Fig Tree. Conn Iggulden

this to death, Livia. There is no more to be said that has not been said a thousand times already. My grandson is of my blood. Whatever that is worth, it is enough for me to see him once more before I make my final decision.’

      Livia closed her eyes for an instant, struggling with the desire to argue with her husband. Ten years before, the issue had been settled, at least to her satisfaction. Her son Tiberius from her first marriage had been formally adopted by Octavian. The emperor had begun to share more and more power with Tiberius, preparing him to take over. Yet there had never been any love for him in her husband. Octavian had approached the task of training Tiberius as mere duty, without affection or liking.

      Her eldest son was by then fifty-five years old, a man of dignity and great honour who had bided his time and prepared to be emperor for a decade. There had never been the slightest hint of disloyalty from him. Yet as the years passed, Livia had seen her husband follow his grandson’s progress with an interest he’d never shown in Tiberius. Marcus Postumus may have been the son of Octavian’s only daughter, but he was not half the man Tiberius was.

      It was not just a mother’s love, she reminded herself. At twenty-four, Marcus was rarely out of trouble and scandals followed him at every turn. He’d lived a life of great wealth, spoiled and made rotten by the fortunes at his disposal and the imperial connections to save him from every failed business and outraged accusation. Livia pursed her lips tight rather than rake up cold ashes once again.

      Octavian was blind to all his grandson’s weaknesses of character, persevering in his praise of the young idiot, while Tiberius laboured in vain to please him. When she did speak at last, Livia chose her words carefully, accepting that Octavian would not be turned from his course.

      ‘I understand you must see him. I only ask that you see him clearly, my love. When you meet Marcus, he will be a prisoner still, accused in the assault on a woman and the death of one of his drunken friends.’

      ‘All unproven,’ Octavian snapped. He wanted to bite back his reply, but the words had been spoken. It was as if he and his wife rehearsed lines from a play and could not alter the script as it played out. He could sense his wife’s irritation growing.

      ‘Unproven because two witnesses have vanished!’ she said. ‘Disappeared into the air! My husband, in this one thing, your judgement is … not sound. He may have your blood in him, but he is not the man you were. Not the man you are.’

      Octavian sat up further, wincing as the glare of the sun reached his face. He used the wooden arm of the couch to lever himself to his feet, grunting as his bones creaked. His face flushed with the effort and his bowels groaned, aching with a weakness he hated. His body was failing him after almost eight decades and he was both weary and angry at himself. He took a deep breath rather than snap again at his wife, though they seemed to spend more and more of each day bickering.

      ‘I will see him, Livia. I have made Marcus no promises and I will not, if I judge him unfit for Rome. Yet he is young still! Barely twenty-four! He is not the boy who tied burning brush to foxes and let them run through the crops. Not yet the man he will be! A few years can change a young man completely – before the will and the mind set in ruts for the rest of his life.’ He saw the pain he was causing her and his voice softened. Part of him was aware that he relented too easily, too quickly, but he loved her and it took an effort of will to remain angry.

      ‘If I see he is not the man I was at his age, if I judge him as wanting, that will be the end of it. Tiberius will be emperor after me. He is a good man, I know it. A little dull and worthy, perhaps, but a solid hand for Rome.’

      Livia raised her eyes in exasperation.

      ‘You cannot resist the little barbs, can you? Dull and worthy? Better that than cruel and dishonest.’

      ‘I’m sorry, my love. That was unfair. You did not say if you were coming with me, to the island.’

      ‘To the prison, Octavian, where he is guarded day and night. No, I will remain here. I will wait for you to come back and tell me what wonderful news you have, that your grandson is so much changed from the idle wastrel he was the last time. I will wait for you to tell me Tiberius will not be emperor and your precious committee has ordained Marcus Postumus as your heir.’

      Livia rose from the couch and walked stiffly away from him, heading back into the vast complex of buildings he had built on the hill, an oasis of Rome in the dry crags all around. Octavian scratched irritably at the white stubble on his cheeks.

      ‘I will still see him,’ he muttered to himself. He looked over to where soldiers waited with a carriage and awning to shade the emperor from the midday sun. A ship waited in the bay below to take him to the tiny island of Planasia, south of Elba, where the only man who carried the emperor’s blood in his veins was still held prisoner. Raising his head, Octavian gathered his toga around him and walked slowly, accepting the strong arm of a centurion to help him climb up.

      Octavian had not expected the journey along the west coast of Italy to invigorate him. In the past, he had been a poor sailor and he’d dreaded the effect of the waves on his already weak stomach and bowels. Yet the captains of the three galleys had gone out of their way to make the trip as smooth as possible, with two of them positioning themselves around the central trireme to shelter the emperor from wind and the heaving motion of the sea. As if the gods blessed the enterprise, it had been a clear run, without a sign of bad weather. Octavian had spent twelve days simply resting on the deck, standing for hours until the pain in his lower back grew too fierce and he would order couches brought up for him to rest. He had expected to spend the time thinking of what lay ahead, of the succession to come and the best man to inherit Rome from his hand.