Rivals of the Republic

by Annelise Freisenbruch

  By now, sweat was pouring down Tiberius’s face, streaking across the blood smears on his cheeks, and it was all he could do to keep his fighting arm raised. Every time Lucrio brought the edge of his own blade smashing down, the sword slipped a little further from Tiberius’s damp grasp. Finally, one last shattering blow sent it clattering to the ground. Lucrio stepped back.

  “Pick it up,” he ordered harshly.

  Tiberius rocked back slightly on his knees but did not attempt to retrieve his sword. Contemplating his conqueror, his eyes came to rest on the mark on Lucrio’s arm, no longer concealed by the leather guard which had since fallen away.

  “So,” he slurred. “You really did go a long way to find me.”

  “Pick it up!”

  Tiberius shook his head, a gummy leer splitting his face. “Who would have thought … from peasant brat to soldier. Slave to savior. The Roman Empire … truly a land of opportunity. Strange … how memory plays tricks on one though. Three deaths, was it you said?” He held up one hand and counted slowly with his fingers. “Funny. I can only remember the two … maybe I should hire Hortensius to defend me on the third count?”

  He swayed again, as though the gentle buffeting of the breeze swirling around them might topple him over at any moment. Then, with a last burst of effort, he swooped to grab his fallen weapon, lurched to his feet and charged. The straight sword in Lucrio’s hand passed cleanly through him. Tiberius paused, looking down at the point where Lucrio’s balled fist almost met his ribcage, a glinting bridge of metal in between. He blinked rapidly as though reviewing the novel sensation of a mortal wound and finding it strangely unexpected. Then he slid to the ground and lay there, his copper eyes open and fixed on the starlit sky.

  For a long minute, Lucrio stared at Tiberius’s body. A nightingale cried out softly, waking him from his reverie, and he dashed the sweat from his brow before bending to retrieve his sword. Wiping the blade against Tiberius’s cloak, he gazed down at him for a few moments more, a deep furrow in his brow. Then he began to make his way back to the road, his limp strongly in evidence once more, and retraced the few hundred paces back to where he had left Hortensia and Pompey. As he came closer he could see four horsemen thundering along the Appian Way from the direction of Rome, one of them considerably in advance of the other. Lucrio had no difficulty in recognizing this lead rider.

  “Stand where you are!” came the bellowed command. “Drop your sword!”

  “It’s me, domine.”

  Caepio’s muddied face loomed out of the darkness, his chestnut locks wildly disordered.

  “Lucrio! In the name of the gods, where is she? Where’s Hortensia?”

  Lucrio pointed with the sword he was still holding.

  “She is there, domine.”

  Caepio whipped around and saw Hortensia making her way slowly down the slope from the forest, one shoulder lent in support to a groggy-looking Pompey, whose thigh was now tightly bound with the cloth Tiberius had used to stifle her. She glanced up as they neared the road and a ripple of emotion passed across her face as she saw Lucrio standing there. Then her gaze traveled to Caepio.

  “Hortensia!”

  He ran toward her and she in turn abandoned her role as Pompey’s helpmate, flinging her arms around her husband’s neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Hortensius, Cato and Caecilius arrived just in time to witness the scene, their horses sending up a skittering cloud of pebbles as they were dragged to an abrupt halt. Hortensius was the first to dismount and he too hurried to embrace his daughter, shedding tears as he rested his chin on her dark head. Caecilius and Cato, both sweaty and exhausted from their breakneck ride, hesitated before going to Pompey’s aid but he waved away their offers of assistance with impatience before eventually consenting to sit down on the bank. An intense discussion broke out between the three men, eventually joined by Hortensius. Several times during the conversation, which was enlivened by Pompey’s animated gestures, Hortensius glanced back at Lucrio, a solitary figure on the road amongst the bodies of Tiberius’s men.

  Eventually, Hortensius detached himself from the group around Pompey and approached the Lusitanian.

  “Where is Tiberius Dolabella?”

  Lucrio tilted his head slightly in the direction of the road stretching out behind him.

  “By the tombs, domine.”

  Hortensius looked down at the blood-streaked sword and then up at Lucrio again.

  “Did you leave any of his men alive?”

  Lucrio shook his head. “None that I found here. He has more though, further up the road at the next milestone, and some more by the Porta Capena.”

  Hortensius nodded. “They have been apprehended. The others will be caught in due course.” His expression was hard to read but he said nothing more. Caecilius came over to address himself to Hortensius.

  “Can you believe it?” he asked heavily.

  “Yes. A terrible windbag, isn’t he? One nick from an arrow and he carries on as though he has been flattened by a siege machine.”

  Caecilius shook his head. “This is serious, Hortensius.”

  “I know it is, Caecilius. That’s my daughter over there with Dolabella’s fingermarks around her neck, in case you’d forgotten. If I’d had any idea what he was planning …”

  “Why would you have known?” asked Caecilius in puzzlement.

  Hortensius did not answer him. Instead he scanned the landscape, his blue eyes cold and alert. Very deliberately, he began to wind one fold of his traveling cloak around his slender fingers.

  “I think we need to pay someone a visit. Don’t you?”

  XXXV

  THE WALLS OF CRASSUS’S PRIVATE QUARTERS HAD BEEN DECORATED, AT the owner’s special commission, with a tapestry of ornithological paintings showing doves, nightingales, orioles and peacocks in various poses against a garden setting. It was an idea he had conceived after visiting the house of Licinius Lucullus, who was famous for entertaining guests in a dining room which also housed an aviary – thus one would dine on cooked birds whose live cousins fluttered above one’s head. But as Crassus lay there in the dark, the beady-eyed birds seemed suddenly sinister to him, as though augurs might read terrible prophecies into the way they were spreading their wings. He also knew that it would not help his cause if rumors should spread, via his more indiscreet household staff, that he had been wide awake and pacing about his house on the night that word arrived of his co-consul’s murder. So he pulled the crimson linens over his head and, when the sound of the heavy knocker adorning his front door echoed through the villa, forced himself to lie still for what seemed like an interminable wait. At last he heard approaching footsteps. The door opened and the troubled face of his steward intruded.

  “Domine. I am very sorry to disturb you. But there are some people here to see you …”

  Crassus had already started up from his bed and was hastily swathing himself in a thick cloak. “Tell them I shall be there in a moment,” he said. Then his face paled to the color of marble as Hortensius entered the room, his customary air of magnificent languor belied only by the razor-sharp glare of animosity in his blue eyes. He was accompanied by Hortensia, now wrapped in a thick cloak retrieved from her villa, her long hair falling about her shoulders. She shot a defiant look at Crassus, who instinctively pulled his robe closer about him, but neither she nor her father uttered a word, instead stepping aside to make room for a procession that began with Caepio, Cato and Caecilius, and concluded with Pompey, who strode in slowly and purposefully, clearly intent on his entrance having the maximum impact.

  For a long moment there was silence as the six faces contemplated the one. Cato and Caecilius’s expressions were masks of austere gravity and even Caepio looked angry for once, his usually smiling face lined with aggression. Under scrutiny, Crassus tried repeatedly to arrange his features into a surprised smile but the attempt kept going awry, presenting the appearance of a palsied twitch. When he found his voice though, it was steady and charming as alway
s.

  “Gentlemen. And … lady,” he made a gesture eloquent of gallant surprise in Hortensia’s direction. “I … this is quite a … a delegation. I trust … I can’t begin to imagine why … I hope you’re not here to tell me that the Parthians are advancing from the east.” He laughed depreciatingly, then his tone changed from friendly surprise to solicitude. “Pompey, my old friend, you don’t look well. Nicodemus, fetch a chair for General Pompey.”

  “Spare me the concern, old friend.”

  Crassus’s smile took on a rictus quality but he maintained his easy manner. “You military men, you’re like dogs who won’t let anyone else touch their wounds. Come now, you must sit down.”

  After a slight pause, Pompey lowered himself into the scrolled chair which the steward Nicodemus had placed against the opposite wall from Crassus’s sleeping-couch. He rested his elbows along the arms, stretching his leg out in front of him so that the fresh bandage around his thigh was just visible. Crassus glanced fleetingly at it but made no comment. Hortensius and the others remained standing, Hortensia shaking off the slight pressure on her arm from her father, who had indicated another chair to her. They waited while Nicodemus lit the candle-lamp beside Crassus’s bed before bowing himself hesitantly out of the room.

  “So.” It was Crassus who once more broke the silence. “Not that I wish to be an uncivil host, but what can I do for you all? I confess I am rather anxious. It must be an extraordinary situation to bring you all here at such an … unconventional visiting hour.”

  Pompey put the tips of his fingers together and peered unblinkingly over the top of them. “We’re here to canvass your opinion on a judicial matter, Crassus. As my co-consul of course.”

  “Very well,” said Crassus with the air of one amenably indulging a child. “Though I can’t imagine what I could offer in the way of judicial advice that would be superior to that on offer from present company.” He made a deferential little bow in the direction of Hortensius, who was now leaning back against the wall, arms folded. “Incidentally Hortensius I was sorry to hear of the outcome of the trial today, not that I suppose it came as much of a surprise to you in the end –” He was cut off by Pompey.

  “Never mind that now, Crassus, Hortensius doesn’t want your sympathy. What, in your view, should the punishment be for disloyalty?”

  Crassus glanced speculatively at Cato and Caecilius. He coughed slightly, as though both amused and puzzled by the question. “Disloyalty … that sounds more like a philosophical discussion than a judicial one. I think you might have come to the wrong house.”

  Pompey cut in. The intonation of his voice was even and relentless.

  “Then let me be more specific still, using terms that even you can understand, Crassus. What should the punishment be for treachery?”

  “I suppose it depends on the kind of treachery you’re talking about, old friend,” replied Crassus humorously. “I mean, if this is about you and that dancing-girl I saw you with at your party then I suppose you’d have to ask Mucia.”

  “I’m talking about treachery to Rome!”

  Crassus licked his lips. “That would be very serious indeed … Look Pompey, I don’t know quite what you’re getting at and I’m really awfully tired so if you could get to the –”

  “You lying scum.”

  The fierce savagery with which he spoke made everyone in the room flinch. Hortensia took her eyes off Crassus for a moment to glance at Pompey, a hint of misgiving in her face. Crassus recovered quickly, allowing a small, incredulous cough to escape him before opening his mouth to speak, but Pompey interrupted, his florid cheeks inflamed with righteous passion.

  “You thought you could get rid of me?” he demanded. “Send a pack of hired criminals to eliminate Rome’s greatest general? Leave me for dead at the side of a road like some common sea merchant? Forge my will and try to fool the world into thinking that I would ever entrust you with power over the Republic? This is how you repay me for sharing power with you?”

  “Really, Pompey … I don’t know what madness has seized you though I’d thank you to explain it to me. And might I add that the gift of power is not yours to share. We were both elected on equal merit need I remind you, by the people of Rome.” Crassus was so agitated in his rebuttal that he didn’t notice Lucrio sidling quietly into the room.

  “Ah yes, the people of Rome,” retorted Pompey. “Tell me, what did you reckon a fair price for their loyalty? I can just picture the scene – you standing on the rostrum, shedding tears for me out of one eye, giving the wink with the other that it was going to be party time in Rome from now on for everyone. Just how long a period of mourning were you planning to give me before you started hosting games and handing out free bread?”

  Crassus shook his head. “Madness,” he repeated firmly. “You barge into my house in the middle of the night, dragging with you some of our senatorial colleagues whom you then subject to these deluded ramblings. Conspiracies, forged wills … By Jupiter who has poured this poison into your ear? I thought you knew better than to believe the rumors which fly round this city.”

  “And what of Dolabella?” pressed Pompey. “When did he agree to the scheme?”

  Crassus’s breath caught in his throat for a second but his reaction was carefully studied. “What on earth does Publius Dolabella –”

  “You know full well I’m not talking about that little whelp,” snarled Pompey. “I give you credit for alighting on the one man in Rome with the audacity to plan such a coup, though believe me Tiberius would have fleeced you for everything you had to keep the secret. But maybe that was a price you were willing to pay – anything to get one up on me.”

  “Caecilius, Cato, you are both reasonable men, you must realize that these are the ramblings of –”

  “Don’t appeal to them! They know everything. They saw the bodies of the men who tried to ambush me, not to mention the hole in my leg damn it. Your friend Tiberius is dead too by the way. But his followers – those who were charged with closing the gate out of the city, those who sent the signal that I was on my way down the road – they’re still very much alive. How much would you be prepared to bet that they can’t be persuaded to talk?”

  “So you’ve got proof that Tiberius was plotting against you!” blustered Crassus. “That’s all very well, Pompey, but tell me this. Where’s your proof against me?”

  There was a brief, expectant pause. Something rustled in the corner. Crassus suddenly noticed Lucrio standing there in the shadows.

  “Who is this?” he demanded. Then he saw what Lucrio was proffering to Pompey and it was as if all the air were suddenly sucked out of his lungs. Pompey took the crimson-sealed scroll, and ran the pad of his thumb delicately and deliberately over the topmost disc of wax, which was embossed with a griffin.

  “Why don’t you tell me something instead. What’s my will doing in your house, Crassus?” he asked softly.

  He received no reply. Crassus stared at the will and shook his head. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. Pompey’s smile was pure malice now.

  “No? Then I’ll ask you one more time. What should the punishment be for treachery? Shall we ask our friends here?” Pompey turned to face Caecilius, Cato, Hortensius and Caepio, gently slapping the will against the palm of his other hand, like an axeman preparing to strike his first blow. “Gentlemen. Let’s imagine that this is a court of law and you are sitting as jury. You’ve seen the evidence. You’ve heard the witness’s testimony. What’s your verdict?”

  Cato answered almost immediately. “I think I can speak for my colleagues,” he declared in tones of stern authority. “There can be only one punishment for such treachery.”

  “I agree with my esteemed friend Cato.” The announcement came from Hortensius, still propped casually against the wall. “There can be only one punishment.”

  Hortensia glanced up at her father. A worried frown creased her brow and deepened when her husband became the third to speak. “I agree,” said Ca
epio resolutely.

  “Caecilius, what say you?” asked Pompey.

  Caecilius hesitated. “This is not a court of law as I understand it. But I agree that the most heinous of crimes, which indeed this is, would surely be thought to merit the gravest of punishments.”

  Pompey turned back to Crassus, whose face was now white with sweat.

  “Good. Well since we’re all agreed, I for one have always been in favor of swift justice.”

  There was a rasp of metal as Pompey extracted from his belt the bloodstained short sword previously wielded by Lucrio. Caecilius started forward in alarm and Caepio moved to shield Hortensia’s view. But neither Hortensius nor Cato made any move to check Pompey as he advanced on Crassus, who had stumbled backwards on to his sleeping couch.

  “Don’t!”

  The tip of the short sword buried itself harmlessly in the crimson coverlet as Pompey’s aim went awry. Crassus rolled off the couch and cowered on the floor. His co-consul paused before attempting to strike again, the tip of his blade hovering above Crassus’s belly. He glanced over at Hortensia, who had ducked out of Caepio’s protective embrace and was now standing in the middle of the room, an imploring look on her face.