The Gods of War by Conn Iggulden

suffer the worst agonies to undo this betrayal,” Julius said grimly. “It is the first of what he will owe us. Whoever we send cannot know the truth. It would be burnt out of him. He must be told that Brutus is still one of us, but playing a subtle game. Perhaps we can have him overhear the secret, so he does not become too suspicious. Who can you send?”
    The generals looked at each other reluctantly. It was one thing to order men into a battle line, but this was a dirty business and Brutus was hated in that room.
    Mark Antony cleared his throat at last. “I have one who has worked for me in the past. He is clumsy enough to get himself caught if we send him alone. His name is Caecilius.”
    â€œDoes he have family, children?” Julius asked, clenching his jaw.
    â€œI don’t know,” Mark Antony said.
    â€œIf he has, I will send a blood-price to them when he is clear of the city,” Julius said. It did not seem enough.
    â€œI will summon Caecilius here, with your permission?” Mark Antony asked.
    As always, the final order and the final responsibility rested with Julius. He felt annoyed that Mark Antony would not take the burden with a few easy words, but Brutus would have and Brutus had turned traitor. It was better to be surrounded by weaker men, perhaps.
    â€œYes. Have him come here. I will give the orders myself,” Julius confirmed.
    â€œWe should send an assassin with him, to be certain,” Octavian said suddenly. All eyes turned to him and he faced them without apology. “Well? Regulus has said what we are all thinking. Am I the only other one who will say it? Brutus was as much my friend as any of you, but you think he should live? Even if he tells Pompey nothing, or this spy weakens his position, he must be killed.”
    Julius took Octavian by the shoulders and the younger man could not look him in the eyes. “No. There will be no assassins sent by me. No one else has the right to make that decision, Octavian. I will not order the death of my friend.”
    At the last word, Octavian’s eyes blazed with fury and Julius gripped him harder.
    â€œPerhaps I share the blame for Brutus, lad. I did not see the signs in him until he had gone, though they trouble me now. I have been a fool, but what he has done changes nothing, in the end. Whether Pompey appoints him general or not, we must still go to Greece and fight those legions.” He paused until Octavian looked up. “When we do, if Brutus is there, I shall order that he is kept alive. If the gods kill him with a spear or an arrow, then my hands are clean. But if he lives through the war to come, I will not take his life until I have spoken to him, perhaps not even then. There is too much between us to think otherwise. Do you understand?”
    â€œNo,” Octavian said. “Not at all.”
    Julius ignored the anger, feeling it himself. “I hope you will in time. Brutus and I have shared blood and life and more years than I can remember. I will not see him dead at my order. Not today, for this, nor at any other time. We are brothers, he and I, whether he chooses to remember it or not.”

                                                       CHAPTER 7                                                       
    S eeing Brundisium without the usual bustle of merchant and legion galleys was strange for such a key port in the south. When Brutus crested the last hill with the exhausted guard cohorts, he was disappointed not to find anything larger than a lobster boat tied to the quays. He tried to remember if he knew the quaestor of the port and then shrugged to