style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Do what you want, then. I will find out what is going on.’
He strode into the house, leaving the gate open. Maecenas raised his eyebrows.
‘I wonder if all three of you would consider teaching a young Roman more about Greece?’
Agrippa’s woman gasped, turning on her heel without a word. After twenty paces, she turned and called to her friends. They looked at each other and for a moment Maecenas thought his luck was in. Some silent communication passed between them.
‘Sorry, Maecenas, another time, perhaps.’
He watched wistfully as they swayed away, young and lithe and taking three gold pendants with them. He let out a sharp curse, then went inside, anger and frustration in every step.
Octavian reached the main hall almost at a run, his nervousness growing by the moment at the blank shock he could see in the house slave. He skidded to a halt when the messenger rose to greet him, holding out a package without a word.
Octavian broke his mother’s wax seal and read quickly. He took a deep breath, then another, feeling prickles rise on his neck and down his bare legs. He shook his head and took a step to sit down on a bench, reading the lines over and over.
‘Master,’ Fidolus began. The messenger leaned close as if he was trying to read the words.
‘Get out, both of you. Fetch my friends and then get out,’ he replied.
‘I was told to wait for a reply,’ the messenger said sourly.
Octavian surged out of the seat and grabbed the messenger by the front of his tunic, shoving him in the direction of the door.
‘Get out!’
In the courtyard, Agrippa and Maecenas both heard the shout. They drew swords and ran to their friend, passing the red-faced messenger as they entered the house.
Fidolus had lit the oil lamps and Octavian paced through twin pools of light. Maecenas was a study in calm, though his face was still pale. Agrippa tapped blunt fingers on his knee, the only sign of an inner agitation.
‘I have to go back,’ Octavian said. His voice was hoarse from talking, but he burned with a brittle energy. As he strode up and down the room, his right hand clenched and opened as if he was imagining striking at his enemies. ‘I need information. Isn’t that what you always say, Agrippa? That knowledge is everything? I need to go to Rome. I have friends there.’
‘Not any more,’ Maecenas said. Octavian came to a stop and spun to face him. Maecenas looked away, embarrassed at the raw grief he saw in his friend. ‘Your protector is dead, Octavian. Has it occurred to you that you will also be in danger if you show your face in Rome? He treated you as his heir and these “Liberatores” will not want anyone who could lay claim to his possessions.’
‘He has an heir: Ptolemy Caesar,’ Octavian snapped. ‘The Egyptian queen will keep that boy safe. I …’ He broke off to curse. ‘I have to go back! It cannot go unanswered. There must be a trial. There must be punishment. They are murderers, in daylight, killing the leader of Rome and pretending they have saved the Republic. I have to speak for him. I have to speak for Caesar before they cover up the truth with lies and flattery. I know how they work, Maecenas. They will hold a lavish funeral and they will rub ashes into their skin and weep for the great man. In a month or less, they will move on to new plots, new ways to raise themselves, never seeing how petty, how venal they are, in comparison to him.’
He resumed his stiff pacing, pounding out each step on the tiled floor. He was consumed with rage, so intense that he could barely speak or breathe. Maecenas waved a hand, deferring to Agrippa as the big man cleared his throat. He spoke as calmly as he could, aware that Octavian was on the edge of violence or perhaps tears and had been for hours. The young man was exhausted, but his body jerked on, unable to stop or rest.
‘Your mother’s letter said they had been given amnesty, Octavian. The law has been passed. There can be no revenge against them now, not without turning the entire Senate against you. How long would you survive that?’
‘As long as I choose, Agrippa. Let me tell you something of Caesar. I have seen him capture a pharaoh from his own palace in Alexandria. I have been at his side when he challenged armies and governments and no one dared raise a hand or speak a word against him. The Senate have as much power as we choose to allow them; do you understand? Allow them nothing and they have nothing. What they call power is no more than shadows. Julius understood that. They pass their pompous laws and the common people bow their heads and everyone declares it is real … but it is not!’
He shook his head, lurching and staggering slightly, so that his shoulder bumped against the wall. As the other two shared a worried glance, Octavian rested there, cooling his forehead against the plaster.
‘Are you ill, Octavian? You need to sleep.’
Agrippa stood up, unsure whether he should approach. He had known madmen in his life and Octavian was at the ragged edge, driven to it by soaring emotions. His friend needed rest and Agrippa considered mixing a draught of opium for him. Dawn had come and they were all exhausted. Octavian showed no sign of relaxing from the rage that knotted and twisted his muscles. Even as he stood there, his legs and arms twitched in spasms underneath the skin.
‘Octavian?’ Agrippa asked again. There was no reply and he turned to Maecenas, raising his hands helplessly.
Maecenas approached Octavian like the horseman he was. There was something about the twitching muscles that reminded him of an unbroken colt and he made unconscious soothing noises, clicking and murmuring in his throat as he laid a hand on Octavian’s shoulder. The skin under the cloth felt burning hot, and at the touch Octavian went suddenly limp, sliding along the wall in collapse. Maecenas leaped forward to catch him, but the unexpected weight was too much and he barely managed to guide his friend to lie along the edge of the room. To Maecenas’ horror, a dark patch grew at Octavian’s groin, the bitter smell of urine filling the close air.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Agrippa asked, sinking into a crouch.
‘He’s breathing at least,’ Maecenas said. ‘I don’t know. His eyes are moving, but I don’t think he is awake. Have you seen anything like this before?’
‘Not in him. I knew a centurion once with a falling sickness. I remember he lost his bladder.’
‘What happened to him?’ Maecenas asked without looking up.
Agrippa winced in memory. ‘Killed himself. He had no authority with his men after that. You know how they can be.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Maecenas replied. ‘Perhaps it is just this once, though. No one needs to hear of it. We can clean him up, and when he wakes, it will be forgotten. The mind is a strange thing. He will believe whatever we tell him.’
‘Unless he knows about the weakness already,’ Agrippa said.
Both of them jumped up at the sound of footsteps. The house slave, Fidolus, was returning.
Maecenas was first to speak.
‘He mustn’t see this. I’ll distract Fidolus, give him something to do. You take care of Octavian.’
Agrippa scowled
