Tiberius smiled.
“Naturally, he didn’t know then what Crassus and I were planning of course, if that’s any consolation to you. Crassus was convinced Hortensius would come around once Pompey was dead and that we could buy him off if we had to. But if you ask me, I expect only death would have would have silenced your father in the end. Thanks to you, that won’t now be necessary … but where was I? Ah, my own motivation!”
His hand was still moving in her hair, but his attention seemed to wander from her a little toward an unspecified point in the distance, his copper eyes open and unblinking. Then he fixed his sphinx-like attentions on her once more, bending his head close and speaking softly.
“Do you have any thoughts on why the people love Pompey more than our friend Crassus? Do you imagine it’s because he understands them, because he has so much greater an affection for them than Crassus does?” The fingers of his other hand traced an aimless pattern on her breastbone. “Nonsense. It’s not even down to all his great victories on the field of battle, remarkable though they are. It’s because he has a very special talent – a talent for making sure that when he walks into a room, people’s eyes are on him, and no one else. Our Pompey would sooner taste defeat than share a triumph with the soldiers who sweat in his service.” Tiberius’s eyes gleamed with fervor as he put his face closer to Hortensia’s.
“Do you know whose idea it was to coin that name, ‘Magnus’ for him? Not ours, not the men who served under him, who followed his orders unquestioningly. Oh he may have been forced to share a little of the limelight from time to time – with Metellus Pius for example, after the victory over Sertorius – but will you wonder at it if Metellus Pius turns a blind eye to Pompey’s untimely death when Pompey would happily see Metellus Pius eaten by rabid wolves if it meant he could have ridden in that triumphal procession by himself?” A fleck of spittle landed on Hortensia’s temple. She could feel his breath on her cheek now, his voice very low in her ear. “We’re all just a pot for him to piss in, my dear. And Rome laps it up like a dog.”
For a long minute, the only sound was of Hortensia’s lungs expanding and contracting, and the rustle of pine branches against the canopy. Then Tiberius propped himself up on one elbow again, and his wandering finger traced a pattern over her rigid face. The viperish intensity of his expression had lessened and his voice was soft and casual once more.
“You despise Crassus for his weakness, his money, his cowardice. Don’t think I blame you my dear. But you shouldn’t fool yourself into thinking that in doing everything you’ve done to protect Pompey, you’ve been helping the better man. He’s not worthy of your patronage.” Tiberius’s fingers speculatively probed the cloth covering her mouth. “Which makes it a great pity that your name will now, I suspect, forever be coupled with his.”
He answered her fearful, questioning look.
“Pompey rides to Rome today. Those much-vaunted games of his begin tomorrow and even as we speak he’s on his way from his house at Albano, ready to milk every last drop of adulation he can suck out of that adoring crowd. But quite soon, my friends at the Porta Capena are going to close the road out of the city and put out the report that Cilician pirates have been seen lying in wait for unwary travelers. Not long after that, my men stationed at the next milestone will light a beacon for our benefit, alerting us that General Pompey is passing, before diverting any travelers who may be in his wake. You see how the trap will be set? The news will reach Rome that their beloved consul and favorite son has been ambushed and killed by pirates. I imagine that once the Senate has agreed to put Crassus in charge, his first measure will be to announce a mission to rid Rome’s highways of the Cilician menace once and for all. That should help his popularity, shouldn’t it?”
He leaned close to her again, this time letting his hand wander downwards to her neck and collarbone before easing it underneath the shoulder of her white gown, grazing her pale flesh with the tips of his sinewy fingers.
“As for you, my dear …” he whispered, “it very much pains me to report that you also will be a victim of this terrible tragedy. An unfortunate coincidence of timing you might think, for you and Pompey to be passing just at the key moment. Although the rumor that Pompey’s body was actually discovered inside your carriage and that both of you were in a state of some undress –” Hortensia shivered as he exposed her shoulder and pressed his lips to it “– will cause quite a storm, one that won’t be calmed by the protestations of your husband and father, however eloquent they should both prove to be. A blemish on a beloved general’s reputation, though more on account of the embarrassing manner of his demise – his sword sheathed rather than bared, as it were – but an indelible stain on yours, and one which I’m afraid those familiar with both your courtroom exploits, your habit of frequenting tabernas with your slaves and your intimate conversation with Pompey at his recent party won’t find too difficult to believe.”
He winced as her knees came up and connected painfully with his shin but was quick enough to snatch her bound hands and prevent her from clawing at his face. She continued to struggle, her heels scrabbling at the soft upholstery of the carriage, and at one point managed to catch his jaw with one of her flailing elbows, which seemed to amuse rather than anger him. But when the keening issuing from her gagged mouth threatened to escalate into a full-bellied scream which would have been heard by any passer-by on the nearby road, he put his hand to her throat and secured her silence with one threatening squeeze.
“Not yet, my dear. There will be time for this sort of thing later. But I like an audience and I wouldn’t want you to miss the opening act. Afterwards you can scream all you like. Believe me, I’m not going to stop you.”
LUCRIO POURED MORE water over the mare’s withers, watching a dark satin glaze spread out over her chestnut coat. With a flat strigil, he smoothed away the excess moisture as the animal’s ears twitched contentedly. It wasn’t one of his duties, caring for Caepio’s horses, but one that he often took on voluntarily, enjoying the opportunity to escape the cool, close confines of the villa and feel for a moment as though he were back home on his family’s farm in Lusitania. It was unusual for him to allow himself to remember that far back. The memories of his childhood were tightly sealed in a compartment of his mind which he rarely opened. But today he dwelled heavily on them. He had kept his promise to Hortensia. Tonight, at last, he had determined, he would finally exact his revenge on Dolabella.
His violent imaginings were interrupted by hurried footsteps approaching along the street. Lucrio glanced up to see Eucherius’s lively face appear above the stable door.
“You had better come,” came the breathless announcement. “There are two women here, looking for the master.”
“What sort of women?” asked Lucrio, checking that the mare had enough drinking water before letting himself out of the stall.
“Strange women. They came in a strange carriage. They say they are priestesses. From the temple of Vesta. I think they might be telling the truth though I have never seen such women before. One of them is young, the other one is older and looked very stern. She told me that it was very important they speak to the master or the mistress,” added Eucherius.
Lucrio quickened his pace and swiftly made up the distance between the Palatine stables and the villa. On stepping over the threshold, he was confronted by the sight of Fabia and Cornelia, pale, ghostly figures in their spotless white robes. Recognition flickered on Fabia’s face.
“It’s you,” she said eagerly. “I remember you, from outside the theater. You have your mistress’s confidence?”
Lucrio nodded, his dark gaze fixed intently on her. But it was Cornelia who spoke next, her low voice rippling impressively around the atrium.
“Is your mistress here?” she demanded.
“No. She has gone with her mother to the festival at Lake Nemi.”
“Oh no, we are too late!” The cry came from Fabia. “You must go after them, please. They know.” She took a
step toward Lucrio, an urgent message in her eyes. “It was Felix, the slave-boy. He saw me taking the will from the sanctuary, he was helping them all the time, the people who took the will, the people who killed Helena. Do you understand? They know.”
Lucrio had already thrust the strigil in his hand at Eucherius. He raced through the house to the slave-quarters at the back of the kitchen. Overturning the thin straw mattress on which he slept, he prised up one of the wooden floorboards underneath and retrieved a dirty canvas bundle which he shook open to reveal an eclectic assortment of objects – a flat red pebble, a small cloth pouch that jangled when it dropped on to the hard floor, a short length of crimson thread, two swords – one straight, one short – and a close-fitting leather helmet. There was also a frayed slingshot made of thin, flexible flax and a handful of small muddied objects the size of acorns. Rapidly gathering up the weapons and the helmet and tying them in the canvas, he went back to the atrium and was on the verge of issuing curt instructions to Eucherius when he caught sight of Lutatia, just arrived and evidently stunned at the sight of the two Vestals.
“Lucrio? What’s going on, I just came to …”
“Why are you not on the way to Nemi?” he demanded.
She blinked at his unusual lack of deference.
“I … I received a note summoning me to Antemnae, it said that my uncle Gaius was ill, but when I arrived he was in perfect health. So I came back, and Rixus said that Hortensia had gone to Nemi by herself. But it’s too dangerous along the Appian Way. I came here to ask you if you would go after her. It’s so strange that –”
“Find the master,” commanded Lucrio. “Take the priestesses with you to the forum if need be, they will be able to explain. Then tell the master – tell both of them – to follow me along the Appian Way.”
“Why, what is it, is Hortensia in trouble?” asked Lutatia in bewilderment. “Please, you have to tell me!” But Lucrio was already gone.
Within seconds, the chestnut mare was clattering at breakneck speed down the southeastern slope of the Palatine toward the Porta Capena. The two swords were wrapped in canvas concealed under Lucrio’s arm, the helmet stowed in a saddlebag hung from the pommel. Urged on by her rider, the mare wove her way through heavy foot-traffic, her haunches cannoning off angry pedestrians, until they were suddenly caught up in a heavy swell of vehicles filling the road leading to the city exit. Wagon drivers jostled and swore at each other and up ahead Lucrio could see the source of their discontent. A line of men was advancing up the street, waving their arms and directing travelers back into the city. Behind them, the heavy wooden gates which marked the start of the Appian Way were being slowly swung shut. Digging his heels into the mare’s sides, Lucrio fought his way through the crowd, ignoring the objections of those being funneled in the opposite direction. He rode up to one of the men, a portly individual whose fat fleshy palms were bared to the crowd as he fanned them back.
“I have to get through.”
“Sorry, gate’s closed,” came the indifferent reply.
“Let me pass you Roman pig,” hissed Lucrio through clenched teeth. But the man standing in his path simply grinned.
“Now now, temper temper. Pirates up ahead. Try the next gate, Latin Way’s open – hey!”
He was forced to take evasive action as the mare charged straight through him and into the open space behind the line of guards. Oblivious to the shouts behind him, Lucrio bent low over the mare’s flying mane, his green eyes fixed on the ever-narrowing gap between the slowly moving gates. For a moment, it looked as though there was going to be a sickening collision, but the sight of the determined little mare bearing down on them had transfixed the men pushing the cumbersome gates shut and they slackened their efforts for a moment. Lucrio’s right knee missed the side of the archway by the finest of margins and with a whisk of the mare’s flaxen tail, they were out in the open, the famous old road stretching long and straight into the distance.
XXXIII
HORTENSIA LAY WITH HER HEAD TURNED TOWARD THE FRONT OPENING of the carriage, through which she could just glimpse the watery light of the dipping sun through the green tops of the slender white trees all around them. Streaks of violet were beginning to stain the sky. The festivities in Nemi would already be underway. Was there a chance that Caecilius and Claudia would notice her absence and send someone back to look for her? Even if they didn’t assume she and Lutatia had simply been delayed, Nemi was ten milestones distant. It would take several hours for anyone to track back this far.
She flexed her jaw. The gag around her mouth was cutting into her cheeks and her throat ached where Tiberius had wrapped his hand around it. She had drawn her bound wrists up to her chin and her knees to her waist, trying to create any kind of barrier between herself and her captor. She kept her gaze resolutely away from him, but for now, he seemed content to lean against the cushions on the other side of the carriage, his copper eyes alert to her every breath and blink. He seemed to know that he had stifled the fight in her, his manner that of a beast keeping lazy watch on his cornered prey.
A shadow fell across her face and she flinched before realizing it was Tiberius’s shaven-headed henchman, addressing his master through the opening in the canopy.
“The beacon is alight, domine. Pompey is on his way.”
“You know what to do,” came Tiberius’s indifferent reply.
The man nodded and disappeared.
“Not long now, my dear,” crooned Tiberius. “I hope you’re sharpening your claws for me.”
Hortensia squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head helplessly, fighting to clear her mind, trying to find a reason why Tiberius’s plan would fail, why the Senate would never agree to hand over the reins of power to Crassus, why they wouldn’t be deceived by the false will which must have been re-sealed and restored to the archive by now. She couldn’t bear to think what must have happened to Fabia. Precisely who had betrayed them she didn’t know, but Hortensia was certain that it was her own hubris that had placed the young Vestal in such terrible danger. If she had listened to Caepio, to Lucrio even, who had told her to be wary of what she might discover, then Pompey might still be riding along this road to his death, but at least Fabia would be alive. And she herself would not be counting down what was left of her own life, though that depended on whatever depravities Tiberius was concocting. A wave of terror and despair swept over her. The thought of what Caepio would feel was too much to bear. He would see through the slanders, of that she had no fear, but to his grief would be added the burden of hearing such unjust accusations bandied about freely by others. As for her father, how would he live with the aftermath? She saw all too clearly how her recklessness had strengthened Crassus and Tiberius’s hand – Petro’s false proof of courtroom corruption was no longer needed to shame her father. Who would accept the word of the man whose own daughter had been discovered in so compromising a position at the scene of Pompey’s death?
Hortensia’s eyes flickered open. In the distance, she could hear the stuttering clatter of horse’s hooves on the smooth paving stones of the famous road. By the pattern of the noise, she could tell that there were several riders – perhaps four or five – but she had no doubt that Tiberius would have brought enough men to deal with Pompey’s entourage. As the hoofbeats became louder, she wondered desperately if there was anything she could do to give the approaching horsemen warning but the sharp point of a knife placed at her temple scotched any such thoughts.
“Quiet as a mouse now,” whispered Tiberius in her ear.
With her breathing quick and shallow, Hortensia strained her ears. The noise of the riders approaching grew louder and louder until they seemed so close that she wondered if in fact they had the wrong man and they were going to be allowed to pass by. Then there was a sudden shout from the direction of the road. A series of whistling noises like the ones she had heard just before Glaucus toppled from the carriage, and the sound of a horse screaming. More shouts, the clashing and scraping of blades
, a man’s bellowing voice and then, close by, the pounding of hooves and the cracking of branches as a loose horse charged past. She heard the scuff of sprinting footsteps – someone was running along the road – followed by a grunt and then a long period of silence. Then another whistling noise, this time clear and lower-pitched, repeated three times. The dagger was removed from Hortensia’s temple.
“Looks like the show’s underway. Come along my dear – you’ll want a ringside seat.”
The trees in Hortensia’s sightline began to move. Slowly, she felt the vehicle trundling down the shallow slope once more and coming to an abrupt halt. The fastenings securing the green awning were loosened and the side panel suddenly flung up, giving her a clearly framed view of the road and its surrounding landscape. Struggling on to her left elbow, she looked around. There was a body on the verge just in front of her and two more sprawled across the highway itself, dark liquid from the deep slashes in their purple livery filling the gaps between the paving slabs. Some distance further up the Appian Way, Hortensia could just see the outline of another prostrate figure, lying face down. Pompey was sitting half-upright in the middle of the road, clutching his right thigh from which the slim shaft of an arrow was protruding, its buried head surrounded by a dark circle of blood. He was cursing and barking at the grey-liveried men standing guard over him, “Bloody mercenaries, haven’t got a bloody clue who you’re dealing with, I’ll have the bloody lot of you torn to pieces by dogs!”
But as soon as he saw Tiberius jumping down from Hortensia’s carriage, his ruddy face seemed to turn to stone. As Tiberius strolled forwards and came to stand over him, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, Pompey monitored his progress warily.
“What in the name of the gods do you think you’re playing at, Tiberius?”
Rivals of the Republic Page 24