Читать книгу Emperor: The Blood of Gods - Conn Iggulden - Страница 14

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 gentleman 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.

The street grew busier around them as the life of Brundisium went on with no sign of a lull. Two messengers from the morning managed to find their way back to the listless group, accepting coins from Maecenas as they brought news of a friend with an empty house in the wealthy eastern half of the city.

‘I’m going in,’ Octavian said at last. ‘If only to get my ring back. By the gods, I never thought it would be this hard just to speak to someone in authority.’

Agrippa and Maecenas exchanged a quick glance. In their own way, both had more experience of the world than their friend. Agrippa’s father had taken him to the houses of many powerful men, showing him how to bribe and work his way round layers of staff. Maecenas was the opposite, a man who employed such men on his estates.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Agrippa said, rolling his head on his shoulders. ‘Maecenas can stay to watch the horses.’

In truth, neither of them wanted Maecenas anywhere near a Roman tribune. A man of his rank could order them killed at the slightest insult to his dignity. Maecenas shrugged and they went in, squinting as the light changed.

The tavern-keeper was back behind his bar. He did not speak to them and his expression was something just short of a sneer. Octavian strode up to him, but Agrippa touched him on the shoulder, inclining his head towards a table across the room, far from the dust and heat of the main door.

Two men sat there in togas dyed dark blue, almost black. They were eating from a plate of cold meats and boiled vegetables, leaning over the table with their elbows on the wood and talking earnestly. A matched pair of guards in full legionary armour stood facing the room, just far enough away to give the men the illusion of privacy, if not the reality.

Octavian took heart from the colours of mourning they wore. If they were men who showed they grieved for Caesar, perhaps he could trust them. Yet they had not returned his ring, so he was wary as he approached.

One of the men at the table had a tribune’s cloak draped over his chair. The man looked fit and tanned, his head almost bald with just a band of white hair by his ears. He wore no breastplate, just a tunic that left his arms bare and revealed white chest hairs below the open collar. Octavian took all this in before one of the guards raised a flat palm casually to stop him. The two men at the table continued their conversation without looking up.

‘I need to speak to Tribune Liburnius,’ Octavian said.

‘No you don’t,’ the legionary said, deliberately keeping his voice low as if every word could not be overheard by the men at the table. ‘You need to stop bothering your betters. Apply to the barracks of the Fourth Ferrata legion. Someone will hear you there. Off you go now.’

Octavian stood very still, simmering anger clear in every line of him. The guard was unimpressed, though he glanced at Agrippa, whose size made him worthy of a quick assessment. Even so, the legionary just smiled slightly and shook his head.

‘Where are the barracks?’ Octavian said at last. He knew his name would get him an audience, but it could equally get him arrested.

‘Three miles west of town, or thereabouts,’ the legionary replied. ‘Ask anyone on the way. You’ll find it.’

The soldier took no obvious pleasure in turning them away. He was just doing as he had been told and keeping strangers from bothering the tribune. No doubt there were many who sought to reach the man with some plea or other. Octavian controlled his temper with an effort. His plans were baulked at every turn, but getting himself killed in a seedy tavern would accomplish nothing.

‘I’ll have my ring then and be on my way,’ he said.

The legionary did not answer and Octavian repeated his words. The conversation at the table had ceased and both men were chewing food in silence, clearly waiting for him to go. Octavian clenched his fists and both guards looked straight at him. The one who had spoken shook his head again slowly, warning him off.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Octavian said curtly. He turned and stalked to where the tavern-keeper was watching with a greasy look of nervousness. Agrippa went with him, cracking his knuckles as he stood at Octavian’s side.

‘Did you hand over the ring I gave you?’ Octavian demanded of the tavern-keeper. The man’s expression was unpleasant as he wiped cups and put them back in a neat row on the bar. He glanced to where the tribune sat with his guards and decided he was safe enough.

‘What ring?’ he replied.

Octavian snapped his left arm out and cupped the back of the tavern-keeper’s head. The man stiffened against it, holding himself neatly in place as Octavian punched him in the nose with his right hand. The man went over backwards in a crash of breaking cups.

One of the tribune’s guards cursed across the room, but Octavian was around the bar and on the fallen tavern-keeper before they could move. The man’s hands flailed at him, knocking his head up with a lucky blow before Octavian landed two more solid punches. The burly man slumped then and Octavian searched the pockets of his apron, rewarded with the feel of a small lump. He drew out the ring just as the guards came storming over with swords drawn. One of them placed a palm against Agrippa’s chest, with a blade raised to strike at throat height. Agrippa could only hold up empty hands as he backed away. At a word from the tribune, they were both dead.

The other guard reached over and wrapped an arm around Octavian’s neck, heaving backwards with all his strength. With a strangled shout, Octavian was yanked over the bar and they fell back together.

Octavian struggled wildly as the arm around his throat tightened, but his air was cut off and his face began to grow purple. He clung on to the ring as his vision began to flash and fade, never hearing the dry voice of the tribune as he strolled over to them.

‘Let him go, Gracchus,’ Tribune Liburnius said, wiping his mouth with a square of fine linen.

The guard released Octavian, pausing just long enough to punch him hard in the kidneys before standing up and smoothing himself down. On the floor, Octavian groaned in pain, but he held up his hand with the ring pinched between two fingers. The tribune ignored it.

‘Twenty lashes for brawling in public, I think,’ he said. ‘Another twenty for disturbing my lunch. Do the honours, would you, Gracchus? There is a whipping post in the street you can use.’

‘It would be a pleasure, sir,’ the guard said, panting from his exertions. As he laid hands on Octavian again, the young man came to his feet, so far gone in fury that he could hardly think.

‘My ring is stolen from me and you call this Roman justice?’ he demanded. ‘Should I let some fat taverner steal a gift from Caesar himself?’

‘Show me the ring,’ the tribune said, a frown line appearing on his forehead.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Octavian said. Agrippa gaped at him, but he was practically shaking with rage. ‘You are not the man I want to see; I know that now. I will take the lashes.’

Tribune Liburnius sighed.

‘Oh, save me from young cockerels. Gracchus? If you wouldn’t mind.’

Octavian felt his arm gripped and his fingers forced open. The ring was tossed through the air and the tribune caught it easily, peering closely at it in the gloom. His eyebrows raised as he studied the seal marked in the gold.

‘Just a month ago, this would have gained you entry almost anywhere, young man. But now it only raises questions. Who are you and how did you come to have this in your possession?’

Octavian tensed his jaw defiantly and it was Agrippa who decided enough was enough.

‘His name is Gaius Octavian Thurinus, a relative of Caesar. He speaks the truth.’

The tribune digested the information with a thoughtful expression.

‘I believe I have heard that name. And you?’

‘Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, sir. Centurion Captain of the fleet, sir.’

‘I see. Well, gentlemen, a ring from Caesar has won you a place at my table, at least for an hour. Have you eaten?’

Agrippa shook his head, dumbfounded at the sudden change in manner.

‘I’ll order for you when the tavern-keeper wakes up. Gracchus? Throw a bucket of slops on him … and spend a moment or two teaching him that stealing has consequences, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll need to find a new inn tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the legionary responded. He had recovered his dignity and looked with satisfaction on the unconscious figure sprawled beneath the bar.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ the tribune said, gesturing back to his table and his still-seated companion. ‘You have my attention. I hope you don’t regret it.’

Tribune Liburnius placed the ring on the table before them as Octavian and Agrippa pulled up chairs. He did not introduce his companion and Octavian wondered if he was a client or perhaps a spy for the tribune. The man met his eyes briefly, revealing a flash of interest and intelligence before looking away.

The tribune looked up at the sound of a bucket clattering to the ground and a stifled cry from behind the bar.

‘I’m sure the wine will be here in a moment or two,’ he said. He reached out and held the ring once more, turning it in his hands. ‘This is a dangerous little thing these days. I wonder if you realise that?’

‘I’m beginning to,’ Octavian said, touching a hand to a swelling lump by his right eye.

‘Hah! Not thieves. There is far more danger in those who are struggling even now to keep a grip on the mother city. We’re out of it here in Brundisium. If I have my way, we will remain so until order is re-established. Yet Greece is further still, so perhaps this is all news to you.’

Octavian blinked. ‘How did you know I came from Greece?’

To his surprise, Liburnius chuckled, clearly delighted.

‘By the gods, you really are young! Honestly, it makes me nostalgic for my own youth. You truly think you can come into this port, throwing silver coins around and demanding to speak to senior men, without it being reported? I dare say every rumour-monger in the city has your description by now, though perhaps not your name, not yet.’

Octavian flicked a glance at the tribune’s silent companion and the man sensed it, smiling slightly without looking up.

‘Your presence is an interesting problem for me, Octavian. I could have you sent in chains to Rome, of course, for some senator to dispose of as he sees fit, but that would gain me just a favour, or a few gold coins, hardly worth my trouble.’

‘You have no loyalty then?’ Octavian demanded. ‘The Fourth Ferrata was formed by Caesar. You must have known him.’

Tribune Liburnius looked at him, biting the inside of his lower lip in thought.

‘I knew him, yes. I cannot say we were friends. Men like Caesar have few friends, I think, only followers.’ Liburnius drummed his fingers on the table as he considered, his eyes never leaving Octavian.

The drinks arrived, brought by the tavern-keeper. The man was a bedraggled mess, his face swollen and one eye half shut. There was a piece of green vegetable in his hair. He did not look at Octavian or the tribune as he placed a jug and cups carefully and departed, limping. The legionary, Gracchus, took up his position once more, facing out.

‘And yet …’ Liburnius said softly. ‘The will of Caesar has not been read. He had a boy with the Egyptian queen, but they say he loved you also like a son. Who knows what Caesar’s gift might mean to you, when we hear? It could be that you are the horse to back, at least for now. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement, something that benefits us both.’

The fingers drummed again and the tribune’s companion poured for all of them. Octavian and Agrippa exchanged glances, but there was nothing to do but remain silent.

‘I think … yes. I could have documents drawn up. A tenth of whatever you inherit, against my time and funds getting you to Rome and my support securing whatever you are owed. And leaving you alive and unflogged, of course. Shall we shake hands on it? You will need that ring to seal the agreement, so you may have it back.’

Octavian gaped at him. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and snatched up the ring, working it onto his finger.

‘It was never yours to return,’ he said. ‘A tenth! I would have to be insane to agree to such a bargain, especially before I know how much is at stake. My answer is no. I have funds enough to find my own way. I have friends enough to stand against the men who killed him.’

‘I see,’ Liburnius said, wryly amused at the young man’s anger. Drops of wine had spilled on the ancient table and he drew circles with them on the wood as he thought. He shook his head and Octavian gripped the edge of the table, ready to shove it over and run.

‘I don’t think you understand how perilous Rome has become, Octavian. How do you think the Liberatores will react if you enter the city? If you charge into the senate house, demanding and blustering, as if you had a right to be heard? I give you half a day at most, before you are found with your throat cut, perhaps not even that long. The men of power will not want some relative of Caesar inflaming the mob. They will not want a claimant on his wealth that would otherwise find its way into their hands. Are you going to tip this table over, by the way? Do you think I am blind or a fool? My guards would cut you down before you could stand up.’ He shook his head ruefully at the rashness of the young. ‘Mine is the best offer you will receive today. At least with me, you will live long enough to hear the will read.’

Octavian removed his hands from the table, sitting with his thoughts racing. The tribune was a real threat and he realised he could not get out of the tavern without losing something. He wondered what Julius would have done in his place. Tribune Liburnius watched him closely, a smile lifting the corners of his thin mouth.

‘I will not sign away my inheritance, or any part of it,’ Octavian said. Liburnius tutted to himself and raised his eyes to the guards to give an order. Octavian went on quickly, ‘But I was there when Caesar and Cleopatra bargained with the Egyptian court. I can offer more than gold in exchange for your support. You can be useful to me, I will not deny it. It is why I sought you out in the first place.’

‘Go on,’ Liburnius said. His eyes were cold, but the smile still remained.

‘I saw Caesar give favours that men valued far more than coins. I can do that. I will put his ring to an agreement that offers you a single favour, whatever you wish, at any point in my life.’

Liburnius blinked and then gave a great bark of laughter, slapping the table with his palm. When he settled, he wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling.

‘You are a joy to me, lad. I cannot fault you for the entertainment. It was looking to be such a dull day as well. You know, I have a son about your age. I wish he had a pair like yours, I really do. Instead, he reads Greek philosophy to me; can you imagine? It is all I can do not to vomit.’

Liburnius leaned forward on the table, all sign of humour vanishing.

‘But you are not Caesar. As things stand in Rome, I would not lay a silver coin on you surviving a year. What you have offered me is almost certainly worthless. As I say, I applaud your courage, but let us end this game.’

Octavian leaned forward as well, his voice clear and low.

‘I am not Caesar, but he did love me as a son and the blood of his family runs in me. Take what I have offered and one day, when your fortunes have changed for the worse, or those of your son, perhaps then my promise will be the most valuable thing you own.’

Liburnius made a fig hand quickly to avert even the suggestion of an evil fate in store for him. He shoved his thumb between the first and second fingers of his right hand and pointed it at Octavian. After a pause, he unclenched his hand and let it fall to the table.

‘With that promise and ten thousand in gold, I will have ten thousand in gold,’ he muttered.

Octavian shrugged. ‘I cannot promise what I don’t have,’ he said.

‘That is why I asked you for a tenth, boy. You cannot lose by such an arrangement.’

Octavian knew he should have agreed, but something stubborn in him still refused. He folded his arms.

‘I have said all there is to say. Accept my favour and one day it could save your life. If you remember Caesar, consider how he would want you to act.’ Octavian looked up at the ceiling of the tavern. ‘He died at the hands of men who now live well. If he can see us now, will he see you treat me with honour or disdain?’

He waited for an answer and Liburnius drummed his fingers on the wood, the only sound in the tavern. For an instant, his eyes flickered upward, as if he too was imagining Julius watching.

‘I can’t decide if you don’t understand … or you just don’t care to preserve your life,’ he said. ‘I have met a few like you in my time, young officers mostly, with no sense of their own mortality. Some rose, but most of them are long dead, victims of their own overconfidence. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’

‘I do. Gamble on me, Tribune. I will not be brought down easily.’

Liburnius blew air from his lips in a wet sound.

‘To be brought down, you have first to rise.’ He made a decision. ‘Very well. Gracchus? Fetch me a parchment, reed and ink. I will have this poor bargain sealed in front of witnesses.’

Octavian knew better than to speak again. He worked hard to hide the triumph that seared through him.

‘When that is done, I will secure your passage to Rome. The will is to be read in eight days, which gives you time to spare to get there, on good horses. I trust you will not object to Gracchus travelling with you to keep you safe? There are bandits on the road and I would like to be among the first to hear what Caesar left to his city and his clients.’

Octavian nodded. He watched Liburnius dip the hollow reed with a sharpened tip and write with a sure hand. The tavern-keeper brought a lit candle and the tribune melted wax, dripping a fat glob of it onto the dry parchment, so that oil spread beneath. Octavian pressed his ring into the soft surface and the two guards added a scrawled ‘X’ where Liburnius had written their names. It was done.

Liburnius sat back, relaxing.

‘More 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.