Prologue
Rome, 23 BCE
He lies on the couch in the darkened room and is convinced that he is dying. His name is Augustus Caesar and he is the Princeps, leading citizen, but none of that can help him now. He lies in darkness and silence, in a room that is stifling in a warm May in Rome. He has always felt the cold, needing several tunics at a time in winters, but now his body is on fire.
They have summoned a famous doctor, their last hope, and he is hurrying from the Bay of Naples, but Augustus Caesar the Princeps does not believe that this miracle worker will arrive in time. The dying man has to prepare them all for his death. A twitch of his fingers summons an obedient acolyte, a whisper brings Livia, and he tells her what he is going to do. She isn’t pleased but he doesn’t care. Soon, in a quiet scurry and swish of draperies a group of men enter the room and stand awkwardly at the foot of his couch. Another flick of the fingers and Agrippa comes forward and kneels beside him. There are tears on Agrippa’s cheeks, but Augustus does not think that many other men will weep for him.
Good, honest, hard-working Agrippa. His right-hand general, the most loyal follower you could desire, a man whose ambition is to support his best friend. Rome used to be full of men like Agrippa, now they are all self-serving and idle. But enough, thinks Augustus Caesar the Princeps, I must get this done. He can barely move or speak, but his mind is clear.
Slowly and hampered by another bout of shivering, he paws at the signet ring on his finger. Fortunately, it slips off easily – he has lost weight again during this illness. He is determined that nobody can mistake his actions; carefully and as dramatically as shaking hands allow, he holds out the ring to Agrippa. He can hear a suppressed gasp from someone and there is a distinctly unconvincing outbreak of coughing. Agrippa looks aghast.
“Me?”
Augustus breathes out the slightest sound, but it is unmistakably, “You.”
By the end of the day, all Rome knows. One man has transferred power from himself to his best friend: it is unprecedented, probably illegal, and any hope that Rome is still a Republic has died.
