The Sun of God, page 7
But that required an inspiring leader, and as of now, Octavius presented more convincingly as a vagabond rather than the potential son and heir to Julius Caesar.
He limped out of the carriage, and his skin felt paper thin against the bones of his face. The nearly two days traveling on both sea and land had weathered his health more than he had anticipated. Unfortunately, Agrippa noticed his weariness too.
“We can wait until the morning,” Agrippa suggested. “A few hours of rest and you will feel more alive.”
Octavius shot him an irritated glance. He always became less agreeable when he was ill. “I am very much alive. And we do not have time to rest. By morning we must be on our way to Rome. That is the plan.”
“That is the plan,” Agrippa repeated with a sigh, and did not bring it up again.
So they made their way quietly and only with a few guardsmen to the soldier’s quarters where Caesar’s former finance manager, Lucius Cornelius Balbus, awaited them. Maecenas and Rufus had gone ahead and prepared the venue for Octavius’ speech to the troops, which he would give soon while it was still night and the men were drinking.
They walked inside the tent where Balbus awaited them. He was the same short, well-built man with tan skin, sleek black curls, and a charming smile that Octavius remembered.
A foreigner hailing from Hispania, Balbus became a wealthy politician and businessman after serving in the armies of Pompeius, who gave him Roman citizenship, and after Pompeius’ death, he grew to be the closest confidant and chief operator of all Caesar’s affairs.
Octavius had encountered him at several of Caesar’s dinner parties and knew he would be most helpful in acquiring Caesar’s will, so he had arranged to meet with him before they traveled to Rome.
“Octavius!” Balbus chuckled, kissing Octavius affectionately as an uncle might. “The last time I saw you I could barely pull at the scraps of your beard.” He paused, lightly brushing the stubble along Octavius’ jaw, which he was allowing to grow in the usual style of grieving. Balbus’ eyes grew heavy. “You are no longer the little boy I knew.”
Octavius nodded and placed a hand on Balbus’ arm. “That boy was murdered along with my father.”
Balbus’ thick brows quirked at the reference to Julius Caesar as his father, but he only nodded. He always had the tact of a diplomat, and would not offend a fly if he could help it. “I imagine so, I imagine so.” Then his eyes wandered to Agrippa. “And who is this?”
“A comrade from school,” Octavius said carelessly. He saw Agrippa turn slightly red at the words as he greeted Balbus with a kiss. “Marcus Agrippa.”
“Ah, I see,” Balbus said, his gaze sliding back to Octavius, though he sensed his mind still lingered over Agrippa’s presence in such an intimate setting. “What is your plan?”
“We ride to Rome by morning,” Octavius said.
“No, no, no,” Balbus whispered urgently, looking around nervously as if someone might be eavesdropping outside, though his guards were lining the perimeter of the tent and had strict orders not to let anyone inside. “It is not safe. Rome is not safe. Antonius has stirred the people into violence and the senators had to barricade themselves on the Capitoline. He has even eliminated the Marius pretender. You cannot go to Rome.”
“I wish to claim my inheritance, Balbus. It is my right,” Octavius said, a hint of moral reprimand in his tone. He knew if he were to bring Balbus to his side, he would need to play on his feelings of loyalty to Caesar. “I shall not let my father’s death be in vain.”
Balbus frowned, and looked at him carefully, his eyes scanning his face as if he could decipher the hidden meaning in his words. “I see a lot of him in you.” He paused. “If you wish to go to Rome, I will not stop you. But I cannot promise your safety, only my support.”
“Your support alone is worth more than you know,” Octavius said, catching the flicker of approval in Balbus’ eyes. “But I must speak with the soldiers. I would like to have their support as well before I ride to Rome. After all, they were Caesar’s men before Antonius took control.”
Balbus looked startled, but he consented when it became apparent that Octavius would not budge on this particular point. He led them swiftly down the road to the forum. He glanced hesitantly at Octavius every other step, as though he wished to advise him but was at a loss for where to begin without offending him.
When they were only a block away, Balbus stopped them, grasping Octavius’ arm. They could already hear the crowds of troops drinking in the forum.
“The soldiers are not an easy group to pacify,” Balbus said, his eyes darting to the direction of the forum after a loud roar went up amongst the throngs. “They loved your…your father, but—”
Octavius placed a hand on Balbus’ broad shoulder. “I loved him too. We will mourn his loss. Together.”
Balbus nodded hurriedly, giving up his attempts at dissuading him. The three of them entered the forum where a wooden stage had been built at one end, flanked by Octavius’ personal guards. Balbus remained at the side of the platform, not wishing to be seen fully by the mob of soldiers already flocking towards the stage. He was not a public speaker, after all. Not like Octavius.
Agrippa tensed beside him as they looked out on the crowd.
Octavius turned to Agrippa with a smile, then glanced up at the sky. “A storm is coming.”
“Be careful,” Agrippa warned.
Without another word, Octavius ascended the stage, his arms wide open in welcome, and his eyes cast to the heavens above. At his appearance the crowd surged around the stage, shouting drunkenly.
Not only did they recognize him, but they were calling to him, and only after a few moments did Octavius comprehend what they were saying. His agents had done their job well after all.
Fili! Fili! Fili Iulii…
Son! Son! Son of Julius…
“Father!” Octavius cried out.
The clouds above were dark and rumbling, and the light from the surrounding torches cast the passionate faces of the soldiers in an eerie glow as they continued to chant furiously. Fili Iulii!
“Father, hear my voice!” Octavius shouted, and the soldiers shouted back, raising their flasks of wine in the air. “Do you wish me to avenge your murder?”
The din of the mob rose to a feverish pitch, many beating against the side of the stage so that the flimsy wood trembled. Octavius never looked away from the sky, which rumbled again, and he knew it was close, so close. He lifted his arms higher.
“Father, speak! If this is what you wish, give me a sign!”
Crack! A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by the crash and rumble of thunder. The soldiers cheered blindly as the heavens opened their wide skirts and rain poured down on them in icy sheets.
Octavius remained standing with his arms spread wide while the storm broiled above them, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. He did not need to respond to his father anymore. The crowds could be heard as clearly as the next clap of thunder.
Divi fili! Divi fili! Divi fili…
Octavius allowed himself a small smile as he glanced at Agrippa, who stared at him from beside the stage, his face unreadable in the near dark.
Son of god! Son of god! Son of god…
“Octavius?”
He looked up and blinked.
Agrippa watched him across the table worriedly. He was always worried. Perhaps this time he had good reason to be.
Octavius felt on the verge of collapse, his head pounding, his bones aching against the chill of the night. It had been a risk to stand out in the rain, even if the effect had been perfect. More than perfect.
Divi fili! Divi fili! Divi fili…
He could still hear their cries, each shout tugging at his heart, as if the Weaver had his thread of fate pulled taut tonight. It would be ironic if the rain would now be the death of him.
“What?”
Agrippa stared at him for a moment longer, then said, “You look tired.”
“Oh, do I?”
“You should rest.”
Agrippa never took the bait of an argument, always preferring to calm the situation rather than escalate it, so very different from Maecenas and his provocative, snide comments. Ever since their boyhood, Agrippa had never lowered himself to another’s insult, as if he were afraid to confirm the suspicions of his social rank.
“I can rest as we travel,” Octavius said. “First we must finish our business here.”
Agrippa relented, pushing aside his cup of wine. They were weathering the storm in Balbus’ tent, who had left them to attend to his own business before they departed for Rome together. It was thanks to the reaction of the soldiers more so than his devotion to Caesar that confirmed Balbus’ decision to help him claim his inheritance.
The flap to the tent opened, and in walked Maecenas, drenched and shivering, with Rufus and Balbus in tow, also soaked from the storm. They all drew up stools around the table, and Maecenas slapped Octavius’ back.
“Well done, Octavius,” Maecenas said. “Could not have done it better myself.”
Rufus only smiled, but it was tempered. He had disagreed with their plan from the start and was still wary of any success.
“Now we must speak of logistics,” Balbus said, passing around a small platter of bread and fruit brought in by his attendants, as well as another pitcher of wine. “For instance, money.”
Octavius tried to think, but his mind felt muddled. The last time he fell ill was late December, a week of chilly days and feverish nights, Agrippa appearing hazily in the pockets of his memory, placing a cool cloth on his forehead.
Agrippa was the only person he could suffer to see him like that, ever since the illness which had prevented him from fighting in Hispania. Before then, his illnesses had always been moments of weakness which left him ashamed. But Agrippa treated them as one might a storm, the only priority to find shelter and wait for it to pass.
“We have no money,” Octavius said at last.
Balbus nodded slowly, stroking his chin. “But the son of Julius Caesar does.”
They lapsed into silence. That was the problem. While Caesar’s soldiers might believe Octavius was now his son, the Senate surely would not until he completed the legal process of adoption, which would be difficult if not impossible with Marcus Antonius in charge. And everything was wholly dependent on Julius Caesar’s will explicitly naming him as his heir, which was less than certain at the moment.
That left only one option.
“Balbus, tell me,” Octavius said. “Brundisium is responsible for conveying money to Macedonia, is it not? And tribute from the East?”
Balbus glanced at Agrippa as if to gauge the seriousness of the question. When Agrippa merely shrugged, Balbus nodded reluctantly. “Yes, yes of course. Brundisium is one of the principal trading posts on the eastern coast. You know this.”
“Are there any shipments currently being held here?” Octavius pressed.
Now Balbus caught on to the purpose of his questioning. Balbus’ usual cordial expression gave way to a stern frown. “Seizing public money without the approval of the Roman treasury would be a crime deserving of death. And the Senate only needs one good reason to kill you.”
Octavius did not respond. Balbus was right, though he disliked admitting it. As the potential son and heir to Julius Caesar, the seizure of public money would be a rash decision, one Octavius had trouble excusing without incurring the wrath of the Senate and simultaneously handing Antonius the Republic in a single blow.
“What if we didn’t take the money?” Agrippa asked suddenly. Everyone turned to him in surprise.
“And what would you suggest we do instead?” Maecenas asked, raising a skeptical brow.
“Nothing.” Agrippa looked at Octavius, almost smirking. “The soldiers will give it to us.”
Balbus looked outraged, his face growing red. “That’s—that’s preposterous!”
Octavius ignored the doubtful looks from Maecenas and Rufus. For there was something in Agrippa’s eyes that made him pause. “Explain.”
Agrippa leaned forward, speaking quietly. “We ask the soldiers for support and in return we promise to settle them in the colonies once we have the power and money to do so. The solution will be obvious. Then if they are the ones to hand over the money, we will be entirely blameless in the transaction. And as the son and heir to Julius Caesar, you have the rights to a certain amount of the money anyways.”
Balbus was staring at Agrippa in surprise, perhaps even a grudging respect. Rufus, on the other hand, could not hide a glance full of envy, and he remained stubbornly silent.
“By Hercules…” Maecenas shook his head, but he was grinning. “Now that is one hell of a plan.”
Octavius tapped his fingers against the wooden table, a smile forming on his face despite the exhaustion he felt. “Balbus, please take a message to the general. Tell him the son of Julius Caesar sends his regards.”
The carriage jolted along the muddied road, waking Octavius from the dreamless fog that Sleep had pulled him under. He could barely breathe from the pain between his temples as he lifted his head upright.
On the seat opposite him, Agrippa slept, curled up against the wall of the carriage. Octavius studied his friend’s face, which he so rarely could do while he was awake.
Agrippa still looked troubled, his dark brows furrowed, as if he never stopped worrying about Octavius, even in sleep. The dark brown hair was still as curly as ever, the fringe carelessly falling over his forehead. He never did care much about his appearance.
He had a strong jaw, which was softer at rest, and an elegant, aquiline nose. His strong limbs had difficulty arranging themselves comfortably in the small carriage seat. Agrippa had always been well-built, since they were young, so that at nineteen years old he was teasingly called a gladiator amongst the soldiers at Apollonia.
But Octavius’ favorite feature of Agrippa could not be seen while he slept. His eyes. They were sea-green, the color of the Tiber River on a hot August day.
Agrippa shifted in his seat, his eyes opening. He saw Octavius looking at him and sat up straight. “Do you need something?”
“A drink, please,” Octavius said hoarsely, resenting the tremor in his voice.
At least none of the others would be a witness to this weakness, as they were traveling in other carriages. Even Maecenas had not been jealous of Agrippa riding with him, as he hated being near the sick.
Agrippa rummaged in the sack at their feet and pulled out a small flask of wine. Octavius took a sip, closing his eyes as the dull burn traveled down his throat. He felt a cool hand on his forehead.
“You are too hot,” Agrippa murmured, his voice barely heard over the grating of the metal wheels against the stone road beneath them.
Octavius almost laughed. “And yet I feel too cold.”
“You know one day you will have a wife to nurse you to health instead of me.”
He said it jokingly, but his gaze did not quite reach Octavius’. He thought distantly that Agrippa sounded bitter.
“I will always ask for you,” Octavius said with a small smile.
Agrippa paused, before he leaned back against the side of the carriage, half-closing his eyes.
Octavius knew, of course, how Agrippa felt about him. It was not well disguised. He could read it plainly in his eyes, lingering on him when he thought Octavius was not paying attention, glancing at the corner of his mouth, the curve of his collarbone, the dip of his hip bones before they bathed. And when it was handed to him like that, like a gift with no expectation of one in return, Octavius could not help himself.
For everyone always assumed he knew nothing, that he was too young, or too weak, to understand. But Octavius had not been raised by just anyone. Julia Minor had taught him much in the time he had lived with her.
She had shown him the art of listening, the skill of thinking quietly, never allowing a thought to betray him on his face. But most importantly, she had shown him how to ensure people underestimated him, only to slip past them when they were not looking anymore, their most precious secret dangling from his fingers like the key to their coffers.
“Agrippa,” Octavius whispered.
Agrippa stirred, blinking open his eyes. “Hmm?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Anything,” Agrippa said with a yawn.
They had hardly slept much in Brundisium, eager to get to Rome before it was too late. But the closer they got to Rome, the more uncertain Octavius felt, and all those careful plans and passionate dreams he held secret for so long seemed now as flimsy and insubstantial as sand in the wind.
“When we arrive in Rome, I will claim my inheritance immediately,” Octavius said.
“Yes?”
They had already agreed to this plan, but there was something else Octavius needed to confirm. Something more important than all the money and soldiers and inheritance combined.
Agrippa looked at him as if he thought his fever was making him more than just ill.
“It is very likely that I will be surrounded by enemies on all sides, and that even my friends will desert me out of fear. So I must ask that you fight for me when that time comes, and that you remain loyal to me, and only me.” He paused. “You are the only one I can trust.”
“I will,” Agrippa said cautiously.
“Swear it.”
Agrippa looked hurt but nodded anyway. He was a soldier, after all. “I swear by Jupiter—”
“No,” Octavius said. “On me.”
A shadow flickered across Agrippa’s eyes. Octavius knew asking for this was taking it too far, but he also knew that Agrippa would agree to it, and perhaps that was the only reason he wanted him to say it, so he could hear the words aloud.
Agrippa lowered his eyes. “I swear by you, Gaius Octavius…”
“That I will be loyal to you,” Octavius said.
“That I will be loyal to you,” Agrippa echoed.
