The Sun of God, page 50
No. On me.
Agrippa had sworn that oath so long ago it might as well have been another lifetime, but the words always remained, as though they were seared on his heart. Perhaps they were.
All my life.
“I swear on our daughter’s life,” Agrippa said, “that I will come home to you.”
“Alive,” Attica whispered, her eyes wide and full of endless, endless pain. He had known the price of war, but it was always different to see it so clear and brutal in the eyes of the woman he loved.
“Alive,” Agrippa repeated.
She rested her head wearily against his shoulder, breathing in deeply. Agrippa counted his heartbeats, closing his eyes and feeling the weight of her head on his arm, the strength within him as vital and eternal as Atlas holding up the sky. They remained like that until Agrippina fell fast asleep.
JANUARY 35 BC
The carriage rattled on the stone streets descending from the hills of Rome and across the vast, olive-green countryside towards the Adriatic coast. Agrippa looked at Octavius, who sat across from him, looking out the window.
Memories overlapped with memories, the many times they had traveled in this carriage, the silences and stolen glances, the touches and the insults, and all the spoken and unspoken confessions. It was like looking into a mirror, only to see his own face reflected into eternity, finding himself in the same places, wondering if he was still the same man as before.
Octavius looked at him keenly. “How was Attica?”
Agrippa did not understand why Octavius ever asked about her. They did not particularly get along. Attica certainly still blamed Octavius for the death of her father’s dear friend Cicero, while Octavius secretly resented that he was not Agrippa’s only concern. Agrippa loved them both, but if he had learned anything, it was that love was not always enough.
“She took it well, I suppose,” he said.
“Then she did not want you to go.”
I need you.
“No,” Agrippa said reluctantly. “She did not.”
“Did you?”
“What?”
Octavius’ eyes were dark and challenging, just as they were before he rolled in a game of dice he knew he would win. Agrippa realized belatedly that he was testing him. “Did you wish to go?”
Agrippa stared at him. Finally, he said, “Well, there is the baby.”
“Agrippina.” Octavius raised a brow. “She is in good hands, surely.”
“She is,” Agrippa said. “But there is nothing like a father. You should know this better than anyone.”
Octavius flushed. It was the wrong thing to say, and perhaps a low blow. Octavius had never really known his father, while Agrippa had only ever known his. But it was still true.
“Must I remind you why we are going?” Octavius asked tersely.
They had actually long planned to quell the rebellious tribes in Illyicum, so the summons had not exactly come as a surprise. The plan had been contingent on defeating Sextus, which would then leave tens of thousands of soldiers without occupation or housing.
Octavius had decided to bribe the soldiers with rich rewards if they chose to continue fighting alongside him in Illyricum, while the rest would be paid right then as promised. It had, of course, worked perfectly.
“It is as you said,” Agrippa replied wearily. “The only thing worse than men at war are men at home, for they bring war with them.”
“Precisely,” Octavius said, his eyes hardened like metal. “If I allowed my men to remain idle in Rome, eating Roman food, living on Roman land, bearing weapons and complaining, it would not be long before riots broke out, if not an outright war.” He sighed. “And we cannot afford to have another civil war.”
“Not even with Antonius?” Agrippa asked with a smirk.
Octavius glared at him. “Antonius is no longer Roman, and the people know that. He is merely the puppet of an Egyptian queen.”
“You had best hope the people remember it.”
“You had best remember it,” Octavius shot back. “I cannot have my best general abandon my cause for a child.” Or a woman, Agrippa heard unsaid, and he knew Octavius thought it the worse of the two.
“Is that all you think of me?” Agrippa asked, only partly joking. “As your best general?”
It was his turn to test Octavius, who looked away, suddenly very quiet, watching the hilly countryside rise and fall outside the window. Agrippa wondered what he was thinking, whether he was remembering that night on the beach, the silence, the simple kiss.
If I loved you, I would be terrified to lose you.
“I am only joking,” Agrippa said softly when Octavius did not speak.
Octavius looked at him sharply. “Are you?”
Agrippa smiled wryly, but inside he grew sad and lonely. If he was partly joking, it was only because it was partly true. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“If you were only my best general,” Octavius said angrily, “would I have you in this carriage?”
Agrippa was silent.
Octavius raised a brow and took Agrippa’s hand roughly in his, but the touch was cold and distant, as if he were merely proving a point. “Would I touch you? Would I kiss you?”
“You don’t have to,” Agrippa said, his voice chilly despite the sudden racing of his pulse, as it always did when Octavius touched him. “It is not an obligation.”
Octavius huffed a laugh but his eyes flashed angrily, and he dropped Agrippa’s hand. “Do not speak to me of obligation.”
Agrippa wondered if Octavius was still speaking about him, or someone else, someone from a past he would rather forget. He always favored me.
In Octavius’ dark eyes, Agrippa saw a charming smile, a smooth voice, and clever eyes. Hirtius had been so worldly, so sophisticated, so unlike Agrippa. But Octavius had been young and impressionable, and despite his best efforts, the past did not always remain there.
While Agrippa felt a slight pity for a seventeen-year-old boy who did not know better, he also felt frustrated, and embarrassed, for he knew—of course he knew—that Octavius preferred to receive than give. Agrippa had known this from the very beginning and had not once demanded anything different until the day Octavius had sent him away to Gaul. He wanted Octavius to want him, but he felt ashamed to even have to ask. Did Octavius truly love him, or only the power he had over him?
“Octavius,” Agrippa murmured. “Look at me.”
Octavius’ eyes fixed on him in surprise, like a deer caught in the woods, noticing too late the bow taught in the hunter’s hand.
Agrippa wanted to reach out to him, but another part of him now shied away from this side of Octavius, the side that saw love as a weakness, as a submission, as if he would be less of a man beneath Agrippa, as if Agrippa were less of a man because he loved him.
“I will never beg for your love,” Agrippa said, finally, softly. “You do not owe me anything.”
Instead of fighting him, as Agrippa half-expected, Octavius was silent, crossing his arms and looking back out the window. They did not speak until the next rest stop, and when they did, Octavius pretended nothing had happened.
And since Agrippa loved him, he let him.
APRIL 35 BC
A fog cloaked the rocky terrain about them as their army marched through the narrow valley towards Metulum, the capital of the territory home to the Iapodes, one of the most dangerous tribes in Illyricum.
During the dead of night, they had seized Terponus, a town south along the Colapis River which descended from the mountains in meandering, clear streams.
The men moved in silence. It was only just past first light, but the sun had not yet risen, and the valleys and ridges were quiet save for small birds waking up and calling to one another.
A thick, dark cloud of smoke curled into the sky far away, drifting over the wind in their direction. Agrippa spurred his horse on, moving forward and sidling up beside Octavius, who trotted on horseback ahead of him.
“We ought to split up and approach from both flanks,” Agrippa said. “Our scouts report that the wall is heavily armed on all sides.”
Octavius nodded and whistled to his generals.
There was no need for stealth any longer. If the city had not already received wind of their destruction on the outskirts of their territory, then they could certainly see the damage now.
Octavius pointed right, then left. “Ad dextram! Ad sinistram!”
Agrippa and Octavius led the remaining legions straight towards the city walls while the others broke off on either side.
The walls of the city were high and armed with men, some holding taut flaming arrows and spears, ready to fire once their men got within range. Circling the outer wall was a deep ditch. But that had been expected and would be no obstacle in a siege.
Their soldiers immediately began setting up camp, while others brought out the towers plated in metal and heavily armed with bolt-throwing ballistae and battering rams.
Agrippa always marveled at his men working in seamless order, silent except for the barked order and a whistle of a spear or stone from the walls as it fell short of their camp. Already weaponry was being loaded and carted up towards the wall, and men protected by testudines—vehicles shielded like a tortoise’s shell—worked on piling mud, wood, and stone to build a ramp.
He called over one of his lieutenants. “We need more men working on the ramp. Our towers will not get close enough to the walls otherwise.”
The lieutenant nodded and immediately relayed the orders to his subordinates, and soon more soldiers were dispatched to aid in the building of the ramp.
Octavius’ horse stomped its foot impatiently as if it wished for battle. The ramp was quickly piling across the ditch, a siege tower rolling towards it, aloof to the arrows and spears raining down upon it. But the soldiers seemed to hesitate, moving slowly and dispirited, as if they were still unsure about the siege and had no desire to capture another city after so many years at war.
Indeed, news of Sextus Pompeius’ capture and execution in Asia—having been betrayed by his stepbrother Scaurus—had spread like wildfire among the troops, and many perhaps longed for peace now that the true enemy was dead.
As if he had noticed the same thing, Octavius spurred his horse and galloped off towards one of the siege towers.
Agrippa stared in surprise for a moment before he rode after him. He dismounted his horse and followed Octavius up the ladders of the tower, his heart beating wildly, wondering what in Jove’s name had gotten into his head this time.
At last, he reached the top of the tower. Octavius stood facing his men.
They looked at Octavius in surprise, but continued preparing their weapons, though many seemed weary, moving twice as slow as Agrippa knew they could in an emergency. While bribing the soldiers had worked to appease most of them, they had become no better than mercenaries—worse, for they once had a cause, and now appeared to have lost it.
“Ambula!” Octavius shouted angrily to the slaves on the ground.
The tower creaked, then began to wheel forward as hundreds of men pushed it below. They had to have been at least five stories above the ground, with men packed in each level and armed to the teeth. Yet they hardly seemed ready to fire on the enemy over the wall, let alone rush over the drawbridges once they reached the rampart, shifting uneasily on their feet.
Soon the tower was wheeled before the wall, across the hastily built earthen ramp that inclined so as to give them the best vantage point to shower the enemy with arrows from above.
Agrippa stood close to Octavius, who hardly glanced at him and continued to shout orders and spur his men forward. The ramparts were crowded with enemy soldiers who catapulted stones and flaming debris onto the tower. Its metal shielding withstood the onslaught, though the smoke and gas from the collision of firepower still stung Agrippa’s eyes.
Finally, the level below them let down their drawbridge, banging harshly on the ramparts below, and a flood of their soldiers spilled onto the bridge and began marching into the city, killing anyone who stood in their way.
“Percute!” Octavius ordered, pointing his sword towards the city, and the soldiers listened and charged ahead with speed, encouraged by their commander so close to the battlefront.
But then a huge snap resounded, and the tower shook as the drawbridge groaned with the weight of the soldiers crossing. Many rushed back onto the tower, and other soldiers hesitated.
Octavius looked at Agrippa, his eyes glinting like metal. “Do not follow me.”
Before Agrippa could protest, Octavius descended the ladder to the level below, and Agrippa followed, his body moving of its own accord. Octavius was already pushing his way through the soldiers.
“Ordinem servate!” Octavius called out, but the soldiers still hung back, flinching when another flying stone made the tower tremble, or a flash of fire caught a soldier from a level below and took him down in flames. “Are you afraid of the barbarians or the bridge? Sequi me!”
At the last order, Octavius ran across the drawbridge, and his men followed instinctively, running with a cry as they lifted their shields and swords alongside their commander.
Agrippa shoved his way onto the bridge, unthinking, his chest tight. The wood strained beneath them, already cleaving in the center, and Agrippa knew as if in a dream what would happen next.
Soldiers retreated, stumbling over each other, flinging themselves over the rampart or back onto the tower. Agrippa hardly made it back to the tower platform when the bridge caved in, slowly at first, before splitting clean in half. Octavius was swallowed up in the mass of falling soldiers as the bridge collapsed at last, sending the soldiers down the side of the tower in heaps and screams as many were impaled or pierced by broken shards of wood.
The world went completely silent. Then Agrippa turned, his head spinning, the chaos of the battle returning as more catapults and spears were thrown at the tower from the ramparts, the enemy encouraged at the collapse of the drawbridge.
Agrippa descended the tower with shaky hands, the metal and wood shuddering from the enemy’s attacks. He ran over to the pile of collapsed planks and soldiers, shielded by his men who helped him reach the dirt ramp to extract their commander.
He found Octavius lying crookedly among the other soldiers, some of whom were dead, while others were bloodied and in pain, but alive. Agrippa shook Octavius’ shoulders, and his eyes flew open.
“Agrippa,” Octavius said hoarsely, and he smiled, before glancing down. “My leg.”
With the help of a few soldiers, Agrippa heaved Octavius upright. His right leg was running with blood from where a broken piece of wood had left a deep cut. Both of his arms were scratched and bruised as well. He limped forward, and Agrippa slung one of his arms over his shoulders.
“I’m alright,” Octavius said, wincing as they walked away from the tower, quickly sheltered by a testudo as they were led back to camp. “I was lucky.”
Agrippa pushed down a wave of anger and did not respond. He had been lucky. The fall was high enough that if he had landed the wrong way he could have died, but as it was, Octavius had landed on a cushion of other soldiers, and at an angle where he rolled to a safe stop and avoided the ditch.
The siege tower had to be rolled away to be repaired, and many had died from the fall. But it had worked. Octavius’ courage had revived the energy of the camp, and several more siege towers had already lined up against the wall, storming the city with terrifying speed and efficiency.
Once they were back inside his tent, Agrippa helped the doctors set him on a bed, where he was promptly cleaned and bandaged. The wounds had looked worse than they actually were, but Agrippa could still not stop his hands from trembling.
Octavius looked at him, his eyes dilated and glassy from the medicine the doctor had given him to ease the pain.
“Look at me,” Octavius whispered once they were alone and in a deathly silence. Then Octavius half-smiled to himself, almost delirious.
But Agrippa was too angry to find it funny. “You could have died, Octavius.”
“But I did not.”
“That was unnecessary,” Agrippa said harshly.
Octavius’ face grew dark and serious. “On the contrary, that was very necessary.”
“You cannot risk your life when so many depend on you. Your men need a champion, not a martyr.” Agrippa took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He still felt shaken, and not only because Octavius’ life had been a narrow breath from death. Swear to me, on our daughter’s life, that you will come home to me. Swear it. “You have nothing to prove, Octavius.”
“I have everything to prove,” Octavius said, closing his eyes. He sighed, then grimaced as he adjusted his bandaged leg. “Perhaps one day things will be different.”
Agrippa wished Octavius was wrong, that the world demanded nothing from him, that the two of them could simply run away and forget the battles and wars that loomed on the horizon.
But they were no longer two boys in school, no longer racing the streets of Apollonia, drinking wine under a starlit sky, nameless in a wide, unknown world. Fate had cast her eyes upon them and had not looked away.
Then together we will conquer the world.
“One day,” Agrippa echoed, but he did not know if he believed it anymore.
48
Octavia Minor
JULY 35 BC
Her husband—for Marcus Antonius was still her husband, despite their failed marriage—owned a large house on the Palatine Hill, overlooking the Velabrum, its marshy, green valley tucked between the Forum Boarium and the Capitoline Hill.
The house itself was grand and stately enough, but Octavia found it empty of a soul, the remnants of a great Roman man having abandoned his native country for a foreign woman and foreign wealth.
But it was the perfect house to entertain guests in, especially children, and between her, Livia, and Attica, there were a lot of them. For the house was much larger than either Octavius or Agrippa’s estates, which were surprisingly modest, so that Octavia enjoyed inviting the two women and their children for a fun summer’s day out in the gardens.
