Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) (28 page)

‘Petronius, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Consul,’ the young man replied.

‘Go back and find … Caesar,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Tell him I am in his debt.’

Octavian felt his head dipping again as tiredness overwhelmed him. It was true that fighting wearied a man more than any other activity, and he was not alone, the yawns going back and forth among the legates who had gathered in the command tent on the plain. The wind still howled outside, but iron braziers gave some semblance of warmth and wine kept the rest of the chill away. The legionaries did not have the luxury of rest, as he had ordered a rampart built around their massive camp before dark. It had gone up quickly, thousands of men making short work of the stony ground with their spades. Even so, Octavian was determined to move the legions south the following day, away from the mountain chill and back to the soft breezes of a northern summer.

The mood among the men was also warm and Octavian smiled to himself as he heard Maecenas laughing at something one of the legates had said. He lay on piled blankets, with more rolled under his head to form a cushion. A platter of cold food was at his elbow and camp servants stood close by to refill his cup whenever it was empty. Octavian ached in every bone and muscle, but it was a good ache and nothing like the threat of collapse he had feared in the battle.

From half-closed eyes, Octavian watched the group of four legates Hirtius and Pansa had brought north. They stood together uncomfortably, though he had told the rest to make them welcome. He had congratulated them on the victory, but there was more to do before they realised they were now a part of his army and not simply on loan from the Senate. He rubbed his eyes, deciding to get up rather than drift off to sleep in the warmth. Their men had fought with Caesar, whether the legates realised the significance of that or not. They were his to command after that day. The continuing power of the name still astounded him, but he had learned to accept its magic. Rome may once have belonged to the Senate and the great orators, but Julius Caesar had made the legions his own.

As he stood, Maecenas and Agrippa cheered him and Octavian grinned at them.

‘He rises!’ Maecenas said, passing him another cup. ‘I was just telling Paulinius here that we could do more with archers. Did you see the arrows fly today? Mark Antony has a unit of Syrian bowmen who made a fine showing.’

Octavian had not seen that particular action and he only shook his head. He realised they were all watching him closely, waiting for him to speak.

‘I do not take too much pride in a battle against an army half the size of our own, but it is better than losing, gentlemen. To victory!’

He raised his cup and they drank. He looked over at the new legates and decided to spend the evening in their company, to learn their strengths and weaknesses. He recognised the most senior of them, who had spoken to him at the end of the battle. Justinius did not look as if he had fought that day. His formal toga was fresh from his baggage and the man himself watched and listened politely as if he were at a Senate banquet rather than a field camp.

Octavian was in the process of crossing the low tent to speak to the man when one of the legionary guards entered and saluted.

‘Decimus Junius has arrived, sir,’ he said to Octavian. ‘He is asking to speak to consuls Hirtius and Pansa.’

‘No easy task,’ Maecenas muttered.

Octavian shot a warning glance at him. Pansa still lingered in the healer tents, his delirium and fever beyond anything they could do for him. Yet Octavian could not be seen to take delight in the way fortune had apparently favoured him.

‘Send him in,’ he said. His tiredness had vanished at the name and he faced the tent flap with bitter anticipation, wondering what he would do.

The man who entered was a stranger to Octavian. Decimus Junius had a round, fleshy face that gave him a look of youth. Yet he was trim enough in the toga of a Roman senator and he looked sternly around the command tent, finally saluting with stiff formality.

‘I am told Consul Hirtius has been killed,’ he said. ‘Who commands now, that I may lay my complaint before him? Who allowed Mark Antony to escape to Gaul when he was in our grasp?’

Eyes turned to Octavian, who said nothing at first. He savoured the moment while Decimus Junius looked around from face to face, confused by the silence.

‘I believe my ranks of propraetor and praefectus entitle me to command,’ Octavian said at last. ‘Either way, I am Gaius Julius Caesar and this army is mine.’

He spoke as much for the benefit of the new legates as Decimus Junius, but the name was not lost on the man, who went pale and stammered as he tried to continue.

‘I … Propraetor Caesar …’ he began, struggling to find words. Decimus Junius took a deep breath and went on, though his eyes were sick with worry. ‘Two thousand of my legionaries are still held at the Castra Taurinorum, guarded by some of Mark Antony’s men. I seek your permission to free them and rebuild the fortresses. I was fortunate that the consul passed me by as he went for the pass, but my supplies are low. If I am to keep my position here, I must ask for food and materials …’ He trailed off under Octavian’s cold stare.

‘Your
position
, Decimus Junius?’ Octavian asked. ‘It is simple enough. You were one of those who murdered the Father of Rome. As his adopted son, it falls to me to demand justice.’

Decimus Junius paled further, his skin bright with sweat.

‘I … I was granted amnesty by the Senate of Rome, Propraetor,’ he said, his voice shaking.

‘An amnesty I revoke,’ Octavian said.

‘By what authority? The Senate …’

‘Are not here,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘I am the commander in the field and you will find my authority is absolute, at least so far as it relates to you. Guard! Place this man under arrest and hold him for trial. You may choose anyone you like to speak for you, Decimus Junius. I suggest you find someone of uncommon skill.’

The guard laid a hand on Decimus Junius’ shoulder, causing him to jerk.

‘You can’t do this!’ he shouted. ‘I was granted amnesty for bringing down a tyrant. Will you make yourself another? Where is the rule of law in this? I am immune!’

‘Not from me,’ Octavian said. ‘I will convene a court of senior officers for tomorrow morning. Take him away now.’

Decimus Junius slumped, his expression appalled as he was led away. Octavian faced the other men in the tent, focusing on the new legates in particular.

‘Will you criticise me for this?’ he asked them softly.

Justinius was the only one of the new men who met his gaze. The legate shook his head.

‘No, Caesar,’ he said.

The sun was barely above the eastern horizon when the trial began. Eight legions were encamped around a single laurel tree, so that the small space was at the centre of a vast host of men. The cold had deepened overnight, though the sky was clear and once again the wind whipped particles of frost against the exposed skin of the men as they waited for the judgement.

Decimus Junius had chosen to defend himself and he spoke for almost an hour while the legions waited and watched. In the end, he ground to a halt and Octavian stood up.

‘I have listened to your words, Decimus Junius. I find your arguments empty. There was no amnesty when you were one of Caesar’s murderers. That it was applied later is irrelevant. The Senate cannot order the sun to set after it has risen. In giving you some sense that you were absolved of your crime, they stepped beyond the bounds of their authority. As Caesar, I revoke that amnesty in the field and will do so formally when I am next in Rome. You are the first of the Liberatores to receive justice for your crimes. You will be one of many when you meet again across the river.’

Decimus Junius only stared at him, his eyes resigned. He had not doubted the result of the trial for a moment and he raised his head, refusing to show fear.

‘I pronounce you guilty of murder and blasphemy against the divine Julius,’ Octavian said. ‘The sentence is death. Hang him.’

Octavian watched without expression as two legionaries took hold of Decimus Junius, leading him over to the tree. They threw a rope over a branch and tied a loop around his neck while he stood, his chest heaving. Decimus Junius swore at them then, cursing them by all the gods. Octavian nodded to the legionaries, who joined together to pull the rope.

Decimus Junius’ voice was strangled into silence at the first jerk. One of his hands raised to touch the rope, the fingers scrabbling at the rough line tightening around his throat. As the soldiers continued to heave, he was raised to the tips of his toes and then, with a lurch, he left the ground. His legs kicked out and both hands were at his throat. On instinct, he gripped the rope above his head and pulled himself up. The soldiers exchanged a brief communication and one of them braced himself to take the weight, while the other approached the kicking figure and knocked his arms away.

Decimus Junius jerked and sagged in spasms, his bladder emptying as he choked. It was not a quick death, but the legionaries waited patiently, only having to remove his hands once more before he was still, turning gently in the breeze. When it was over, they heaved on the legs until the neck snapped, then lowered the body down and took back the rope. One of the legionaries used his sword to hack the head from the corpse. It took three blows before it came free and the soldier held it up to the crowd as a prize. They cheered the sight of it, fascinated by the white upturned eyes as it was turned to show all those who crowded close.

Octavian let out a long breath, shuddering in release. He hoped the news would spread to the ears of more powerful men, such as Brutus and Cassius, or the ones who still scrambled in Rome as Suetonius did. They would hear, eventually, and they would consider what it meant for them. He had only begun to collect the debt they owed.

‘Legates, attend me,’ he ordered.

The eight men came to him, hushed and calm after what they had witnessed. They saw Octavian in spotless armour, his face unlined and youthful energy in every part of him.

‘The men have seen my purpose, my intentions,’ he said to them. ‘I would have their voices behind me before I move on. I recall that Caesar would sometimes summon a soldiers’ assembly when he was in the field, to take the feeling of the men. I will do that here, to know I have their support.’

His gaze fell on the legates who had come north with Hirtius and Pansa and they did not misunderstand. He had demonstrated his authority and they knew better than to refuse.

‘Summon all officers, down to tesserarius. I will speak to them and ask what they would have me do.’

The legates saluted without hesitation, walking back to their horses in disciplined silence. As the sun rose, the main body of the legions pulled back from the command tent, while two thousand officers walked in to hear Octavian speak. He waited for them, drinking only a little water and thinking back over the death of Decimus Junius. He had hoped for some feeling of satisfaction, but he had never met the man before and it was not there in him. Even so, he offered up a short prayer to Julius that he would bring the same justice to the rest of the Liberatores, one by one.

When the assembly of officers had gathered, he went out to stand before them.

‘You know why I am here now,’ he said, making his voice carry. ‘If you did not understand before, you know why I let Mark Antony leave the field yesterday. My enemies are those who murdered my father Caesar, divine Imperator of Rome. I have moved rashly before and made decisions I cannot take back. I stand here with you because I remember Caesar and he knew the wisdom of the legions he commanded.’ He paused to let the compliment sink in before going on. ‘With you, I am the right hand of Rome. I am the sword that will cut out traitors like Decimus Junius. Without you, I am no more than one man and the legacy of my father ends with me.’

‘What do you ask of us, Caesar?’ someone shouted back at him.

Octavian looked over to the massed officers.

‘Talk to each other. Talk to your men. We have eight legions and that is enough for any task. Caesar told me you could be wise, so show me. Let me know what I should do.’

He stepped deliberately away from his position, so that the officers did not feel bound to remain. To his satisfaction, he heard conversations begin among them and after a time he walked to his tent and lay in the gloom, listening to the murmurs and shouts and laughter of the men as they discussed what to do.

Barely three summer hours had passed when Justinius came to find him, the legate staring as if he could see Octavian’s heart with eyes alone.

‘The men have decided,’ Justinius said.

Octavian nodded, walking with him back to the same spot. They had gathered once more to answer him and he saw many were smiling.

‘Which of you will speak for the rest?’ Octavian called to them.

Hands went up and he picked one at random. A burly centurion rose to his feet.

‘Caesar, we are honoured to have been asked.’

A great bellow went up and Octavian had to raise his arms and pat the air for silence.