Emperor: The Blood of Gods. Conn Iggulden
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was low and educated and he reassessed his first impression. He had already known the woman was one of the Fabii, a noble family that could call on the allegiance of a dozen senators in any year. Quintina was used to authority and he let the anger seep out of him.
‘I hope there has been no trouble here?’ Mark Antony asked.
‘We have guards and other ways of protecting ourselves, Consul. Even rioters know not to trouble this temple. What man would risk a curse from the virgin goddess, to see his manhood fall limp and useless for ever?’
She smiled, but he could still smell wet ash in the air and he was not in the mood for pleasantries. It was annoying enough that he had been forced to come himself, with so much else to do. Yet his messengers had been turned away without a word.
‘I have come to take charge of Caesar’s will. I believe it is lodged here. If you will have it brought to me, I can get back to my work. The sun is almost setting and each night is worse.’
Quintina shook her head, a delicate frown appearing between dark brown eyes.
‘Consul, I would do everything in my power to help you, but not that. The last testaments of men are my charge. I cannot give them up.’
Mark Antony struggled again with rising temper.
‘Well, Caesar is dead, woman! His body was burned in the forum along with the senate house, so we can be reasonably sure of that! When will you release his will, if not today, to me? The whole city is waiting for it to be read.’
His anger washed over her with no noticeable effect. She smiled slightly at his harsh tone, looking back over her shoulder at the two women lounging on a nearby bench. Mark Antony was seized by a sudden desire to grab her and shake her out of her lethargy. Half the forum had been destroyed. The Senate were forced to meet in Pompey’s theatre while the seat of government lay in rubble and ashes, and still he was being treated like a servant! His big hands clenched and unclenched.
‘Consul, do you know why this temple was founded?’ she asked softly.
Mark Antony shook his head, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Could she not understand what he needed?
‘It was raised to house the Palladium, the statue of Athena that was once the heart of Troy. The goddess guided her likeness to Rome and we have been its guardians for centuries, do you understand? In that time, we have seen riots and unrest. We have seen the walls of Rome herself threatened. We have watched the army of Spartacus march past and seen Horatius go out to hold the bridge with just two men against an army.’
‘I don’t … What has this to do with the will of Caesar?’
‘It means that time passes slowly within these walls, Consul. Our traditions go back to the founding of the city and I will not change them because of a few dead rioters and a consul who thinks he can give orders here!’
Her voice had hardened and grown louder as she spoke and Mark Antony raised his hands, trying to placate the suddenly angry woman before him.
‘Very well, you have your traditions. Nonetheless, I must have the will. Have it brought to me.’
‘No, Consul.’ She held up a hand herself to forestall his protest. ‘But it will be read aloud in the forum on the last day of the month. You will hear it then.’
‘But …’ He hesitated under her stare and took a deep breath. ‘As you say then,’ he said through a clenched jaw. ‘I am disappointed you saw no value in gaining the support of a consul.’
‘Oh, they come and go, Mark Antony,’ she replied. ‘We remain.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Octavian woke in the late morning, feeling as if he had drunk bad red wine. His head pounded and his clenching stomach made him weak, so he had to lean against a wall and gather his strength as Fidolus brought out his horse. He wanted to vomit to clear his head, but there was nothing to bring up and he had to struggle not to heave dryly, making his head swell and hammer with the effort. He knew he needed a run to force blood back into his limbs, to force out the shame that made him burn. As the house slave went back inside for the saddle, Octavian pounded his thigh with a closed fist, harder and harder until he could see flashing lights whenever he closed his eyes. His weak flesh! He had been so careful after the first time, telling himself that he had caught some infection in a scratch, or some illness from the sour air in Egypt. His own men had found him insensible then, but they had assumed he’d drunk himself unconscious and saw nothing too odd in that, with Caesar feting the Egyptian queen along the Nile.
He could feel a bruise begin to swell the muscle of his leg. Octavian wanted to shout out his anger. To be let down by his own body! Julius had taught him it was just a tool, like any other, to be trained and brought to heel like a dog or a horse. Yet now his two friends had seen him while he was … absent. He muttered a prayer to the goddess Carna that his bladder had not released this second time. Not in front of them.
‘Please,’ he whispered to the deity of health. ‘Cast it out of me, whatever it is.’
He had woken clean and in rough blankets, but his memory ceased with the scroll from Rome. He could not take in the new reality. His mentor, his protector, had been killed in the city, his life ripped from him where he should have been safest. It was impossible.
Fidolus passed the reins into his hands, looking worriedly at the young man who stood shaking in the morning sun.
‘Are you well, master? I can fetch a doctor from the town if you are ill.’
‘Too much drink, Fidolus,’ Octavian replied.
The slave nodded, smiling in sympathy.
‘It doesn’t last long, master. The morning air will clear your head and Atreus is feeling his strength today. He will run to the horizon if you let him.’
‘Thank you. Are my friends awake?’ Octavian watched closely for a sign that the slave knew something about his collapse, but the expression remained innocent.
‘I heard someone moving about. Shall I call for them to join you?’
Octavian mounted, landing heavily and making the mount snort and skitter across the yard. Fidolus began to move to take the reins but Octavian waved him off.
‘Not now. I’ll see them when I come back.’
He dug in his heels and the horse lunged forward, clearly happy to be out of its stall with the prospect of a run. Octavian saw movement in the doorway of the house and heard Agrippa’s deep voice hail him. He didn’t turn. The clatter of hooves on stone was loud and he could not face the man, not yet.
Horse and rider surged into a canter through the gate. Agrippa came skidding into the yard behind him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stared after Octavian for a while, then yawned.
Maecenas came out, still wearing the long shift he slept in.
‘You let him go alone?’ he said.
Agrippa grinned at seeing the Roman noble so tousled, his oiled hair sticking out at all angles.
‘Let him work up a sweat,’ he said. ‘If he’s ill, he needs it. The gods alone know what he’s going to do now.’
Maecenas noticed Fidolus, who had stayed back with his head down.
‘Get my horse ready, Fidolus – and the carthorse that suffers under my friend here.’
The slave hurried back into the stable block, greeted with whinnies of excitement from the two horses in the gloom. The Romans exchanged a glance.
‘I think I fell asleep about an hour ago,’ Maecenas said, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘Have you thought what you’re going to do now?’
Agrippa