wine, I think, Gracchus. You know, lad, when you are my age, if you should be lucky enough to live that long, when colour and taste and even ambition have lost the brightness you think is so natural, I hope you will meet a young cockerel just like you are now – so you can see what I see. I hope you will remember me then. It is a bitter-sweet thing, believe me, but you will not understand until that day.’
A new jug arrived and Liburnius poured the cups full to brimming.
‘Drink with me, lad. Drink to Rome and glorious foolishness.’
Without looking away, Octavian raised his cup, draining it in quick swallows.
The first light of the sun showed over the Esquiline and Viminal hills, gilding the roofs around the forum and reaching across to the Palatine on the far side. The round temple of Vesta there gleamed with the rest, coming alive after the darkness. Neither that ancient building nor the much larger House of Virgins behind had been touched by the fires raging through the city. Their own sacred flame still burned in the hearth of the temple and the bands of rioters had steered clear of the wrath of the goddess, making the fig hand or the horned hand to ward off her curse and moving on.
Mark Antony knew he cut a fine figure as he walked across the forum. As well as six lictors, carrying the traditional axes and bound rods for scourging, two centurions accompanied him, their armour shining and long dark cloaks sweeping against their ankles. The consul of Rome had come to hear the will of Caesar and if the senate house was blackened rubble, at least in his own person Mark Antony still represented the authority of the state. He could feel eyes on him as the crowd gathered, but there was no sense of danger, not that day. He was certain many of those crowding in had been involved in the riots, perhaps just hours before, but the dawn sun was cool and there was almost a sense of truce. The whole city wanted to hear the last words of Caesar to his people.
Mark Antony reached a spot in front of the circular temple, so that he could see the eternal flame flickering along the walls inside. His men took up positions around him, feeling no threat in the quiet crowd. Mark Antony looked for the remaining Liberatores and could not see them. He had spies reporting to him each day and he knew many of them had already left, to save their skins.
He kept his expression stern, though their absence was yet another sign that he had gained most from the slaughters and riots. If powerful men like Brutus and Cassius no longer dared to show their faces, how could they ever hope to regain their authority in Rome? It was a subtle victory. No doubt they had men in the crowd to report back every word, but their absence spoke volumes and he would not be the only one to remark on it. A month before, he could not have dreamed of anything like this day. Caesar had been alive then and the world had been set in ruts of stone, unable to do more than go forward on the path. The Liberatores had changed all that with their knives, but it was Mark Antony whose fortunes were on the rise. He triumphed, step by step, as they failed.
Taller than most, Mark Antony was able to look over the heads of the crowd. The forum was not full, by any means. Heat-scorched stones lay empty behind him, but at least three thousand men and women were there and still they walked out of every side road and down every hill, dark streams of citizens and slaves coming to the heart of Rome. There was order of a sort in most of the city; he had seen to that. The gates were open again and fresh produce flowed in, commanding ridiculous prices. There was a queue outside every baker and butcher as they worked through the night to make loaves and slice meat. There was not enough for all and he had been forced to set patrols at key points to stop fights breaking out. Starvation and disease were the enemies now, the violent energy of the rioters fading almost as quickly as it had sprung up. No one knew how many bodies had been dumped in the Tiber to tumble away to the sea.
His gaze snagged on a group of four men on his right, all armed and obviously together as they talked in low voices. Two of them looked vaguely familiar to the consul, slim figures against the massive shoulders of the man next to them, yet Mark Antony could not bring the names to mind. Hundreds in the crowd would have been clients to Caesar, men who owed their estates and rise to him and had accepted a small stipend each month for their support. The number of them was said to have been in the thousands. Rich and poor, they would all want to know if their patron had remembered them in his will.
Mark Antony continued to crane his neck around, peering particularly at anyone with their head covered. He recognised senators among those, many of them travelling with guards provided from the legions or mercenaries hired for the day. Still, the crowd grew with the sunlight, until the coolness of dawn faded and he could smell sweat and spiced food in the warming air. The spring sky was clear and the city would become unpleasantly hot by noon. He eased his weight from one foot to the other, waiting impatiently for the priestess to show herself.
The crowd stilled as they heard singing coming from the House of Virgins, straining to catch the first glimpse of the Vestal virgins. Mark Antony suppressed a smile as he saw them, more aware than most of the power of pageantry in the city. They bore small cymbals on their fingers and wrists and clashed them together with every step so that the discordant sound rose above their voices. He watched as the procession formed in front of the temple and the song built to a climax followed by total silence. Disappointingly, the young women revealed almost nothing in their stola dresses and long palla robes that concealed their legs. The priestess had shown more flesh when he visited her before and he had to smile at the adolescent part of him. Each one had been chosen for physical perfection, but they had vowed thirty years of celibacy before they could leave the temple. Looking at some of the faces, Mark Antony could not help thinking it was a shocking waste.
He waited through a ritual of thanks to Minerva and Vesta, only sighing as the sun rose and the heat built. After what seemed an age, they brought a wooden platform from the temple, draping it with dark red cloth. Quintina Fabia stepped up to it and her eyes met those of Mark Antony, perhaps recalling that he too had stood and spoken to Rome not long before. The effects could still be seen around them. He saw cold amusement in her eyes, but he was interested only in the carved cedar box brought out from the temple. It was both locked and sealed, so that two of the women had to strike the binding with hammers before they could open the lid. From inside, they raised a square block of wax tablets, wrapped around in strips of lead and then marked in a great disc of wax sealed by Caesar himself. Mark Antony shuddered at the thought of his friend’s hand being the last to touch it before that day.
They handed the block up to the priestess and she used a knife to cut away the wax, showing everyone there that it remained untouched. With care, she bent back the lead strips and passed them down. What remained were five wooden tablets with a thin sheen of wax on their surfaces. Mark Antony could not see the words inscribed there, but he inched forward with everyone else, suddenly desperate to know what Caesar had written.
Untouched by the impatience of the crowd, Quintina Fabia handed four of the tablets back to her companions and read the first to herself, nodding slightly at the end. When she had finished, she looked up at the massed crowd.
‘“For the honour of Rome, hear the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,”’ she began. She paused and Mark Antony groaned quietly at the theatrical impulse.
‘Come on,’ he muttered.
She glanced over to him as if she had heard before continuing to read.
‘“Gaius Octavian is my heir. I acknowledge him as blood of my blood and, by these words, I claim and adopt him as my son.”’
The crowd murmured and
