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  SURVIVAL

  Andrew Frediani

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  About Survival

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

  Though little more than a boy, Caesar’s heir is determined to avenge his adoptive father, despite the imposing figures from Rome’s long political history who stand in his way: Mark Antony, Cicero, Lepidus, Brutus and Cassius.

  Despite some initial failures, Octavian does not give in, and gathers about him a group of allies who are just as determined as he himself: Maecenas, Agrippa and Rufus. With them and a few others on his side, he forms a sect dedicated to vengeance, with the aim of punishing, one by one, all those who have Caesar’s blood on their hands.

  Octavian has resolved to overturn the established order, and to finish what Caesar had begun…

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Survival

  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

  Epilogue

  About Andrew Frediani

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  I

  “Caesar is dead.”

  Octavia froze at the words of her cousin Lucius Pinarius, who had just been ushered in by a slave, and she felt her grip on her daughter, little Claudia Marcella, start to fail. The child fell to the ground, tearing from her mother a cry louder than the little girl's own, but fortunately Octavia was herself tiny and had felt her knees start to give, so her daughter had thus fallen from no great height. The little girl’s tears were more those of shock than of pain, but that did nothing to ease the despair of her mother, who hurriedly picked her up to comfort her, promptly assisted by her zealous maid Etain.

  When she had made sure that Marcella was not hurt, Octavia handed her over to the maid and, giving him a grim stare, turned her attention back to her cousin.

  “You shouldn't make jokes in such bad taste. You know how easily I get upset.”

  “I only wish that it were a joke, dear cousin,” said Pinarius, looking embarrassed. Despite being born several years before her he seemed the younger of the two, as Octavia looked older than her twenty-five years.

  He enunciated his words carefully, emphasising each syllable.

  “Julius Caesar, our great-uncle, the dictator, was killed an hour ago, or perhaps less, in the Curia of Pompey, while the senate was in session. Do not you hear the cries in the street?”

  She felt her knees trembling again, and looked around for a chair. Finding one, she grabbed its arm and, without taking her eyes from her cousin, sat down and concentrated her attention on the sounds coming from outside her home on the Aventine: yes, she could hear the echoes of shouts.

  “Who? Who killed him?” she asked in dismay.

  “I've heard a lot of names. Important names. Senators. What is certain is that there were several of them. And that the others just sat by and watched.”

  “Tell me some.”

  “I dare not,” said Pinarius, looking confused. “They seem so unlikely that I can scarcely believe it was them, and I have no wish to falsely accuse men who Caesar pardoned after the Civil War, gave gifts to or installed in the highest positions of the State.”

  Octavia hesitated. She was still unconvinced, although the noise from the street was growing louder by the minute, in confirmation that something serious had happened.

  “Maybe he's not dead. You know how it is with this kind of thing – the rumours spread and become exaggerated between one account mouth and another,” she ventured. “Perhaps they weren't successful…”

  “He was stabbed by many people, cousin,” said Pinarius, shaking his head sadly. “And this is the only certainty. It is said that his body lies in a pool of blood, abandoned in the atrium of the Curia, just below the statue of Pompey the Great. If it is thus, there is no chance that he survived. And we must now look to our own survival.”

  Octavia flinched. “What do you mean?” As soon as she had spoken, she heard a thud that shook the wall.

  “Death to the supporters of the tyrant! Death to his relatives!”

  Shouted threats rang out in the street, startling the woman, who instinctively held out her arms to Etain, demanding the return of her still crying child.

  “Do you hear them? Would they have the courage to come out into the open thus if Caesar were alive?” said Pinarius. “Now all those who opposed his regime but dared not speak out for fear of reprisals will voice their discontent. And if it is true that those who killed him were his closest aides, there will be nobody left to defend the family. Nobody. We will be the first targets of the cowards Caesar kept in check with his authority. We must flee.”

  “My mother…” murmured Octavia, unable to react, as she was.

  “Quintus Pedius has gone to Atia. He was present among the senators at the murder. He sent a slave to warn me and I decided to come to you myself. I knew you would not have believed a slave. Apart from his wife, we are Caesar's closest relatives. And therefore we are the most vulnerable, at least until the political situation is clear. We are the ones most at risk. Fortunately, your brother is in Illyria, so they cannot get to him.”

  Octavia wanted to get up from the chair into which she had sunk and run to organise the slaves, set them to preparing a carriage and get at least as far as the family villa in Velletri to guarantee a minimum of safety. But imaginary chains held her down, relegating her to the impotence that had characterised her whole life. As always, the solution to which her nature obliged her was that of waiting for others to take charge. “My husband will not let anything happen to us,” was all she said to her cousin.

  “Are you sure?” replied Pinarius. “Marcus Claudius Marcellus was certainly in the Senate today, and he has never been a supporter of Caesar. Caesar pardoned him during the civil wars, and perhaps, even if he was not one of the actual perpetrators of the murder, he is among those who are no longer hiding their dissatisfaction. The fact that he has not yet returned home proves it. Should he not worry about his family before all else?”

  “Are you suggesting that he would hand us over to the angry mob?”

  “Of course not. But even if he is not involved, he may not be able to object if they take against us. In this moment, we can be sure of nothing. Caesar was everything to Rome, and each Roman, even the most eminent, could but live in his shadow. Now the road to power is open to all.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “That, no one can predict. We must first see who really took part in the conspiracy and how much support the conspirators have among the people and the Senate. There are rumours that they claim to have done it in order to restore the legal republic, but I doubt that the Republic will resume its normal course after years and years of veiled monarchy, and the magistratures have already been allocated for the next five years. There are too many ambitious men around; too many people who believe they can emulate Caesar, and too many that delude themselves that everything will be as before his advent. I believe it all depends principally upon how Mark Antony b
ehaves,” answered Pinarius, after a moment's hesitation. “Despite his fall from grace with the dictator in recent times, at the end of the day he is the most authoritative consul and personage of the institutions. And we must also see how Cicero affects events. Like your husband, he will certainly be rejoicing even though he was not involved in the conspiracy, and will certainly fight to restore the Republic. And finally, there are some loyal to Caesar who did not betray their leader: I could not say how many nor even who they are, but I think that among them there are the magister equitum Lepidus, designated consuls Hirtius and Pansa, his friend Asinius Pollio, and his wealthier supporters, such as Cornelius Balbus. What will they do? You're scared, eh? Well, so am I: I doubt that Rome will find peace for a long time…”

  “But why… Why?” sighed Octavia. “Caesar had proven himself to be lenient. And he would be away fighting the war against Parthia and Getae for years. So why did they do it?”

  “Why? According to the rumours, they killed him because he wanted to become king, and Rome cannot tolerate a monarchy. Not after all we went through so long ago to get rid of one,” said Pinarius solemnly. “But in my opinion, each of the members of the conspiracy had something to gain from the murder of Caesar… Or felt somehow diminished by his existence.”

  Suddenly the two cousins heard new sounds, louder than before, and excited voices in the vestibule – people had gained entrance. Octavia grabbed her daughter and held her tightly to her breast. She had always shunned violence and conflict of any kind, and had earned a reputation as the most submissive of the austere matrons who stood beside the senators of the Urbe. She didn't like contradicting people, be they relatives, acquaintances or even strangers, and the judgment of others, the dignity of the family and her inner peace were vitally important to her. It took only a trifle to make her anxious, and now that she and her loved ones appeared to be in more danger than ever before, she was convinced that it was too harsh a test for her not to fail.

  No longer able to contain herself, she burst out crying, and her tears splashed onto the face of her daughter, who began sobbing again in turn. Octavia loathed herself for her lack of decorum in front of her cousin and her slaves: if they were coming to kill her, she should show herself worthy of her ancestors and die like a true Roman woman – like the Julia she was. She decided that they must at least find her standing upright, her chin thrust forward. She wiped away her tears with the edge of her palm and tried to rise to her feet, but a formidable force kept her in her seat. Meanwhile, the cries inside the house increased. There was the sound of metal, of cleated shoes treading the beautiful marble floor of the domus, the clang of swords crashing into the armoured sides of soldiers.

  Soldiers?

  Octavia felt a chill run down her spine.

  *

  Gladiators. The Clivus Capitolinus, the slope leading to the top of the Capitol, was heaving with them. “They're Decimus Brutus Albinus's,” thought Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, with one eye on the sinewy fighters and another on his muscular litter bearers, trembling with fear at the turn events were taking. And, truth be told, he was scared too – he who had certainly never been a lionheart. He had come to the city from Arezzo to personally conclude a delicate business transaction, and found himself in the middle of what looked like a riot. Or worse still, a civil war.

  Caesar was dead, they were saying. And his assassins, some of the most prominent senators, went about Rome boasting of their actions, calling themselves heroes and defenders of freedom. But, despite being of the equestrian and senatorial class, Maecenas' economic interests meant that he was too rich and well connected to the great landowners of the Senate to ignore the nuisance which, for certain financial factions, the recently toppled regime represented. Rather than a gesture for the citizens, this murder had been a day of reckoning! It was for the great magnates that Caesar's dominion had been an obstacle, not for the common people, who had benefitted greatly from the broad reforms of the dictator and the peace he had established.

  But the people were fickle. All it took was for some speechifier to direct the mood of the crowd and convince it to endorse the work of the killers, whoever they were. And now, the people in the streets were forming gangs, arming themselves with clubs and stones, and going in search of the senators Caesar had created. Of Mark Antony and his followers – of those, in short, who had supported the regime. But just as many armed gangs of Caesar's supporters, who mourned the dictator, were combing the city in search of the senators who had killed him, or even those who had sat by and watched without intervening. And being unable to distinguish Caesar's allies from his enemies and murderers, they were not splitting hairs and were going after anyone wearing a senator's laticlave tunic.

  He knew that he too was at risk. His clothing didn't mark him out as a senator, of course, but the pomp in his coterie could quite easily expose him to the anger of the plebeians. His litter, with its finely embroidered curtains and wooden frame dotted with precious gems could attract attention. It usually gave him pleasure to show off his immense wealth, but on this occasion he would rather have gone unnoticed.

  The common people were excited, and it was hard to tell those who were happy about the dictator's death from those who wanted revenge upon his murderers. Maecenas saw people beating one another, opposing factions fighting, citizens climbing the statues of the assassinated dictator to push them down while others attempted to stop them, crowds of people turning over the carts which were authorised to move about the city before darkness fell, probably taking advantage of the chaos following the murder for a bit of looting. Not surprisingly, even some shops were being targeted by groups of rowdies, and the wealthy Etruscan doubted that it was for political reasons.

  And anyway, what were the gladiators doing on the Capitol? They were slaves, and yet were going around armed as though they were soldiers. Maecenas knew they were owned by Decimus Brutus because a few hours earlier that morning they had taken part in the games at the Circus Flaminius, offered by their master himself to celebrate the departure of Caesar for the war against the Parthians. Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the senator with whom he was supposed to be concluding the deal that had brought him to Rome, had invited him to the Circus; there, he had written, they could finalise the details of the passage of the villa of Cuma, in Campania, from the senator's ownership to that of Maecenas. But the Etruscan had been delayed for a few hours, and had sent a slave to announce to Marcellus that they would meet at the Forum after the games and the sitting of Senate.

  The sitting which had been fatal for Caesar.

  But it was unthinkable to go and look for Marcellus in the Forum now. The roads had become too dangerous. It would be better to hole up in one of his houses in the city, Maecenas said to himself, and wait for the storm to pass.

  Or at least, until it was clear who had killed Caesar and what they were planning to do to all the rest.

  He saw that the Vicus Unguentarius, the road to the Aventine which housed his most prestigious domus in the Urbe was blocked by a band of hooligans who had set fire to a building. They were looking around themselves, and Maecenas had the feeling they were seeking someone to throw into the fire so they could enjoy watching him roast as though on a funeral pyre.

  Realising that they had noticed him, he shouted to his bearers to hurry towards the Clivus Capitolinus and the gladiators, whose grim faces would, perhaps, deter the mob from continuing their pursuit. The slaves didn't wait for him to repeat himself, and increased their pace, demonstrating considerable fortitude as they started up the slope. Maecenas peeked around the curtain, and saw that some of the gang of louts had refused to give up – one, indeed, grabbed a rock and threw it at the litter, narrowly missing one of the bearers, but fortunately the rear of the formation of gladiators was near, and as the distance between it and the troublemakers shrank, their pursuers slowed to a total stop.

  At that point, there was nothing for it but to tag along. Maecenas motioned for his men to follow the fighters, which obl
iged him to go back up the hill. It was not what he had wanted, but he appeared to have no choice, if he did not wish to endanger his safety.

  But once at the top, he was greeted with chaos.

  The whole of Rome seemed to have arranged to meet there, in the triangle between the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, the Tabularium and the Tarpeian Rock. The gladiators and some squads of soldiers seemed to be keeping order, but the situation gave the impression that it might degenerate at any moment. Among the many sacred buildings, statues and columns scattered about the hill thronged people of all social classes, though senators were scarce and – protected as they were by armed men – they stood out from the crowd.

  Maecenas’s attention was drawn to the plinth of the main temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. Above, some Capitoline nobles, their clothes stained with blood, were attempting to address the crowd, but with the great clamour that filled the square only those in the front rows could hear them. For the moment, Maecenas relaxed: probably nowhere else in Rome were there so many defenders of the law as there; if nothing else, he would enjoy some form of protection in the case of danger.

  He focused on trying to understand what was happening and who those speaking from the plinth were. Being informed, in business as in everyday life, was the best route to a life of success. And he intended to have a great deal of success. Not as a judge or a politician, much less as a conqueror or leader, but as a wealthy businessman able to buy anything or anyone.

  Maecenas’s dream was to become a builder, but not of buildings, or ships or any other material thing – his dream was to become so influential as to be able to build, or even just direct and shape, the lives of others, in order to determine the course of society and history. He was not interested in glory, nor fame nor notoriety, but only in the power that came from making others satisfied. It was not a matter of altruism – far from it: his ego was so strong that he felt no need to be in the front row. It would suffice to know that he was the one who made things work. The only one to whom others could turn to feel fulfilled. It was a feeling he had felt for the first time when he was twelve, before giving up his young man's praetexta toga. He had given a harp to a local shepherd lad he had heard singing in a melodious voice. The boy had left happy, and he had felt like a divinity: a god, even, with the power to change someone's life and the feeling of having become, in the eyes of the beneficiary of his generosity, an object of veneration. Later, he would be able to ask that shepherd boy for anything, with the certainty of being indulged.