Emperor: The Blood of Gods. Conn Iggulden

      ‘Yes, master,’ Fidolus replied.

      The three young Romans did not return to the villa until just before sunset. They came in noisily, laughing and brash with three Greek women they had picked up. Maecenas had been the one to approach them in a jeweller’s, recommending pieces that would suit their colouring.

      Octavian envied his friend’s talent – it was not one he had himself, despite the masterclass of watching Maecenas. There didn’t seem to be much magic to it. Maecenas had complimented the women outrageously, bantering back and forth as he made them try on various pieces. The shopkeeper had watched with patient indulgence, hoping for a sale. As far as Octavian could see, the young women had known from the outset what Maecenas was after, but his breezy confidence made a joke of it.

      Octavian squeezed the slim waist of the woman he had brought home, trying hard to remember her name. He had a nasty suspicion that it was not ‘Lita’ and he was waiting for one of her friends to use her name again so he would not spoil the moment.

      As they reached the gate to the house, Maecenas suddenly pressed his companion against the white-painted stone and kissed her, his hands wandering. She wore a new gold pendant at her throat, his gift. Each of the girls wore the same piece, bought with almost all the money they had pooled for the last few days of leave.

      Agrippa had not been quite as lucky as the other two. It would have been extraordinary for all three women to be attractive and the one who clung to his arm was fairly heavily built herself, with a dark moustache along her upper lip. Nonetheless, Agrippa seemed pleased. It had been a while since they’d brought women back, and in a drought he could not afford to have high standards. Agrippa nuzzled at her bare shoulder with his beard, making her laugh while they waited for the gate to open.

      It took only moments for the house slave Fidolus to come running and unbar the entrance. He looked flushed and his hands slipped on the bar as he heaved it up.

      ‘Master, thank the gods! You must see the messenger.’

      Octavian stiffened in irritation. He had a beautiful Greek girl pressing her warmth into his side and the last thing he wanted was to think of Rome and the army.

      ‘Please, master,’ Fidolus said. He was almost shaking in the grip of some strong emotion and Octavian felt a stab of worry.

      ‘Is it my mother?’ he said.

      Fidolus shook his head. ‘Please, he is waiting for you.’

      Octavian stepped away from the woman on his arm.

      ‘Take me to him,’ he ordered.

      Fidolus breathed in relief and Octavian followed him into the house at a fast walk, trying hard not to run.

      Maecenas and Agrippa shared a glance, both men suspecting they would not be enjoying the evening in the way they had planned.

      ‘That does not sound good,’ Agrippa said. ‘Ladies, there is a bathing room here that has few equals. I suspect my friend Maecenas and I must attend our friend for a few hours, but if you are willing to wait …’ He saw their expressions. ‘No?’ He sighed. ‘Very well then. I will have Fidolus escort you back to the city.’

      Maecenas shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, it will wait for a little while longer, I’m sure,’ he said, his eyes wide as he tried to dissuade Agrippa. The woman on his arm seemed equally reluctant and Agrippa grew flushed with sudden anger.

      ‘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