Antony and Cleopatra. Colleen McCullough

had loathed.

      ‘She was a part of Rome’s history,’ Octavian finally said, ‘and she deserved a better end. Have her ashes come home? Does she have a tomb?’

      ‘To my knowledge, no on both counts.’

      Octavian got up. ‘I shall speak to Atticus. Between us, we will give her a proper burial, as befits her station. Aren’t her children by Antonius quite young?’

      ‘Antyllus is five, Iullus is two.’

      ‘Then I’ll ask my sister to keep an eye on them. Three of her own aren’t enough for Octavia, she’s always got someone else’s children in her care.’

      Including, thought Agrippa grimly, your half-sister, Marcia. I will never forget that day on the heights of Petra when we were on our way to meet Brutus and Cassius – Gaius sitting with the tears streaming down his face, mourning the death of his mother. But she isn’t dead! She’s the wife of his stepbrother, Lucius Marcius Philippus. Another one of his contradictions, that he can grieve for Fulvia, while pretending that his mother doesn’t exist. Oh, I know why. She had only donned her widow’s weeds for a month when she began an affair with her stepson. That might have been hushed up, had she not become pregnant. He’d had a letter from his sister that day in Petra, begging him to understand their mother’s plight. But he wouldn’t. To him, Atia was a whore, an immoral woman not worthy to be the mother of a god’s son. So he forced Atia and Philippus to retire to Philippus’s villa at Misenum, and forbade them to enter Rome. An edict he has never lifted, though Atia is ill and her baby girl a permanent member of Octavia’s nursery. One day it will all come back to haunt him, though he cannot see that, anymore than he has ever laid eyes on his half-sister. A beautiful child, fair as any Julian, for all that her father is so dark.

      Then came a letter from Further Gaul that put all thought of Antony or his dead wife out of Octavian’s mind, and postponed the date of a marriage Maecenas was busy arranging for him in Agrigentum.

      ‘Esteemed Caesar,’ it said, ‘I write to inform you that my beloved father, Quintus Fufius Calenus, has died in Narbo. He was fifty-nine years old, I know, but his health was good. Then he fell down dead. It was over in a moment. As his chief legate, I now have charge of the eleven legions stationed throughout Further Gaul: four in Agedincum, four in Narbo, and three in Glanum. At this time the Gauls are quiet, my father having put down a revolt among the Aquitani last year, but I quail to think what might yet happen if the Gauls get wind of my command and inexperience. I felt it right to inform you rather than Marcus Antonius, though the Gauls belong to him. He is so far away. Please send me a new governor, one with the necessary military skills to keep the peace here. Preferably quickly, as I would like to bring my father’s ashes back to Rome in person.’

      Octavian read and reread the rather bald communication, his heart fluttering in his chest. For once, happy flutterings. At last a twist of fate that favored him! Who could ever have believed that Calenus would die?

      He sent for Agrippa, busy winding up his tenure of the urban praetorship so that he could travel for long periods; the urban praetor could not be absent from Rome for more than ten days.

      ‘Forget the odds and ends!’ Octavian cried, handing him the letter. ‘Read this and rejoice!’

      ‘Eleven veteran legions!’ Agrippa breathed, understanding the import immediately. ‘You have to reach Narbo before Pollio and Ventidius beat you to it. They have fewer miles to cover, so pray the news doesn’t find them quickly. Young Calenus isn’t his father’s bootlace, if this is anything to go by.’ Agrippa waved the sheet of paper. ‘Imagine it, Caesar! Further Gaul is about to drop into your lap without a pilum raised in anger.’

      ‘We take Salvidienus with us,’ Octavian said.

      ‘Is that wise?’

      The grey eyes looked startled. ‘What makes you question my wisdom in this?’

      ‘Nothing I can put a finger on, except that governing Further Gaul is a great command. Salvidienus might let it go to his head. At least I presume that you mean to give him the command?’

      ‘Would you rather have it? It’s yours if you want it.’

      ‘No, Caesar, I don’t want it. Too far from Italia and you.’ He sighed, shrugged in a defeated way. ‘I can’t think of anyone else. Taurus is too young, the rest you can’t trust to deal smartly with the Bellovaci or the Suebi.’

      ‘Salvidienus will be fine,’ Octavian said confidently, and patted his dearest friend on the arm. ‘We’ll start for Further Gaul at dawn tomorrow, and we’ll travel the way my father the god did – four-mule gigs at the gallop. That means the Via Aemilia and the Via Domitia. To make sure we have no trouble commandeering fresh mules often enough, we’ll take a squadron of German cavalry.’

      ‘You ought to have a full-time bodyguard, Caesar.’

      ‘Not now, I’m too busy. Besides, I don’t have the money.’

      Agrippa gone, Octavian walked across the Palatine to the Clivus Victoriae and the domus of Gaius Claudius Marcellus Minor, who was his brother-in-law. An inadequate and indecisive consul in the year that Caesar had crossed the Rubicon, Marcellus was the brother and first cousin of two men whose hatred of Caesar had been beyond reason. He had skulked in Italy while Caesar fought the war against Pompey the Great, and had been rewarded after Caesar won with the hand of Octavia. For Marcellus the union was a mixture of love and expedience; a marriage tie to Caesar’s family meant protection for himself and the massive Claudius Marcellus fortune, now all his. And he truly did love his bride, a priceless jewel. Octavia had borne him a girl, Marcella Major, a boy whom everyone called Marcellus, and a second girl, Marcella Minor, who was known as Cellina.

      The house was preternaturally quiet. Marcellus was very ill, ill enough that his ordinarily gentle wife had issued iron instructions about servant chatter and clatter.

      ‘How is he?’ Octavian asked his sister, kissing her cheek.

      ‘It’s only a matter of days, the physicians say. The growth is extremely malignant, it’s eating up his insides voraciously.’

      The large aquamarine eyes brimmed with tears that only fell to soak her pillow after she retired. She genuinely loved this man whom her stepfather had chosen for her with her brother’s full approval; the Claudii Marcelli were not patricians, but of very old and noble plebeian stock, which had made Marcellus Minor a suitable husband for a Julian woman. It had been Caesar who hadn’t liked him, Caesar who at first had disapproved of the match.

      Her beauty grew ever greater, her brother thought, wishing he could share her sorrow. For though he had consented to the marriage, he had never really taken to the man who possessed his beloved Octavia. Besides, he had plans, and the death of Marcellus Minor was likely to further them. Octavia would get over her loss. Four years older than he, she had the Julian look: golden hair, eyes with blue in them, high cheekbones, a lovely mouth, and an expression of radiant calmness that drew people to her. More importantly, she had a full measure of the famous gift meted out to most Julian women: she made her men happy.

      Cellina was newborn and Octavia was nursing the babe herself, a joy she wouldn’t relinquish to a wet nurse. But it meant that she hardly ever went out, and often had to absent herself from the presence of visitors. Like her brother, Octavia was modest to the point of prudishness, would not bare her breast to give her child milk in front of any man except her husband. Yet one more reason why Octavian loved her. To him, she was Goddess Roma personified and, when he was undisputed master of Rome, he intended to erect statues of her in public places, an honor not accorded to women.

      ‘May I see Marcellus?’ Octavian asked.

      ‘He says no visitors, even you.’ Her face twisted. ‘It’s pride, Caesar, the pride of a scrupulous man. His room smells, no matter how hard the servants scrub, or how many sticks of incense I burn. The physicians call it the smell of death and say it’s ineradicable.’

      He took her into his arms, kissed her hair. ‘Dearest sister, is there anything I can do?’