by Peter Tonkin
Fulvia spoke suddenly. ‘Those who would deny the possibility say there is little more than fifteen years between them. Caesar and Brutus. Father and son. Could Caesar have fathered a child at the age of fifteen? On a girl four years his elder? Unlikely, they say! But impossible? I think not! We all know Caesar’s reputation with women. That he started his philandering almost as soon as he was in his toga virilis. Which he assumed unusually early as someone of extraordinary mental and physical maturity. Sleeping around before his fifteenth year in fact. When Servilia Caepionis was well into childbearing age. Married at the time to Brutus the Elder, who was already old when the marriage knot was tied. Even though he served as Urban Tribune a couple of years after Servilia fell pregnant. And he fell dead soon after that. But who never managed to impregnate her except, apparently, on this one unique occasion. By coincidence, perhaps, in the very year that Caesar really began his career as the seducer of half of the noble women in Rome! And, as everyone knows, Brutus junior’s mother Servilia was Caesar’s longest serving mistress. Rumoured to be his first. She may deny that Caesar impregnated her – but why should we believe her rather than him? How would she even know? For certain? Sleeping with old husband and young lover? But he would! Know his firstborn – even if he had to keep the knowledge secret? Of course he would!’
Artemidorus also leaned forward then, capturing the sweating lawyer’s unsteady gaze. Sweeping back an unruly lock of hair from above his left eye. Revealing as he did so a long thin scar. ‘And, although I hesitate to disagree with you, Brutus, Cassius and the rest, the moment in which one of your closest associates is just about to plunge a dagger into your groin. Into your groin, mark you. Having watched his friends stab twenty-two other daggers into your head, face, arms, shoulders and chest, seems a strange one to call forth a… What did Lord Antony say you might call it?… A term of affection.’
Cicero closed his eyes, his mind racing. The implications of this were disturbing in the extreme. It did not matter that Caesar had adopted his sister’s grandson Octavian as his heir in his will. Leaving the boy his name and his fortune. Or even that he had nominated Decimus Brutus Albinus his heir in the second degree as well as Pro-praetor and Governor of Gallia Cisalpinus. There was almost no chance the full formal pardon would stand if the Senate agreed that Caesar’s dying words admitted Marcus Junius Brutus, although unacknowledged in the will, was nevertheless really Caesar’s son.
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Because according to Roman Law, of which Cicero was the greatest living exponent, there was only one crime worse than killing another citizen. Worse even than treason against the state. And that was killing your father. For the family was the heart of Roman society. And the Pater Familias stood at the head of the family as the dictator, Pater Patriae, stood at the head of the Republic. If Caesar’s dying words were actually a claim of fatherhood, then the Senate’s decision that Brutus was not guilty of Caesar’s murder must be set aside. Independently of the quibble about tyrannicide. For if he was guilty of patricide, he had gone beyond the bounds of forgiveness. He had slaughtered not only his Dictator but also his Pater. If he was guilty of patricide then he must be declared hostis enemy of the state. Hunted by every citizen of the empire until he was caught. Then he must be brought back to Rome. And summarily executed.
Cicero knew the details of the penalty for patricide better than anyone. Which, he suddenly realised, must be one of the major reasons why the spy and centurion had hunted him down and brought him here. As he should have seen at once. Only his dazed state following his terrified flight and near death at the hands of the mob in the minor forum could explain why he had failed to make the link earlier.
For his most famous early case, the one that established his reputation, was the defence of Sextus Roscius of Ameriain, accused of that very crime. Which was why Brutus himself, in deadly secret, during the hours after the murder, had brought his horrible misgivings to his friend and lawyer. For Brutus, too, believed that Caesar’s dying words claimed him as his son. Which in itself would be the most terrible revenge the dying man could possibly take. Now the jurist looked up at the stony faces opposite. The countenance of the cruel spy and soldier who had thrown his woman to the mob claimed his attention. The advocate knew his true adversary then. There was no longer any doubt about the rumours. Centurion Artemidorus had discovered someone willing to act as witness to what had been said during the moments it had taken Caesar to die. Who knew exactly what Caesar’s dying words had been and to whom they had been spoken. And he saw how those three words of Greek could become the leading conspirator’s Achilles’ heel. If Brutus was found guilty of patricide, that guilt would tarnish all the others by association. Opening them dangerously to the hostility not only of the People, but also the Senate. The deeply split and wavering Senate who had stood by Caesar’s murderers so far. Largely at the prompting of Cicero himself. As well as laying Brutus open to the horrific sentence called Poena Cullei.
In many ways Poena Cullei seemed to be an almost laughable punishment. In no way comparable to ejection from the Tarpeian Rock. Or even crucifixion. Though no Roman citizen could be crucified. And ejection would result only in a few heartbeats of terrified downward flight before you were smashed to pieces on the roadway below. If you were wise enough to dive rather than to jump. The former ensured death. The latter risked an agonising end as, crippled but still living, you were impaled on a great brass hook and dragged to the Tiber to drown. Worse even than this, Poena Cullei involved the ritual of stripping the condemned man naked while a leather sack big enough to hold him was prepared. Then, into the sack should be put a dog, a cat, a monkey, a fighting cock and a viper. When they were in place, the naked man joined them. The sack was sewn shut. Then it was thrown into the Tiber. Each of the animals had a symbolic significance long lost in time.
But Cicero knew all too well the nightmares of the terrified Sextus Roscius. Which, now, Marcus Junius Brutus might well be sharing. Dogs and cats have teeth and claws. Cockerels have beaks and spurs. The sort of monkeys selected could be anything from chimpanzees to baboons. Large, strong animals, also well supplied with teeth. All in all, given the situation likely to arise in a slowly sinking sack with a man, naked and defenceless, among these terrified animals tearing at each other, the viper offered the best alternative. If it could be made to strike some vital part. Before the other drowning occupants tore the dying man to pieces. With their teeth, claws, beaks and spurs.
‘Sextus Roscius most feared having his face clawed off before he drowned,’ mused Cicero. ‘I myself wondered whether having one’s genitals rent asunder or one’s intestines ripped out might be worse. But my thoughts were apparently too earthly. Sextus was terrified that his anima spirit would wander, faceless, blind and anonymous through the afterlife. Helpless and unrecognised for all eternity.’
The silence returned. The rain eased so that individual drops fell into the impluvium as though the gods themselves were counting the passage of time, thought Artemidorus grimly. So that the mere mortals in the atrium could all appreciate the length of eternity. And a man like Brutus’ whole existence seemed to have been dictated not only by his standing in society but also his importance as the latest representative of his famous family. A living representative of the standing of his forefathers in the history of the city through the centuries. For such a man, the thought of wandering blind, faceless and unknown through the rest of time must hold horrors simply unimaginable to lesser men of no family. Who did not expect their names to echo through the atria of history. ‘So,’ he demanded. Breaking into the silence. ‘If a case could be made that Caesar did, in fact, accuse Brutus of patricide with his dying breath, what would be the next step?’
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‘The case would need to be presented to the Senate,’ Cicero answered slowly, his mind clearly racing. ‘Who would need to be convinced by the testimony of witnesses. Who in turn would need to be unimpeachable in such a terrible matter. Then, if convinced there was a case to answer, they would reca
ll him in the name of the People of Rome to face the charge in person. Declare him hostis outlaw if he refused. If such a charge could be proven, not even the Senate could set it aside.
‘And could such a case be made?’ probed Antony.
‘That is not a question I could answer immediately,’ answered Cicero guardedly. ‘It would turn around the evidence of witnesses, for instance. A prosecution in the proper forms…’ His voice tailed off. As he realised with a lift of his spirits that nearly all of the men who had actually heard Caesar’s last words were among the murderers themselves. And they had fled the city, almost to a man. Putting themselves beyond even Antony’s reach.
‘But you could answer it?’ probed Fulvia impatiently. ‘Eventually. If we can supply a witness or two…’
‘It would depend on the standing and probity of the witnesses, of course. If a senator would stand up, for instance, his evidence would carry much more weight than that of, say, a slave…’ he said. ‘But in any case, I would have to consult some other jurists, both in person and through their writings. That could take time and may even require travel. To Athens, for instance. Or even, I suppose, to Alexandria… The library… What of it is left after Caesar set fire to the Museum of Ptolemy four years ago.’
‘But you could do it?’ demanded Antony.
‘Perhaps… Perhaps…’
‘Very well,’ said Antony. ‘Get started as soon as you can, then. My men will see you home…’
‘Ah,’ said the elderly jurist, his eyes brightening. ‘If I might avail myself of your latrine before I go. And, perhaps if Tiro…’
‘Of course,’ said Antony.
Fulvia clapped her hands and a slave hurried in. Cicero rose and hobbled after him on stiff legs with his secretary solicitously at his side.
As soon as they left the atrium, the atmosphere changed. Antony and his brothers stood, shoulder to shoulder. ‘So,’ said the general, including his wife, his brothers, the consuls-elect and his secret agents in his plotting. ‘We have a well-laid trap. For Brutus at least. And when he goes down he’ll likely pull Cassius down with him. We need to discuss this further. Enobarbus, Septem.’ He focused his most powerful stare on his spymaster and his spy. ‘Rebuild your team,’ he commanded. ‘Recruit anyone you need to support the testimony of the slave you’ve questioned so far. Plan to go after anyone who could be made to stand up beside him and swear to Caesar’s dying words. The more powerful and influential the better. But even the fact that Cicero is looking into the matter will start rumours at the very least! Excellent!’
‘Yes, General,’ said Enobarbus. ‘But Septem here is also working on establishing exactly what was done as well as what was said. Precisely what was done. By whom. In what order.’
‘To give us a list of the men we want to go hunting for first,’ added Artemidorus.
‘First after those spuria bastards Trebonius and Decimus Albinus. The one fooled me and the other fooled Caesar. That makes it personal. For both of us!’
‘But don’t let your focus on those two distract you from any others chance might throw your way…’ added Fulvia, icily.
Like Minucius Basilus, thought Artemidorus. Basilus, whose perverted games and enjoyment of humiliation and agony had gone much of the way to making his lover Cyanea break down and betray them all.
‘Look for more witnesses and don’t make any secret of it either,’ said Antony. ‘Find out the truth of the matter. In as much detail as you can.’ He paused. Rubbed his hands. ‘That was an excellent notion of yours, Septem. Patricide! It would never have occurred to me! Even if it comes to nothing in the Senate it will terrify Brutus. Shock all his friends and associates. And stir the pot in a way that murderous crew won’t like at all.
‘And, talking of stirring the pot,’ he continued. ‘Aulus Hirtius, I think it’s time for you to go to Decimus Albinus and make one or two things very clear to him. One – Caesar may have put him down as Proconsul for Cisalpine Gaul for the legislative year that begins with your appointment as Co-consul in Januarius. But two – Caesar didn’t know what a treacherous little blatta cockroach Albinus was when he did it. Therefore, three – if Albinus thinks I’m going to let him take over the entire north of Italy with three full legions under his command, he had better think again, no matter what Caesar proposed and the Senate has decided! And, come to that, he’d better get out of Rome as quickly as he can or I’ll send people after him who will simply chop their way through his gladiators until they can take his traitorous head and spike it in the Forum for everyone to see!’
The group had split up by the time Cicero returned. Tiro a step or two behind him. The tablets full of his dangerous legal wisdom clutched safely to his breast.
‘Tribune,’ boomed Antony, in his cheerfully ebullient offspring-of-Hercules persona. ‘Would you and the centurion kindly escort our revered guest home. I have slaves with torches ready and waiting to accompany his litter of course, but I would feel happier if you who brought him here took him back again. Make sure that no harm comes to him…’
The two soldiers stooped, retrieved their helmets and stood, armour creaking. Making enough noise to cover the final word of their general’s order.
‘…yet…’
II
i
Artemidorus sprang awake as the morning tubae trumpets sounded across the encampment of the Seventh Legion. For the first time in what seemed like weeks he found himself in the centurions’ tent which was his usual home. When he was not on secret assignment. On the camp bed which was his accustomed resting place. As a soldier. As opposed to as a spy. For much of the previous month he had been working undercover, bivouacked in Antony’s villa. Required to attend the general at any hour of the day or night. Ready to come and go on secret and increasingly dangerous assignments at a moment’s notice. Before, during and after Caesar’s murder. Which it had been his mission to prevent at any cost. For which he still felt almost personally responsible. As, just like Caesar, trusting the treacherous Decimus Albinus as his closest friend, the spy had trusted his lover Cyanea. Who had betrayed them all in the end.
Last night, however, he had returned to camp after escorting Cicero’s litter home. Marching through the benighted city allowed him to satisfy himself that the VIIth’s patrols at least were keeping things quiet. Even if the aediles’ watchmen preferred to linger round their watchfires.
The centurions’ substantial leather tent was pitched in the grounds of the Temple of Aesculapius right at the southern end of Tiber Island. A carefully negotiated financial arrangement with the keepers of the temple allowed not only living and cooking within the grounds but also access to the roomy temple itself when the weather was unusually inclement. An agreement that suited all involved. Negotiated in the final analysis by Antistius, the physician. A leading member of the order of Aesculapius. Who was also a member of Artemidorus’ contubernium unit of spies. And the man who had performed an autopsy on Caesar. The first recorded in history as far as the secret agent knew.
One of the centurions’ servants bustled in with a bowl of steaming water, a polished bronze mirror and a phial of scented oil. Bringing the light of a grey dawn behind him with the chill wind through the tent’s wide flap. Although these were far better quarters than the simple legionaries’, it was agreed among the centurions that they would remain in eight-man unit contubernium tents. Though there were six centurions assigned to a cohort. Seven in the First Cohort’s case as Septem had a replacement to stand in for him when he was working undercover. And, just like a legionary’s eight-man contubernium, they had two servants per tent. Tribunes and legates, of course, had quarters in city villas. Often owned by themselves or their families. Fully staffed with the usual range of slaves, therefore. Such senior officers were important men politically as well as militarily. Men who were usually climbing the Cursus Honorum ladder to supreme power. Their absence from the camps, however, was the main reason why the centurions – and their council – wielded so much influence in the
legions.
The dawn light was beginning to fill the tent which Artemidorus shared with the First Cohort’s other centurions, including Oppius, his replacement. All of whom were still asleep, having spent the night patrolling Rome’s restless streets. Artemidorus, however, felt full of decisive energy. He flung his cloak back with a flourish. The heavy mud-coloured woollen garment, which had acted as a blanket during the cold night, billowed up off the truckle bed. Allowing the spy to step out onto the carpet which was the tent’s floor. He pulled his sleeping tunic up over his head and dropped it on the cloak. Naked, he strode across the flooring, pausing at the foot of his bed to pull his dagger from its sheath on his uniform belt. Which, with his red sagum uniform cloak was folded neatly at the bed-foot.
The pugio was not a standard-issue dagger such as the majority of the legionaries wore. This was the dagger whose almost magical blade had dispatched Gaius Amiatus and the nameless leader of the mob pursuing Cicero. And he had not bought it. He had stolen it. In fact, this was the second time it had fallen into the spy’s possession. The first time, he had purloined it from the household shrine of Marcus Junius Brutus on the night before Caesar was murdered. While he was also liberating Puella, a slave who had overheard several crucial meetings between Brutus and the men plotting to murder Caesar. In the hope that her evidence, combined with everything else his cadre of spies had learned, would convince Caesar to spend the Ides safely at home. On that occasion, he had left it wedged in the neck of Brutus’ ostiarius doorkeeper who had tried to recapture the escaping slave girl.
Then it had found him again. Half a day later. Wedged in the groin of Caesar’s corpse. Left there by Brutus as he fled in horror from the Curia of Pompey’s Theatre. To hide with the other Libertores in the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. Protected by the treacherous Decimus Albinus’ gladiators while news of their terrible deed began to speed round Rome. And, at the earliest opportunity the spy now knew, to discuss Caesar’s dying words to him with Brutus’ friend and lawyer Cicero.