, and Octavian could tell from the way he hunched over the saddle that his son Caesarion rode with him. Octavian frowned. The boy had grown since Octavian had returned to Rome two months ago, and it seemed to him the boy’s father’s affection had grown to match him. Octavian was surprised by the strength of this jealousy. It had plagued him constantly throughout the spring, though he did his best to hide it. He still did not know what to make of his uncle’s surprise adoption, though the promise of what it entailed ensured he had barely slept since the announcement. He was the scion of the Julii, the heir to the most powerful man in the world. His body was strong and his mind keen. The only blot on his perfect life was the small boy who rode with the man he now called father. Octavian shrugged. Dolabella had proven to be a dry wit and was well loved by the people. With Antonius having departed earlier the previous day with his four legions, the two would have free run of the city. Octavian’s smile turned into a grin as he watched the Queen and her boy march away from his city. It was a problem for another day, and with Gaius leaving the city, Rome was his.