Conn Iggulden - Emperor - The Blood of Gods

Cassius pressed a hand to his shoulder.

‘Depend on it, my friend. We have come too far together to see it all lost now.’

Brundisium had never been as busy. It was like an overturned beehive, with soldiers and citizens scurrying everywhere and no sign of the languor of Rome. In the port city, everyone hurried, moving supplies for the fleet and legions: wooden casks of water, iron nails, ropes, sailcloth, salted meat and a thousand other essential goods. Despite being allowed to pass by the outer fleet, it was almost noon before the ship had its turn through the massive gates across the inner harbour, winched open each morning by teams of sweating slaves.

As the merchant vessel reached the quay, the sailors threw ropes to dockers, who heaved them in the last few feet and tied them to great iron stanchions set in the stone. A wide wooden bridge was lifted up and over, forming a path from the ship to the quayside. Octavian and Agrippa were the first to step off as Maecenas settled the fee with the captain and remained to oversee the unloading of the horses. A dozen workers and two empty carts trundled over to carry crates and chests from the ship, men who had bought the right to that section of the docks and charged high fees for the privilege. By the time the horses were led out, even Maecenas was complaining about the venal nature of the port, which seemed designed to take every last coin he had.

‘There isn’t a room or a stable free for thirty miles or more,’ he reported when he joined them. ‘According to the dockers, six legions are encamped and the officers have taken every tavern in the city. That makes it easier to find one who might know you, Octavian, but it will take time to find lodgings. Give me half a day.’

Octavian nodded uneasily. His plan to get an audience with the senior officer in Brundisium had seemed a lot simpler before he’d seen the chaos of the city. Its population had quadrupled with soldiers and he needed Maecenas more than ever. His friend had already employed runners to carry messages for him, sending them sprinting off into the maze of streets away from the port. Octavian didn’t doubt he’d find somewhere to store their belongings before the sun set.

‘What is your business in Brundisium?’ a voice said behind him. ‘You can’t leave that lot here, you know, blocking the docks. Tell your captain to cast off. There are two more ships waiting already.’

Octavian turned to see a bald man in optio’s armour, short and powerful with a sword on his hip and two robed clerks in his wake.

‘We are arranging porters, sir. Right now, I need to know the name of the commander in Brundisium and to arrange a meeting with him.’

The officer smiled wryly, running a hand over the polished dome of his head and flicking away sweat.

‘I can think of at least seven men who might answer your description. But you won’t get to see them, not without a few weeks of waiting. Unless you are a senator, perhaps. Are you a senator? You look a bit young for that.’ He smiled at his own humour.

Octavian took a deep breath, already irritated. At Caesar’s side, he had never been questioned. He looked at the man’s amused expression and realised he could not bluster or threaten his way past. He could not even give his true name while there was a chance he was being hunted.

‘I … carry messages for the senior officer in the city.’

‘And yet you don’t have his name?’ the optio replied. ‘Forgive me for doubting a young gentlemen such as yourself …’ He saw Octavian’s frustration and shrugged, his expression not without kindness. ‘Look, lad. Just get your goods off my dock, all right? I don’t care where, as long as I don’t have to see it. Understand? I can put you in touch with a man who has a warehouse not far from here, if you want.’

‘I need to see a general,’ Octavian went on doggedly. ‘Or a tribune.’

The optio just stared at him and Octavian raised his eyes in frustration.

‘Maecenas?’ he said.

‘Here,’ Maecenas replied. He dug in his pouch and removed two sesterces. With the smoothness of long practice, the optio accepted the coins without looking at them, rubbing them together as he made them disappear.

‘I can’t arrange a meeting with a legate, lad. They’ve shut themselves away for these last few days, ever since the news from Rome.’

He paused, but the expressions of the three young men showed they already knew.

‘You might try the tavern on fifth street, though.’ He glanced at the sun. ‘Tribune Liburnius eats there most days around noon. You could still catch him, but I warn you, he won’t enjoy being interrupted.’

‘Fat, is he?’ Maecenas said lightly. ‘A big eater?’

The optio shot him a look and shook his head.

‘I meant that he is an important man who does not suffer fools.’ He took Octavian by the arm and moved him a step to one side. ‘I wouldn’t let that one anywhere near him; just a bit of advice. Liburnius isn’t known for his patience.’

‘I understand, sir. Thank you,’ Octavian said through clenched teeth.

‘A pleasure. Now clear your belongings off my docks, or I’ll have them dropped into the sea.’

There were three taverns on fifth street and the first two wasted another hour. Agrippa, Octavian and Maecenas rode with porters, the laden cart and a dozen street urchins following them, hoping for a coin. When the owner of the third tavern saw the large group heading towards his establishment, he flicked a cloth over his shoulder and came out to the street with his hands held wide and his large head already wagging from side to side.

‘No rooms here, sorry,’ he said. ‘Try the Gull in Major, three streets over. I heard they still have space.’

‘I don’t need a room,’ Octavian snapped. He dismounted and threw his reins to Agrippa. ‘I am looking for Tribune Liburnius. Is he here?’

The man stuck out his chin at the tone from a man half his age.

‘Can’t say, sir. We’re full, though.’

He turned to go back in and Octavian lost his temper. Reaching out, he shoved the man back against the wall, leaning in close to him. The tavern-keeper’s face went red, but then he felt the coldness of a knife at his throat and stayed still.

‘I’ve been here for just one morning and I am already getting tired of this city,’ Octavian growled into his ear. ‘The tribune will want to see me. Is he in your place or not?’

‘If I shout, his guards will kill you,’ the man said.

Behind Octavian, Agrippa dismounted, dropping his hand to the gladius he wore. He was as weary as Octavian and he could smell hot food wafting from the tavern kitchen.

‘Shout then,’ Agrippa said. ‘See what you get.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes rose slowly to take in the massive centurion. The resistance went out of him.

‘All right, there’s no need for that. But I can’t disturb the tribune. I need the custom.’

Octavian stepped away, sheathing his knife. He wrestled a gold ring from his hand. Given to him by Caesar himself, it bore the seal of the Julii family.

‘Show him this. He will see me.’

The tavern-keeper took the ring, rubbing his neck where the knife had touched. He looked at the angry young men facing him and decided not to say anything else, disappearing back into the gloom.

They waited for a long time, thirsty and hungry. The porters who accompanied them put down their burdens and sat on the cart or the sturdier chests, folding their arms and talking amongst themselves. They didn’t mind holding the horses and wasting the day if it meant more pay at the end.