The Horse Changer

by Craig Smith

  Nero began to knock the burning wood away with his javelins. I took the cloak tied to the back of my saddle and covered Hannibal’s head. He could still smell the fire and feel the heat, but with his sight gone he grew calmer. Nero tossed the burning tinder further down the stairwell, spreading the fire and so breaking apart its intensity. That finished, he began swinging his cloak, beating the flames down.

  As he worked I stepped around a pile of plaster and stones to have a look at the front of the house. Three men had waded into the smoky atrium. Fearing an ambush they spread out at once, keeping watch on all sides and resisting the temptation to rush through the room.

  ‘We have to hurry,’ I whispered. ‘They’re coming.’

  Livia and the boy stepped into the stairwell, but the hem of her skirt caught fire. She gave a yelp of terror, but Nero was there to beat the flames down

  I descended the steps after Nero, going slowly so Hannibal could find his footing. The tunnel’s walls had been dressed in smooth white stone. There were even brackets set into the masonry to hold torches, though they were now empty. The air stank of fire, but it was otherwise clear of smoke and ash. After descending the stairs, we had no more burning tinder. Close to the stairway, however, the dying embers provided enough light for me to discern shapes and shadows on the stairwell. I called to Nero and gave him the reins of Hannibal. ‘I’ll wait for them here,’ I told him. ‘You go on!’

  I did not dare look for the bounty hunters; I simply waited beyond the stairway, pressed against the wall and listening for their approach. When they did not come quickly, I thought perhaps the fire now blocked their way. I waited so long I nearly imagined they had given up, but then I heard one of them calling to his companions, ‘Down here!’

  Another spoke, ‘Take care now.’

  And the next, ‘Don’t worry. They’re long gone!’

  The fellow who said this was closest to me. If my guess was correct he was a step or two above me and I had only to turn the corner to meet him. I swung out, swords at the ready. I saw him stiffen in surprise. I took the stairs, knocking his sword away with one gladius as I thrust my second weapon deep into his guts.

  But I had lost the element of surprise with the other two. Nor had I time to pull my weapon free. The other two were beside him, their weapons at hand. Spinning, my back pressing into the wounded man, I brought my left arm in low. I caught the second man’s leg just above his ankle and heard the whisper of his sword whipping past my skull.

  Using the force of my spin I collided into the third man, getting cut on the arm as I did. My opponent fell back against the wall but not far enough to be out of reach. As he hit the wall he stabbed me. I brought my gladius under his sword arm, cutting him just behind his wrist. I pulled back, feeling the blade of his sword tearing from my belly. Despite my wound, I executed a second pirouette, leveraging my stroke this time. My gladius came up from my knees, the stroke finishing at shoulder height. I heard his sword clattering on the stones even before he screamed. His hand had been severed from his arm. I pulled back a step before running him through.

  I went to the second man, who was down and screaming that his foot was gone. I stabbed him through his neck, if only to silence him. Then I grabbed my second gladius from the belly of the first victim. I stepped again behind the wall and waited for the rest of them, but the garden within the house was now thoroughly ablaze and blanketed in thick smoke.

  Perhaps three hundred feet below the house I saw a light and followed it as I emerged from the inky darkness of the tunnel. Beyond this I discovered a forested ravine. The pavilion was a bit further down the hill along a stone path.

  I looked at my wounds. My arm was cut, but only into the flesh and the bleeding would eventually slow. Pushing my fingers into the wet heat of my guts, I knew this wound was not terribly deep, but it was the sort that will kill a man slowly, especially as the blade had cut through the muscle and gone into the soft inner parts. There was no rush of blood, only a steady, awful leaking. My back had been cut as well, but seemed no worse than my arm. With a surgeon and the proper medicine I might hope to survive all three wounds but of course, at the moment, I had neither.

  The forest on the hill above us was bright with fire; treetops were burning like crowns of flame; white smoke roiled thickly toward the heavens. Below at the pavilion the air was clean. As I followed the lane toward Nero and Livia I studied the slope of descent beyond the retaining wall with some trepidation. A creek lay three hundred feet below our position, but the way was unpaved and quite steep. At the pavilion, built for shady summer afternoons, I studied the ground beyond its foundations. Here the slope was guarded by trees all the way to the creek.

  I found the safest way and led Hannibal over the retaining wall. We turned together into the descent, as if I meant to lead him down the hill, then, as he started sliding forward, I let him go. He went with his front legs braced, his haunches scooting through the dirt. The danger was he would build speed and begin tumbling out of control, but Hannibal fought the mounting speed and steered himself between the trees, sliding wildly to the bottom of the hill.

  I jumped forward after him, aiming my path so that I might catch a tree trunk some feet below. Bracing myself, I turned back and told Livia, ‘Send the boy to me!’

  Tiberius refused, but once his mother had grabbed him, they jumped together, sliding into my arms. Nero came more slowly, making his own way down. I turned and slid another thirty paces, catching hold of an outcropping of stone and bushes. I looked below and saw Hannibal already in the stream drinking water. ‘Look at Hannibal! It’s safe, boy! Perfectly safe!’ For all my encouragement Tiberius still needed his mother’s arms.

  We descended slowly, losing some skin here and there but coming finally to the water, where we drank our fill. Afterwards, as we hid behind thick vegetation, Nero looked at my wounds. We hadn’t even fire to cauterize the belly wound. So Nero washed the cuts with water and then wrapped my cloak tightly about my waist. The cloth was soon saturated with blood, but this eventually hardened into a kind of plaster. Having no more clothing to spare for bandages, he left the wounds on my back and arm open. While Nero tended me, Livia had kept watch on the pavilion. The bounty hunters, she told us, had apparently abandoned the chase.

  We were four or five miles beyond the estates that bordered the great plain of Sparta. Half an hour if we could run; an easy gallop on horseback. But all of that assumed a straight way and a good road. We were in mountain country, far from the only road in the region. So we followed the path of the stream. This made for an easy walk during the first hour and gave me some hope of getting to a surgeon quickly, but after an hour we came to a waterfall. Backtracking now, we climbed a steep embankment, which proved nearly impossible for Hannibal. Then we stumbled through a series of hills as the sun faded behind us and the forest shadows grew long. Where it was possible I rode Hannibal with the boy before me, but as the hours passed I had trouble keeping upright and conscious.

  We began talking about the estates before we had found one. Nero knew all the owners in the region. Many had been his clients in happier days. Of course now they were obliged to murder him on sight, and Livia and me as well for being in his company. There was always a good chance however that the owner might be gone. In that case a freedman would be directing the business of the farm. These fellows know a great deal about farming but are not always familiar with the dominant political figures in their region. If Nero assumed the role of a slave, they might not recognise him. That was the hope at least.

  But darkness came before we discovered any of the farms. We spent the night buried inside a pit Nero had dug with his gladius; we used leaves for cover against the dew, all four of us huddled close for the sake of heat. As for Hannibal we turned him loose to forage for whatever he could find. We went into the pit exhausted and hungry, but thirst began to set in as the night passed.

  At dawn, or actually some hours before, I became acutely aware of my belly wound. I was certain
it had become infected. That being the case, it was simply a matter of fading to death over the next few hours.

  Departing at first light we moved listlessly. I could not sit upright in the saddle, but I did manage to straddle Hannibal and then lean forward across his neck. I rode by habit, slipping into and out of consciousness as we went. The boy was nearly as weak as I was but too thirsty to complain. He took turns riding his mother’s and father’s hip.

  At midmorning dogs found us. Soon after that the slaves whose herds the dogs guarded arrived. Nero, pretending incompetence with his Greek, explained that his master had been hurt by highwaymen. We had escaped and found shelter in the forest until the fire drove us away. We had stumbled about all night, lost in the hills.

  The slaves did not care to question his tale. They could see the stripe on my tunic and the fine horse I rode. This was a matter for the manager of the estate. With one look, the manager saw I was close to death and brought the farm’s animal doctor to me; this fellow was a slave with only a rudimentary training in medicine. He drained my belly wound of bile, then washed the cuts on my arm and back with salt and vinegar. He dared not attempt more but put me to bed with instructions that I must promise a sacrifice to Asclepius. Then he added that in his experience it did not hurt to include promises to another deity, especially if I had a favourite.

  I told the fool Artemis had special regard for me, and so he insisted that I must make promises of splendid sacrifices to her – a whole pig, if I could afford it; she loved swine more than other sacrifices. ‘I will capture a wild boar still living and take it to her altar,’ I groaned.

  ‘Yes, if you could manage such a feat, that might save you.’

  Fortunately, the vinegar and salt had more potency than Artemis, and sometime the following day I came out of the darkness. Nero and Livia and the child had stayed in my room keeping me warm and watching over me. Another night saw my fever break and, though I was not yet whole again, I was now fully conscious and on the mend. On my fourth morning I had an appetite, but my doctor warned me not to indulge it. Better to keep drinking broth and offering prayers to Asclepius, and I must not forget my promise of a wild boar for Artemis.

  On the fifth or sixth morning I was well enough to travel in a wagon and sent a boy to Sparta with a letter to my most senior tribune. As we waited for my men to arrive, the manager of the estate entered my bedroom. He had avoided visiting me until then but thought I might enjoy the latest news: Claudius Nero had been killed by bounty hunters. Nero of course stood at my bedside playing the faithful servant as I heard this news, so I had no worries. I simply feigned surprise. ‘I thought Nero was in Sicily with Pompey!’

  ‘It turns out he has been in Sparta for several months. Caught in the same fire that nearly killed you. How is that for a coincidence?’

  ‘Then they have no proof of his death?’

  ‘On the contrary, they got their proof. No head, no money. They waded in after the worst of the fire and took his head, charred as it was. What I hear is they’ve already presented it to the magistrates in Sparta for their reward.’

  Twenty horsemen arrived that afternoon. The tribune commanding the party questioned me in private about my servants. Was there something he should know? I thought he recognised Nero or at least suspected that something was up, but I knew if I told him the truth I would invite him into a dangerous conspiracy. So I confessed to having survived an attack by highwaymen. ‘These two might have stolen my horse and left me to die,’ I told him. ‘Instead, they brought me out of the forest at risk to their own health. After such service, I couldn’t very well let them go on down the road without a reward. They were hardly in better shape than I was; so I claimed them as my property so that they might be allowed to stay in my room.’

  ‘Shall I give them some money and send them on their way?’

  ‘I mean to give them a proper reward once I’m on my feet,’ I answered. ‘Until then, keep them close to me.’

  ‘As you wish, Prefect. By the way, did you hear some men brought in the head of Claudius Nero?’

  Once we had returned to Sparta I put guards on the room where Nero and his family stayed without explaining my reasons to anyone. Not having to explain one’s actions is of course one of the perks of command. Nobody entered their room and nobody was allowed to leave it for any reason. I did, however, provide them with one of the guard’s servants, who brought them their meals and emptied the chamber pot.

  I was still weak and in need of recovery, but a day or two later I drafted a letter to Antony, which I sent by courier to Athens. The rider would change horses every ten miles; this allowed him to make excellent time on his sixty-mile journey. If Antony gave his immediate attention to the matter, we could expect a return letter before sunset.

  In my letter I admitted to having Claudius Nero under house arrest. On Antony’s orders I said I would see the man executed, but in the circumstances I thought it best for Antony to decide Nero’s fate after speaking with him. He had come, I said, from Pompey’s court in Sicily and had news of vital importance to Antony’s interests.

  I said no more, for I knew Antony’s new wife, Octavia, might learn the contents of that letter. I hoped Antony would trust my judgment, but I told Nero I was not sure if he would take my advice. I did not care to play Nero’s friend in the morning and bring his executioner to him that evening. ‘Once Antony answers my letter,’ I told him, ‘I will call you to me before I read it.’ I meant this as a sort of kindness, but of course there is no such thing when it comes to executing a criminal.

  At any time our courier might have returned from Athens with Antony’s response: ordering Nero’s death or giving him a reprieve. So the hours passed slowly. For Nero it must have been awful. At sunset, when there was still no response I sent a note to Nero informing him that I had no answer from Antony. Should a message now arrive, I promised I would not read it until next morning. In this way I hoped Nero might enjoy one more night in the arms of the woman he loved.

  Late next morning a courier brought me the answer we had waited for. I ordered Nero escorted to my court before I broke the seal on the letter. I had armed men standing by should Antony have refused my recommendations. At my signal, they were to take him down with their swords at once.

  By my orders, Livia and the boy waited in their room. I certainly did not care for her to witness the murder of her husband; I should add I did not care to see it myself, for I had come to have no small degree of affection for the old fellow. Slow and ponderous he might have been, but Claudius Nero had survived where wiser and swifter men had failed.

  I read the letter in silence, fearing the worst, but Antony bid me to bring Nero to him and named him in the letter that I might use the document as a defence, should Caesar’s bounty hunters find us on the open road.

  Athens: March, 39 BC

  I rode in a carriage with Nero and Livia, for I was still not fully recovered from my wounds. We had an escort of twenty of my best men. I did not identify either Nero or Livia to my subordinates, but I did tell them that Antony had ordered the man to his palace for a meeting. I expect some of the men knew Nero on sight; a great many of my best men were Spartan auxiliaries, some from the best families in the Peloponnese, but if they did recognise him, not one of them protested or even bothered asking questions.

  As there were too many of us to change horses at the post stations we went slowly, stopping at one of the inns where we stayed overnight. This put us into Athens late next day. Antony was seldom in a hurry, either for business or war, and proved consistent on this occasion. His freedman informed me that I should bring Nero to Antony’s court early next morning.

  That gave me the chance to get Nero dressed in a clean white tunic, though without any stripe to advertise his former rank. Nero of course would have preferred a toga for the occasion, even a plain one, which would have announced his citizenship; but proscribed men enjoyed none of the rights of a Roman citizen and to wear such clothing might tempt Antony’
s patience. Better to come humbly before the great man and beg mercy. Humble however did not preclude a haircut and shave; so at least Nero looked the presentable petitioner and not like some bearded Germanic wild man dragged into court.

  Uninvited for the hearing, Livia waited with her son in a room inside the great house Antony used as his headquarters. I had told her that Nero would have no appeal; if he was not given amnesty he would likely be executed at once. That she might know her husband’s fate, I told her I would come to her if the news was bad. Nero would return to her if Antony had granted him amnesty.

  Antony remained seated as Nero and I entered his praetorium. Not a good sign. ‘I authorised payment for your head only a few days ago, Nero!’ Antony announced cheerfully. ‘It is encouraging to see that Death proves unable to hold you.’

  ‘The rumours of my death, sir, have been greatly exaggerated.’

  To this Antony roared with laughter, I suppose because it was the first joke he had ever heard Nero utter. ‘So tell me, old friend,’ he said, still smiling but with cooling eyes, ‘what news do you bring from Sextus Pompey?’

  ‘Caesar negotiates with Pompey for a treaty that will allow them to turn their combined armies against you. They will attack your rear the very moment Quintus Labienus brings his Parthian mercenaries against you in Syria.’

  Antony held up his hand to stop him. The gesture was an odd one. I certainly had never seen him use it before. I thought he feared spies and did not care for Octavia to know more. I believe now he only meant to stop Nero that he might consider how to respond. Finally, in the judicial tones he might have used in a civil trial, Antony said, ‘You offer an interesting theory, Nero, but, if I may ask – with all due respect – where is your proof for such a charge?’