Chapter 1
October 42 BCE
He is cold, and a tiny knot of despair sits in the middle of his chest, right where the breastbone ends. Time means nothing. He has been sitting here, aching and nauseous, forever. Darkness has fallen and he squints as a torch comes right up to him, and someone peers in his face. He moves as he is told, and trudges to the end of a row of tents, ducking in obediently as his escort gestures, and holds the torch high so he can see his way. To his faint surprise, nobody follows him inside the tent and there are only two people there, sitting at a table piled with wax tablets and sheets of papyrus.
“Jupiter, you look terrible,” says a voice, and hands suddenly are there to steer him towards a stool in front of the table. He can hear muttered discussions of his appearance and a cup of water is placed into his hand, someone even taking the trouble to curl his fingers around the bowl. He takes an uninterested sip and says, “Do you have any wine?”
The cup is removed, there is a bustle in the corner of the tent and the cup returns filled with - oh thank you all the gods of Rome - wine. He can smell it, the scent so rich and golden he could cry. He loses himself in the first slow sip, letting the fruit awaken his mouth, spilling over his tongue then tightening the sides of his mouth with the tartness, while the smell fills his head.
“Don’t get lost yet,” says an amused voice.
He looks up. He does not recognise either of the men on the other side of the table. They are about his own age. One thing you can say for a series of civil wars, the young men get their promotion early.
“What do you want?” he asks the one sitting opposite him, the one who spoke.
“I want you to work for Caesar,” says the man.
He doesn’t understand. Caesar is dead. He looks from face to face, and his bemusement is clear. The other man leans forward, clean, freshly shaved, good-looking.
“I want you to work for me,” he says. “I am Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian, son of the god Caesar.”
“And I am Maecenas, son of a very ordinary man, alas,” says the other, leaning back a little to smile at his companion.
There is a silence. He doesn’t understand.
“I’ve just fought two battles against you,” he says, and knows that he is still wearing the blood and dirt, muscles aching and weariness dragging at his very bones. Why do these two look so fresh and relaxed?
“Yes, and now we have won, we think you would be wise to admit it and join us,” says the one called Maecenas. He smiles a lot. Did he not fight? He would not be smiling if he had been in the midst of the battle.
The wine tastes good.
“Sorry it isn’t anything special,” says Maecenas. “Just the usual. Army rations aren’t renowned.”
He is so tired, and the wine beckons. He wants to fall into it, drown in it.
“Why haven’t you killed me?” he asks.
“We don’t waste potential,” says Maecenas. And his companion adds softly,
“You look like you need to be on the winning side for once.”
He thinks, “I want it all to stop. I want some more wine.”
He looks at Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian, son of a god, and asks, “What do you want me to do?”
