The Ides

by Peter Tonkin

  He stooped, pulled the dagger out of the ground. And out of Syrus’ foot. Leaned down. Slit the lace holding the helmet in place. Caught the gryphon crest and pulled it free. Now it was he who was Nemesis. And inescapable. ‘Your choice,’ he said. ‘Gladius. Club. Or one of the daggers that murdered Caesar. How do you want to die?’

  But Syrus’ answer was the last thing the spy expected. ‘Wait,’ said the defeated gladiator. His voice ragged with agony and defeat. ‘There’s something you ought to know.’

  *

  Artemidorus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing you can say will save you,’ he warned.

  ‘I don’t mind dying,’ gasped Syrus. ‘But I don’t want to leave you in ignorance when I do.’

  ‘Very well, then. What is it?’

  ‘Your man Telos. He never said a thing. Cestus beat him to death with those spiked gloves of his. But he never said a word.’

  ‘NO!’ screamed Cyanea. ‘Don’t…’

  ‘He never sang like a lark. In spite of the note we pinned to him. It was her. She was our little alaude. We didn’t even have to touch her and she told us everything. Spurinna’s predictions. Telos’ lists. The tribune’s plans for Caesar and Antony. Everything she knew.’

  ‘No!’ she screamed again. Artemidorus looked up. Saw at a glance the guilt in her lovely eyes.

  ‘The information she gave us made all the difference.’ Syrus persisted brutally. ‘It let Lord Basilus choose the one conspirator you didn’t suspect. Decimus Albinus. Brief him with exactly what to say. Knowing what you would have already said. Knowing how to make the difference. When it all turned on a word or two.’

  Artemidorus straightened. Understanding all too well how Cyanea had managed to hide her guilt. Even in his bed. In his arms. Until she and Puella started washing Caesar’s corpse. Then every wound must have been like a little red-lipped mouth accusing her. And the wax effigy. Running with blood. No wonder she had fled from that. Overcome with guilt and horror.

  ‘Thank you for giving me that information,’ said Artemidorus. As he leaned down. And cut Syrus’ throat with Brutus’ dagger.

  Even as the last of Syrus’ blood was spraying out of his neck. And the last of the light was draining out of his eyes. The sound of footsteps running through the house behind him made Artemidorus turn. He expected to see Enobarbus, Quintus and men from the VIIth. But no. It was Ferrata, still holding a blazing piece of wood. And men from the VIth. Still on the hunt.

  ‘Roasted any senators yet?’ asked Artemidorus.

  Ferrata didn’t seem to hear him. He was transfixed by the sight of Cyanea.

  Artemidorus repeated the question.

  ‘No,’ said Ferrata, his eyes still fixed on the naked woman. ‘They’d barricaded themselves in. We couldn’t get to them.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got in here. This villa belongs to one of the ringleaders. If you want to set a fire that will burn out the Libertores, you couldn’t choose a better place to start.’

  ‘We might just do that,’ said Ferrata. ‘Who are these? Who’s the corpse?’

  ‘Right-hand man to the most dangerous of the murderers. I’ve just settled accounts with him.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘You can have her if you want her,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Have all of them. The gladiators and the woman were all working for Brutus, Cassius, Albinus and Basilus. The woman especially. If anyone’s to blame for Caesar’s death, then she is.’

  Wearily, he turned and began to walk back out of the villa.

  She called his name. Her voice full of sorrow, longing and terror.

  He did not look back.

  A little way down the hill. Just before he reached Spurinna’s barricaded door. He met Enobarbus, Quintus and the squad they were bringing to rescue him.

  ‘Alone?’ demanded Enobarbus. ‘Where’s Cyanea?’

  Artemidorus looked back up the hill. To where Basilus’ villa was already ablaze. Ferrata and his men already running on up the Esquiline, searching for more Libertores and their helpers to slaughter. More senators to roast.

  ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘Canicula mortuus est. The bitch is dead.’

  EPILOGUE

  What was left of the contubernium met in Antony’s tablinum as the sun began to set on the day of Caesar’s funeral. Enobarbus was unusually quiet. Weighed down by the knowledge of what Artemidorus had told him about Syrus’ information and Cyanea’s guilt. Information they agreed should be kept to themselves. For now at least. As it could change nothing.

  Spurinna on the other hand was elated. Ebullient. He had brought Puella with him and could hardly keep his eyes off her. Antistius looked exhausted after everything he had done within the last few days. Almost as exhausted as Antony their general. Who was – just – too proud to sag against Fulvia’s shoulder. A shoulder not quite as square as the old Legionary Quintus’. Though given the thickness of his armour – the best that money could buy – his was a great deal less inviting than hers.

  ‘Lepidus is still out there with the Seventh trying to restore order,’ said Antony.

  ‘The fact that he’s taking so long to do it proves just how well your plan worked,’ observed Artemidorus.

  ‘In the end,’ said Fulvia.

  ‘In the end,’ agreed the spy.

  ‘But now we have to plan for the future,’ said Antony. ‘For tomorrow, next week, next month and next year.’

  ‘You and Lepidus can hold Rome for now,’ said Enobarbus.

  ‘While you wait to see what Caesar’s adopted heir Octavian will do,’ added Artemidorus.

  ‘He’s nineteen!’ snapped Fulvia. ‘Only just into his toga virilis. And sickly into the bargain. He will do what Antony tells him to do!’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Enobarbus placatingly.

  Artemidorus wondered whether he was the only one to pick up a tone in the tribune’s answer that made it seem that he had a lot of doubts about it.

  ‘The gods have not yet given their opinion of the present situation or any guidance toward the future,’ said Spurinna.

  ‘I can tell you about the immediate future,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Any Libertore still in Rome will be gone by tomorrow. Brutus and Cassius were lucky to survive today. Basilus’ villa is ashes by now, though he was not in it when it burned. They’ll all be gone as soon as they get the chance. That goes for their supporters. I’m certain Cicero is on his way to his nearest country villa. And if Cinna isn’t on his way out of the city, he’s mad. After what happened to the poet. Just because he had a similar name.’

  ‘Casca’s been in contact,’ said Antony. ‘That’s the elder brother Publius Casca. He says he didn’t actually hurt Caesar at all. Though he struck first, he missed. Got Caesar’s stylus through his arm instead. Technically not one of the murderers, therefore.’

  ‘That’s his defence is it?’ asked Artemidorus with an exhausted chuckle. ‘He’ll have to get Cicero back to argue that for him!’

  There was a short silence. Promus entered. ‘Cena will be served when you are ready,’ he said.

  ‘Let it wait!’ growled Antony. And Promus disappeared.

  ‘He’ll still want it perfect, whenever he gets round to eating it,’ Fulvia informed them all.

  ‘We have business to finish here!’ snapped Antony.

  Fulvia was uncharacteristically quiescent.

  ‘Whatever Lepidus and… and Octavian…’ he shrugged dismissively as he named Caesar’s heir, ‘… decide. There is still work for the rest of you to do. All of the Libertores are still alive. All of their supporters and apologists are still alive. That is a situation I wish to put right. However long it takes.

  ‘But as you have seen already, a man in my position cannot always follow the shortest route. The surest way. It may be that I will have to come to accommodations. Agreements. With these people. They are not without friends. Influence. Power. But no matter what I may have to do to keep the peace. Or to win the battle. Your mission will never vary.

  ‘You
are my dogs of war. My secret wolf pack. It is your duty. No matter what. To hunt down and kill every one of them. Take any other men you want. That Ferrata and his friends from the Sixth, for instance. But every Libertore. Every hanger-on. Every man who had a hand in Caesar’s death or the aftermath.

  ‘You will track them. You will find them. You will kill them.

  ‘Every single one of them!’

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With thanks to those who helped with research and advice, including (briefly but crucially) Tom Holland and Linsey Davis; Richard Foreman. Nick Slater, the Classics Department of The Judd School Tonbridge, especially Ben Gregson who tracked down Cicero’s whereabouts on The Ides for me. And to the Tunbridge Wells Writers, especially Peppy Scott, Dave Smith, Justin Richardson, Michael Benenson and Glyn Harper.