Conn Iggulden - Emperor - The Blood of Gods

The roads were busy at first, the trades and wares of thousands on display on every spare ledge or half blocking the stone road. A wave of silence came out of Pompey’s theatre, vanishing behind the senators, but staying with them as they turned towards the forum. The hawkers and servants and citizens of Rome froze at the sight of almost sixty men in white togas, led by one in armour whose right hand drifted to his sword hilt as he strode out.

Rome had seen processions before, by the thousand, but there was no joy in those who walked up the Capitoline hill. Whispers and nudges pointed out the red smears on their hands, the splashes of still-bright blood on their robes. Strangers shook their heads in fear and stayed well back, as if the group carried danger or disease.

Brutus strode eastwards and upward. He felt a strange anticipation, the first true emotion since he had pressed iron into his greatest friend and felt the shudder that told him he had reached the heart. He ached to lay eyes on the forum and the senate house, the stone centre of the vast Republic. He had to struggle not to quicken his step, to maintain the slow pace that was both their dignity and their protection. They would not run from what they had done. Their survival depended on showing no guilt, no fear. He would enter the forum as a liberator.

At the top of the Capitoline, Brutus paused. He could see the open space of the forum, ringed with temples. The senate house gleamed white, unsullied, the guards at its doors tiny figures in the distance. The sun was growing hot and he could feel sweat trickle inside his ornate chestplate. The senators at his back moved slowly up, not understanding why they had stopped. The line around him widened, but their authority had been spent that morning and not one of them, not even Cassius or Suetonius, dared to move down the hill without Brutus leading the way.

‘We are Liberatores ,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘There are many in that place who will welcome what we have done. There are hundreds more who will breathe in relief when they hear that the tyrant is dead and Rome is safe, the Republic is safe. There will be a vote for amnesty and it will pass. All this has been decided. Until then, remember your dignity, your honour. There is no shame in what we have done.’

Around him, they stood a little taller, many of them raising bloody hands that had been clenched and hidden at their sides.

Brutus looked to Cassius once more and this time his expression was mild.

‘I have played my part, Senator. You must do the rest. Carry the small men with you and place every step with care, or we will be hunted down.’

Cassius nodded, smiling wryly.

‘I have the votes, General. It is all arranged. We will walk in free and we will be honoured.’

Brutus looked hard at the senator who carried all their futures in his hands. Cassius was a man of bone and hard flesh, with no weakness evident in him.

‘Then lead us in, Senator. I will be at your back.’

Cassius’ mouth firmed at the suspicion of a threat, but he raised his head and strode down into the heart of Rome.

As they approached the senate house, Brutus and Cassius could hear raised voices, a dim roar of undisciplined sound. The great bronze doors were open, and a voice cried out above the rest. The noise dropped away into silence.

Brutus trembled as he touched the steps, knowing that the few hours left before noon would be among the most important of his life. They had the blood of Caesar on their hands. A wrong word or rash act and their own would be spilled before the sun set. He looked over to Cassius and was reassured once more by the man’s confidence. There were no doubts in the senator. He had worked long and hard for this day.

Two legionaries came to attention as Brutus and Cassius ascended. The soldiers were out of their depth and they hesitated when the senator raised his bloody right hand, making sure they saw it before he inclined the palm to include Brutus.

‘General Brutus is my guest,’ Cassius said, his mind already on the crowd inside.

‘He’ll have to leave the gladius here, sir,’ the soldier said.

Something in the way Brutus looked at him made him drop his hand to his own hilt, but Cassius chuckled.

‘Oh, hand it over, Brutus. Don’t embarrass the man.’

With ill grace, Brutus untied the scabbard rather than pull a bare blade and frighten the soldier. He gave up his sword and strode to catch Cassius, suddenly angry, though he could not have said exactly why. Julius had never been stopped at the door of that building. It was irritating to be reminded of his lack of status at the very moment of his triumph. In the senate house, Brutus was no more than an officer of Rome, a senior man without civil rank. Well, that could be put right. Now Caesar was dead, all the failures and setbacks of his life could be put right.

More than four hundred men had crowded into the senate house that morning, their bodies warming the air, so that there was a noticeable difference inside, despite the open doors. Brutus looked for faces he recognised. He knew most of them, after many years of standing at Julius’ side, but one new face arrested his sweep. Bibilus. Years before, the man had stood with Caesar as consul, but something had happened between them and Bibilus had never appeared in the Senate again. His sudden return spoke volumes about the shift in power – and about how many already knew. Brutus saw Bibilus had aged terribly in the years of isolation. He had grown even fatter, with dark and swollen pouches under his eyes and a web of broken blood vessels on his cheeks. His jowls were scraped raw as if he had shaved for the first time in months. The man’s gaze was fever-bright and Brutus wondered if he had been drinking, already celebrating the death of an old enemy.

It did not look as if Cassius’ news would cause much shock in that chamber. Too many of the senators had smug and knowing expressions, exchanging glances and nodding to each other like virgins with a secret. Brutus despised them all, hated them for their effete manners and their pompous sense of their own worth. He had seen Egypt, Spain and Gaul. He had fought for the Republic, murdered for it, while they sat and talked the days away and understood nothing of the men who bled for them in the field.

Cassius approached the rostrum. Once it had been an artefact of Roman power, carved from the prow of a warship of Carthage. That one had been burned in riots and, like so much else in the building, it was now just a lesser copy of what it had once been. Brutus raised his eyes to the man standing behind it and grew still. He realised he had been the subject of cold scrutiny since he’d entered the chamber.

Mark Antony’s latest consular year was not yet over. Before the events of that morning, he had been little more than a figurehead for Caesar, but that had changed. The Republic had been restored and Mark Antony held the reins. He dominated the room and Brutus had to admit he looked the part. Tall and muscular, Mark Antony had the features and strong nose of old Roman bloodlines. None of the Liberatores had known how he would jump when they planned their assassination. One of their number, Gaius Trebonius, had been given the task of distracting the consul. Brutus saw the young senator on the seats nearby, looking so pleased with himself that it made Brutus’ stomach twist.

Mark Antony stared over the seated heads at him and Brutus sensed his knowledge and his shock. The consul had been told, or had heard the news as whispers went around the chamber. Caesar was dead. The tyrant was dead. They all knew, Brutus was suddenly certain. Yet the words still had to be spoken.

Cassius took his position at the base of the rostrum, standing a head lower than the consul looming over him. As Brutus watched, Cassius raised his right arm and touched the wood like a talisman. Into the silence, Cassius spoke.