walk into their houses and show them the mercy they showed him.’
Agrippa nodded, rubbing a hand through his beard.
‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We have to get back to Brundisium. Out here, we’re too far away to know anything.’
Maecenas looked from man to man and for once there was no wry humour in his expression.
‘Three men?’ he said. ‘Against the legions of Rome?’
‘No, not against them, with them,’ Octavian replied. ‘I know those men, Maecenas. I have served with hundreds, no, thousands of them. They will remember me. I know them better than the greyheads of the Senate, at least.’
‘I see. That is … a relief,’ Maecenas said.
He looked to Agrippa for some sign that he wasn’t going along with this madness, but Agrippa was watching Octavian with a fierce intensity. The young man who dropped lightly from his horse and strode across the yard had impressed him from the first time they met, two years before. It was not just that Octavian was a blood relative of Caesar, or had seen the great cities of the east. The young Roman was a man who saw through the febrile twitching of merchants, nobles and soldiers to what really mattered. Agrippa remembered watching him hold court at a party, speaking so well and fluently that even the drunks were listening to him. Octavian had offered them pride in what they could bring to the world, but Agrippa had heard the other strand woven into the words – the cost and burden that they must shoulder to represent the city. He’d listened in awe to concepts and thoughts that had never intruded upon his father’s endless quest for more wealth.
One of the drunkest nobles had laughed at Octavian. With a quick jerk, Agrippa had tossed the man over the balcony. He grinned as he remembered the amused shock on Octavian’s face as half the crowd rushed past them both. It had been enough to begin a friendship neither man had been looking for. They’d drunk and talked until dawn and Agrippa thanked his gods he’d chosen to go out that night at his father’s urging. He’d found no new deals to make, nor rich daughters to court, but the following morning he’d gone to the docks and joined his first legion galley. His father hadn’t spoken to him since that day.
Sweat patches stood out on Octavian’s tunic and his horse was already lathered in strings of spit. Yet his orders were clear and precise to Fidolus as they walked back into the house to pack.
‘You did not mention the sickness that struck him last night,’ Agrippa observed in a low voice. Maecenas glanced at him.
‘It didn’t happen. Or if it did, he’ll be the one to bring it up.’
Maecenas dismounted and flicked his reins over a post before walking inside to dress. Agrippa watched him go and, when he was finally alone, allowed a smile to spread across his face. He liked them both, a constant wonder for a man who did not make friends easily. For all his studied cynicism, Maecenas had been willing to ride out with his buttocks in the wind the moment he thought Octavian was in danger.
Agrippa took a deep breath of Greek air, deliberately filling his lungs and releasing it slowly. He was a man who valued Roman order, the stability and predictable nature of military life. His childhood had taken him to a dozen different cities, watching his father close a thousand deals. The fleet had saved him from that boredom and given him a home where he felt he was part of something that mattered at last. The talk of chaos worried him more deeply than he would ever say. He hoped Maecenas was wrong, but he knew enough to fear that his noble friend had told the future well. The divine Julius was gone and a thousand lesser men would be rushing to fill the gap he had left. Agrippa knew he might see the Republic torn to pieces as men like his father struggled for advantage. He dismounted and rolled his heavy shoulders, feeling his neck creak. At a time like that, a man should choose his friends with care, or be swept away.
He could hear Maecenas yelling orders inside the house and Agrippa grinned to himself as he tossed the reins over the holding post and followed. At least he would be swept towards Brundisium.
Brutus looked out over a city lit by speckles of fire. The flickering yellow and orange resembled a disease ruining healthy skin, spreading too fast to control. The window brought a warm breeze into the little room, but it was no comfort. The house was in the perfume district, a mile east of the forum. Three floors up from the ground, Brutus could still smell the destruction of the previous days. The odour of rich oils mingled unpleasantly with wet ash and he wanted a bath to rid himself of the scent. He was sick of smoke and the roars of distant clashes. As soon as darkness fell to hide the seething masses, they came out again, in greater and greater numbers. Those with guards had barricaded themselves to starve in their homes. The poor suffered worst, of course. They always did, easier prey to the raptores and gangs than those who could fight back.
Somewhere close by, Brutus could hear the tramp of marching soldiers, a sound as familiar to him as anything in the world. The legions in the Campus Martius had not mutinied, at least so far. The Senate had drafted rushed orders to bring them in, a thousand men at a time. Two separate legions had spread through the city, hard-pressed even so as the mobs gave ground step by bloody step. Brutus rubbed a spot on his forearm where a thrown tile had caught him a glancing blow earlier that day. He had been protected by a century of men, but as they escorted him to his house on the Quirinal hill, the roofs nearby had filled with rioters and a rain of stones and tiles had come arcing over. Had they been waiting for him, or was it just that nowhere was safe?
He clenched his fist at the memory. Even a century could be overwhelmed in the narrow streets. The Senate had reports of soldiers hemmed in on all sides, battered from above, and even one atrocity where oil pots had been thrown and set alight, burning men alive.
With tiles and stones shattering all around, he’d given the order to take a side street. They’d marched away from the location, intending to double back quickly on parallel streets to kick in doors and trap their assailants. He recalled the hooting jeers of lookouts above their heads, watching every step. The roofs had been empty by the time his men reached them, just a litter of broken tiles and scrawled messages. He’d given up on reaching his house and gone back to the safe area around the forum, where thousands of legionaries patrolled.
‘I think it’s getting worse, even with the new men in from the Campus,’ Cassius said, dragging Brutus back to the present. Like him, the senator was staring out over the city.
‘They can’t go on much longer,’ Brutus said, waving his hand in irritation.
The third man in the room stood to refill his cup with rich red wine. The two at the window turned at the sound and Lucius Pella raised his white eyebrows in silent question. Cassius shook his head, but Brutus nodded, so Pella filled a second cup.
‘They are drunk on more than wine,’ Pella said. ‘If we could have saved the senate house, I think it would be over already, but …’ He shook his head in disgust. A stone building should not have fallen just because wooden benches burned inside. Yet as the fire reached its height, one of the walls had cracked from top to bottom. The great roof had come crashing down, collapsing with such speed that it actually extinguished the fires within.
‘What would you have me do, Lucius?’ Cassius asked. ‘I have brought in legions. I have secured the permission of the Senate to kill those who ignore the curfew. Yet it goes on – no, it spreads! We have lost whole districts of the city to these cattle with their clubs and iron bars. A million citizens and slaves cannot be stopped by a few thousand soldiers.’
‘Mark Antony walked to his house today, with just a few men,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘Did you hear that? He is their champion, after his speech appealing to the mob. They don’t touch him, while
