Emperor: The Blood of Gods. Conn Iggulden

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 at the thought of removing urine-soaked clothing. Yet Maecenas was already moving and his protest remained unspoken. With a sigh, Agrippa lifted Octavian in his arms.

      ‘Come on. Time for a wash and clean clothes.’

      The bathing room in the house was small and the water would be cold without Fidolus to heat it, but it would do. As he carried the limp body, Agrippa shook his head at swirling thoughts. Caesar was dead and only the gods knew what would happen to his friend.

       CHAPTER THREE

      In shadow, Mark Antony pressed his thumbs against his eyes, struggling with weariness. In his twenties, he’d thought nothing of staying awake for a night and then working through the next day. In Gaul, he’d marched through darkness and fought all morning, alongside ten thousand legionaries doing the same thing. He knew that all things pass, that time takes everything from a man. Yet somehow he had assumed his endurance was a part of him, like his wits or his height, only to find it had seeped away like water from a cracked jug.

      The forum was filled with citizens and soldiers, come to honour Caesar for the last time. Rich and poor were forced to mingle and there were constant shouts of irritation and outrage as more and more pressed in from the roads around. A woman cried out somewhere for her lost child and Mark Antony sighed, wishing Julius could have been there to stand with him and watch, just watch, as Rome swirled and coalesced around the body of a god.

      There could never be enough space for all those who wanted to see. The sun was a hammer on bare heads as they struggled for the best view. The heat had been building steadily from the first moments of dawn, when Caesar had been laid out and forty centurions of the Tenth legion had taken position around him. The body rested on a golden bier, the focus and the centre of the world for that day.

      Mark Antony raised his head with an effort of will. He had not slept through two nights and he sweated ceaselessly. Thirst was already unpleasant, but he dared not drink and be forced to leave the forum to empty his bladder. He would have to sip a cup of wine to speak to the crowd, and a slave stood at his shoulder with a cup and cloth. Mark Antony was ready and he knew he would not fail on that day. He did not look at the face of his friend. He had stared too long already as the corpse was washed, the wounds counted and drawn in charcoal and ink by learned doctors for the Senate. It was just a gashed thing now, empty. It was not the man who had cowed the Senate, who had seen kings and pharaohs kneel. Swaying slightly in a wave of dizziness, Mark Antony closed his right hand tightly on the scrolls, making the vellum crackle and crease. He should have stolen a few hours of sleep, he knew. He must not faint or fall, or show any sign of the grief and rage that threatened to ruin him.

      He could not see the Liberatores, though he knew they were all there. Twenty-three men had plunged knives into his friend, many of them after life had fled, as if they were joining a ritual. Mark Antony’s eyes grew cold, his back straightening as he thought of them. He had wasted hours wishing he could have been there, that he could have known what was going to happen, but all that was dust. He could not change the past, not a moment of it. When he wanted to cry out against them, to summon soldiers and have them torn and broken, he had been forced to smile and treat them as great men of Rome. It brought acid into his mouth to think of it. They would be watching, waiting for the days of funeral rites to end, waiting for the citizens to settle down in their grief, so they could enjoy the new posts and powers their knives had won. Mark Antony clenched his jaw at the thought. He had worn a mask from the moment the first whispers reached his ears. Caesar was dead and yapping dogs sat in the Senate. Keeping his disgust hidden had been the hardest task of his life. Yet it had been worth proposing the vote for amnesty. He had drawn their teeth with that simple act and it had not been hard to have his remaining friends support his right to give the funeral oration. The Liberatores had smirked to themselves at the idea, secure in their victory and their new status.

      ‘Cloth and cup,’ Mark Antony snapped suddenly.

      The slave moved, wiping sweat from his master’s face as Mark Antony took the goblet and sipped to clear his throat. It was time to speak to Rome. He stood straight, allowing the slave to adjust the folds of his toga. One shoulder remained bare and he could feel sweat grow cold in the armpit. He walked out of shadow into the sun and passed through the line of centurions glaring out at the crowd. In just four steps, he was on the platform with Julius for the last time.

      The crowd saw the consul and stillness spread out from that one point in all directions. They did not want to miss a word and the sudden silence was almost unnerving. Mark Antony looked at the grand buildings and temples all around. Every window was full of dark heads and he wondered again where Brutus and Cassius were. They would not miss the moment of their triumph, he was certain. He raised his voice to a bellow and began.

      ‘Citizens of Rome! I am but one man, a consul of our city. Yet I do not speak with one voice when I talk of Caesar. I speak with the tongue of every citizen. I speak today for our countrymen, our people. The Senate decreed honours for Caesar and when I tell all his names, you will hear not my voice but your own.’

      He turned slightly on the rostrum to look at the body of his friend. The silence was perfect and unbroken across the forum of Rome. Caesar’s wounds had been covered in a white