Emperor: The Blood of Gods

‘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?’