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  REVENGE

  Andrew Frediani

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  About Revenge

  Caesar is dead. Revenge has armed his hand. His name is Octavian.

  Despite his young age, Octavian is already a consul. His position is not yet consolidated enough for him to carry out his plans of revenge upon the murderers of his beloved adoptive father Julius Caesar, though - and no courtroom can quench his thirst for justice.

  He makes powerful allies in Mark Antony and Lepidus, with whom he forms a triumvirate, and unleashes upon the streets of Rome a reign of terror, turning the screws until the tension is such that it can find release only upon the battlefield. And he doesn’t have to wait long: soon two great armies, led by four renowned commanders, stand ready to clash in Macedonia, far from the city of Rome and its corruption. One on side, Brutus and Cassius – on the other, Octavian and Mark Antony. It is the battle of Philippi, one of the most famous in Roman history. Is this where Caesar’s murder will finally be avenged?

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Revenge

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Epilogue

  About Andrew Frediani

  About the Rome’s Invincibles Series

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  I

  Assassin. It might almost sound like an honourable profession if you were doing it for the winning side. You could delude yourself that you were killing for a just cause, and that there was no great difference between stabbing a man in the back and confronting him face to face on the battlefield. Ortwin stood staring at the great river which separated him from the land where he’d spent his childhood and shook his head. When he was still living in Germany – back before he had encountered the Romans and fought alongside Julius Caesar and his young heir – he would have despised any man who did what he was now doing.

  He used to dream of cavalry charges and battles, and though he had eventually fulfilled these ambitions, it had been very different to the way he imagined them. But life had dealt him more than his fair share of bad luck, and he had to start again from scratch, taking directions he never dreamed he would have to.

  Assassin. The word tasted less bitter since he returned from the East and found his leader at the very pinnacle of power – a consul no less, in charge of almost as many legions as Caesar himself had once commanded. He had hoped that the young Octavian would have rewarded him, for successfully concluding the mission he’d assigned him, by allowing him to ride at his side in the civil war he was preparing to fight, an honour which he granted to the other soldiers of the Sect of Mars Ultor. Octavian, however, had dispatched him on another dirty job, sending him off across the borders of Italy, and almost beyond those of Gaul.

  In the distance he could make out the country he’d already been forced to abandon twice. And just as in the East, he was once again coming as an executioner.

  “Do you want to go over to the other side?” It was not a question. It was a test. One that it seemed natural to set his companion.

  Veleda looked at him for a long time before answering. Remembering must have been painful for her. “No, not now,” she said finally. “Not without any means of defending ourselves. We don’t know what to expect on the other side.”

  A wise answer. The test was passed. If only he’d reasoned like that after the battle of Munda two years earlier they’d be warriors now, not killers. And with their own people, not with the Romans.

  Maybe they’d even have become royalty, just as she had always dreamed.

  But Ortwin said nothing. He didn’t complain. He’d never complained since she’d persuaded him to abandon Caesar and assist her in her fruitless attempt to retake her father Ariovistus’s throne. He’d never blamed her for their inevitable failure, which had left them begging the Romans for work as bodyguards – work which only Octavian had deigned to grant them.

  And even then only on condition that they kill Julius Caesar’s assassins.

  And now here they were on the Rhine, on the very edge of the Roman world, within spitting distance of what could have been their kingdom, on a mission to execute another of the men who’d betrayed Caesar’s trust – Decimus Brutus Albinus.

  Ortwin wasn’t sorry, though. His destiny could have held worse surprises in store than having to avenge the best commander he’d ever served under. Of course, he’d rather have done it on the battlefield alongside Octavian, Agrippa, Salvidienus Rufus, Maecenas and Gaius Chaerea, the other warriors of the Sect of Mars Ultor, the group into which he had been accepted – that would have been more honourable for a warrior like him. But he was certain that his job wouldn’t lessen the pleasure of sinking his blade into the throat of that swine, a man Caesar had promoted to exalted positions, first as his right hand man, then as Proconsul of Gaul, only to be repaid by being stabbed to death. Ortwin was proud of having meted out the same punishment to Trebonius only a few months earlier in Asia.

  And now it was Decimus Brutus’s turn. They had once fought side by side in Gaul during Caesar’s pro-consulship more than a decade ago. But that coward had been on the run for months now, fleeing the net that Mark Antony and Lepidus had tightened around him after the siege of Modena. A strange war that. Ortwin, who had been in the East at the time, had only heard tell of it, and wasn’t at all sure he understood what had happened. Decimus Brutus had gone to Gaul, which had been assigned to him by the man he later killed, but Mark Antony, who wanted the province for himself, attacked and besieged him at Modena. In response, the Senate dispatched the two new consuls, Hirtius and Pansa, later joined by Octavian, to take on Antony. After a series of battles, they had forced Antony to flee, but Hirtius and Pansa were both killed in battle, and in a strange twist of fate Decimus Brutus ended up being saved by the very man who had most wanted him dead – Octavian. It was a short-lived reprieve, though, and as soon as young Octavian was appointed consul, he declared Decimus Brutus an enemy of the state, along with all the others who had participated in Caesar’s murder. Mistrustful of Antony, he had set his best assassin onto Brutus’s trail, keen to ensure that his revenge was carried out.

  “Are you sure that’s Bauto’s village?” Veleda’s question brought him back to their more immediate concerns. It wasn’t like when he was Caesar’s chief bodyguard. Now he was a mere executioner and had to act, not think.

  “Yes, that’s what the woodcutter told me yesterday,” he replied, trying to look more confident than he felt, especially in front of the men Octavian had assigned him. “He said it was the only settlement we would find on this part of the Rhine. Bauto considers himself a king around here, and won’t let anyone build near his palace.”

  “Palace?” snorted Veleda, tilting her chin at the humble wood and mud house set between several surrounding huts. The shapes of the buildings were blurred by the morning mist, which lay thickly on the banks of the mighty river. “If that’s a palace, my father must have lived in an imperial mans
ion!” she quipped.

  Ortwin smiled, and urged his horse on towards the village. Over time, Veleda had lost her sense of proportion: the residence of her father, the supreme leader of the Suebi, hadn’t been much more refined, not even when he’d taken control of several Gallic tribes. “The truth is that you’ve become accustomed to Roman houses, or at least those of the richest Gauls,” he said cautiously, knowing how much the subject annoyed her, “and we both know that a Roman plebeian allows himself more luxuries than a German nobleman.”

  The woman kept quiet, and Ortwin knew why. She would never have openly admitted that the Romans, the very people responsible for destroying her father and her dreams of glory, were superior to the barbarians. This was a simple truth he’d learned through experience, but for her it was a reality she refused to accept.

  There were no sentries at the entrance to the village, which had no moat but was roughly circled by a low fence. Evidently Bauto wasn’t worried about anyone from the area threatening his authority. Or perhaps he was just unprepared. In any case, they were strangers and it didn’t seem right to barge into the village unannounced. Ortwin stopped about two hundred yards from the fence and ordered one of the Celtic troops from Octavian’s guard to enter the village and ask, on his behalf, for an interview with the chief. He looked on as his man entered the open gateway, noticing movement inside as he did so. He continued watching and saw his envoy speak quietly to a soldier. Shortly afterwards, a group of men gathered and his man disappeared from sight, only to re-appear on foot surrounded by a knot of men. They gestured to Ortwin to move forward and stop a few paces from the gate. His soldier came over and joined him. “Bauto is that one there,” he said, pointing to a man of fairly advanced age in a rough tunic and trousers who looked fat rather than well-built. “He says that you can come in, but alone.”

  Ortwin looked at Veleda, who nodded. They’d been through worse: after he’d had dealings with people like Ariovistus, Caesar, Antony, Octavian, Cleopatra, Vercingetorix and Pompey the Great, he certainly wasn’t going to worry about a buffoon who liked to pass himself off as a great king.

  He dismounted and, escorted by his trooper, entered the village and walked purposefully towards Bauto who stood waiting for him, fists on his hips, studying him warily.

  He held out his hand. “My name is Ortwin,” he began, trying to adopt a cordial tone, even though he didn’t like the look of the man in front of him. “From my lord, the Roman Consul Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian, I bring you greetings, as well as gifts.”

  “And can’t Rome send me anyone better than a one-eyed barbarian?” replied Bauto, contemptuously.

  No, he didn’t like him at all. But despite the goading reference to his one remaining eye, he forced himself to keep his composure. “Clearly, I have managed to earn Rome’s trust,” he said, “and that is why I’m here on such a delicate matter. I know you have a guest – a man the Senate has declared an enemy of the State.”

  “And what if I do?” replied the man. “The authority of Rome counts for nothing here on the Rhine. I can put up anyone I like if there’s something in it for me.”

  “It might be worth your while to hand your guest over to me.”

  “I doubt it. If I had any guests, it would only be because it was worth my while… I don’t usually have much time for strangers.”

  “But you don’t know how much you could earn. I’m not here to impose Rome’s authority on you, if that’s what’s bothering you, but to make you rich.”

  Bauto gave a deep belly laugh. “So you could say that what you’re asking me isn’t exactly legal, right?”

  “That’s up to you to decide,” replied Ortwin, coolly. “You’re harbouring a criminal. By rights you should hand him over to the emissary of a consul of Rome without any conditions. But Octavian would like to reward you personally. He would consider it… a personal favour.”

  “I don’t think Octavian could pay me more than Mark Antony… Especially if you also take into account the generosity of my guest, who is willing to reward me handsomely for his stay. I’m already rich, my friend.”

  Ortwin had to hide his astonishment. He wasn’t surprised that Decimus Brutus was willing to pay, perhaps using money from his fellow conspirators. No – what struck him was that Mark Antony too, was willing to pay just to get his hands on Decimus Brutus. Octavian was right to be wary of the former consul. Until then, Antony had shown no signs of wanting to avenge Caesar’s death, so why had he decided to get hold of Decimus Brutus now, if not to execute him just as the Sect of Mars Ultor planned to?

  The answer seemed clear: Antony wanted to protect Brutus from Caesar’s son, perhaps to use him against Octavian. Perhaps Antony, who knew he’d have to deal with Caesar’s heir in the very near future, had thought to limit his power by saving Caesar’s killers rather than attempting to pursue them seriously.

  All the more reason, then, to eliminate Decimus Brutus.

  He heard the village gate close behind him.

  “But I could make even more by handing you over to Antony and keeping your money,” said Bauto, motioning for his men to surround Ortwin. Then he turned to the Celtic trooper. “Tell your soldiers out there to put down their weapons and bring me the money if they ever want to see their leader in one piece again.”

  At that moment, a Roman emerged from the nearest hut. He gave Ortwin a wry smile, turned away with ostentatious indifference, and disappeared.

  Decimus Brutus Albinus had always been contemptible, said Ortwin, cursing himself for having misread the situation.

  *

  What a strange feeling, being on the verge of bringing a new life into the world whilst simultaneously being about to take one, thought Etain to herself as she watched Lucius Minucius Basilus stroking his wife’s hair. She had just styled it with a calmistrum, a red-hot iron.

  “Don’t I look better with straight hair, dear husband?” said the woman, pleased with the work of her new slave.

  Basilus looked at Etain casually, before noticing that several strands of his wife’s hair hung from the slave’s hand. A cruel gleam appeared in his eyes, and his free hand shot out towards the girl, striking her violently on the temple. Etain shuddered but didn’t make a sound: she was used to it.

  “You damn fool! Do you want to make her bald?” shouted Caesar’s killer, stepping forward as though he intended to continue beating her, without any regard for her pregnancy.

  But his wife rose from her chair and stepped between him and Etain. “It’s normal that the hot iron makes some hair fall out, Basilus,” she protested. “It always does, no matter which slave does it. In fact, she’s more careful than the others…”

  Basilus stopped, trembling visibly. He looked at Etain and then at his wife, shook his head, and left the domina’s room.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said to Etain tenderly. “He’s very irritable at the moment and gets worked up over the smallest thing. But it’s not we women who should be afraid of his anger in this house,” she re-assured her, indicating for her to take the kohl from the bowl on the dressing table shelf and continue applying her make-up.

  Etain knew exactly what she meant. Her domina Octavia had taught her well, before dispatching her to kill Minucius Basilus for his role in the Ides of March conspiracy the year before – the very conspiracy which had cost Octavia’s great-uncle Julius Caesar his life. At first, she’d taken it badly. It had been a chaotic time and she’d been shaken by the behaviour of the person she considered her man: Salvidienus Rufus, who had abandoned her after learning she was pregnant. But that had turned out to be the least of her problems. Within less than a year, she had been raped, found out that her first lover, Agrippa, was sleeping with Fulvia, one of Rome’s most captivating and high-ranking matrons, been submitted to Rufus’ courtship, discovered she was pregnant and let herself be dragged along by her feelings. And all that only to receive yet another slap in the face. She would have wanted to die had it not been for the life she was carrying
inside her. Or for the Sect of Mars Ultor, which had made her swear before the gods to serve the cause of taking revenge on Caesar’s murderers whatever the cost.

  Whatever the cost. Even if it meant ending up in that madhouse and becoming a killer – she, who had never hurt a fly in her entire life. Even if it meant pretending to be a slave for other people, as well as for her mistress Octavia, despite having been made a freedwoman years before.

  These were dangerous people she was dealing with, and she was alone, far from Rome and from Octavia or anyone in the sect who could defend her if things got really bad. They hadn’t told her how to kill Basilus, limiting themselves to suggesting that she exploit the discontent that reigned in the house: for the slaves hated their master for his cruelty. The head of the sect, Octavian, had never deigned to talk to her about it, but his sister Octavia had told her that he was especially keen for this one of Caesar’s assassins to be killed. Basilus was the only conspirator who had chosen to stay on Italian territory rather than escaping to the provinces or going to stay with one of the other murderers.

  From all accounts, Basilus had joined the conspiracy out of frustration. He’d fought with Caesar in Gaul and had received a large sum of money at the end of the civil war instead of a province like many of the others. For this reason, and for this reason alone, he’d continued stabbing Caesar’s body on the Ides of March longer than anyone else, even injuring one of his fellow conspirators in his frenzy. At least – Octavia had confided to her – he hadn’t wrapped his actions up in ideological motives, like most of his associates, who had claimed to be freeing Rome from a tyrant when all they were really doing was taking out their frustrations and jealousies on their benefactor. All those who had wielded their knives in the Curia of Pompey had tried to convince the Roman people that they had done it to free them.

  Etain understood nothing about politics. Before entering the sect, she had simply served her mistress, but since joining her perspective had changed and her horizons had expanded, and thanks to the oath she’d taken, she was now bound more than ever to the fate of the Julia family. She even had the chance to influence the course of history, and this might help her forget the terrible romantic disappointments she’d suffered in such a short time. She’d therefore welcomed Octavia’s mission when it had come so soon after Rufus’s rejection. She had a mission, her first since entering the sect. But her pregnancy still served as a constant reminder of the many injuries she’d received from men… just like Caesar. On the other hand, it was only because she was pregnant that Octavian and Octavia had decided to use her as an assassin. Basilus was the only one of Caesar’s murderers to hand, the only one who could be arrested with relative ease. But Octavian had no intention of granting the traitor the privilege of a court trial, with the risk that the killer’s supporters in the Senate would simply sentence him to exile. The complex network of patronage and co-operation that Octavian had created with his sect had enabled him to find a front man to sell Etain to Basilus with false ownership papers. And Basilus had thought he’d got a bargain in buying a pregnant young slave girl, two slaves for the price of one.