by Peter Tonkin
‘Have you been there yourself?’ asked Artemidorus, intrigued.
‘No, Centurion. I have been fortunate. Very few of the women my master takes down there ever return.’
‘What does he do with them?’ wondered Fulvia. ‘Sell them on?’
‘To the brothels?’ added Antony. ‘I hear the place is full of…’
‘I think not, my Lord,’ Venus’ throaty purr interrupted Antony’s question. ‘The household slaves say that the body-slaves – especially the young women – do not survive the visits. What Basilus and my master do to them.’
There was a brief silence. Then Antony said, ‘Maybe you should go down and see what Trebonius and Basilus are up to, Septem. At the very least we might be able to tarnish the reputations of two such upright senators. Who apparently enjoy torturing female slaves to death. Not really consonant with old Roman dignitas, is it? Even if slaves count as property rather than as people. How soon could you get to Pompeii and back?’
‘On horseback,’ said Artemidorus. Careful not to let Antony’s unique approach to dignitas – which famously included chasing enemies through the Forum drunk out of his mind and armed with a sword – interfere with his own aplomb. ‘Three days each way. Maybe less. I usually reckon that a fast messenger can get right down to Brundisium inside a week. One of Caesar’s new seven-day weeks. And that’s twice the distance.’
‘It’s worth considering,’ decided Antony. ‘I’d like to know what the pair of them get up to. And, beyond that, whether Trebonius still plans on taking up the proconsulship of Asia that Caesar had planned for him. And, if so, where his loyalties are likely to lie…’
‘Well, in that case, Antony, send Septem to Pompeii,’ Fulvia said. ‘And do it at once! While we wait for Cicero’s ruling on Caesar’s last words. In the face of all this political prevarication it is something we can actually do. Without upsetting the Senate. Without offending Cicero. Without just waiting for the next disaster to come down on us…’
The conversation had reached this point when Antony’s major-domo Promus entered. ‘My Lord… my Lady… there is a messenger from Magister Equitum Lepidus. A legionary from the Seventh. He says he brings important news.’
Antony shook his head. Gave a dry, humourless chuckle. ‘Too late my dear,’ he said. ‘The next disaster has clearly arrived. Show him in, Promus. Oh. And take this pretty little thing – Venus is it? – back to the kitchen. We’ll have more to ask her later.’
*
Artemidorus did not recognise the legionary who strode into the atrium a few moments later and slammed self-importantly to attention. Took off his helmet and cradled it against his chain-mailed chest with his right arm. As though it was a baby he was intent on strangling. ‘General Antony! I bring a message from my general, Gaius Lepidus.’
‘Go on, boy. Spit it out. I wasn’t expecting a message from Mercury or Mars…’
‘General Lepidus has just received word from the legate commanding the legions in Dyrrachium…’
‘Dyrrachium?’ interrupted Fulvia. ‘What…’
‘The city at the western end of the Via Egnatia, as you will remember, my dear,’ said Antony easily. ‘On the coast of Illyria ad orientalem eastwards across the Mare Hadriaticum Adriatic Sea opposite Brundisium. Caesar fought a great battle against Pompey there, in which I myself played a not inconsiderable part. Though I didn’t feature much in the version of events he published soon after. That was four years ago. It is currently the staging post for no fewer than six legions, waiting to head for Parthia as soon as someone can mount Caesar’s proposed campaign. Yes, legionary. Please carry on with your message.’
‘My Lord, I have to report that the legate of the Fifth Legion, the Alaude, Larks, sent an urgent message to Gaius Lepidus as commander of the Seventh. The message contains the following information…’ The legionary drew in his breath, his face folded into a frown of intense concentration. ‘The legate wished Lepidus to know the following. That Caesar’s nephew and heir Gaius Octavius has been training with the legions at Dyrrachium and Apollonia just south of it. In preparation for assuming his post as Magister Equitum to Caesar himself when the Parthian campaign begins. The young man has made many friends among the officers of the legions in Dyrrachium and has established himself as a firm favourite with the men.’
‘Well done him!’ said Antony, amused. ‘Not bad for a sickly whelp who should probably have been drowned at birth. Yes, legionary? Is there more?’
‘Yes, General,’ answered the legionary, his frown of concentration deepening. ‘The legate wished Gaius Lepidus to know that on receipt of news that Caesar was dead and that he had named Gaius Octavius as his heir, Gaius Octavius and two of his closest associates, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and Quintus Salvidienus Rufus, who had been studying together with him, took ship. Their plan was to land somewhere near Brundisium. The legate’s messengers have travelled as swiftly as possible and it is unlikely that Octavius and his friends have made much progress other than coming ashore here in Italy. So far.’
‘So that has Lepidus all girlishly aquiver, does it? A sickly boy and two near-nonentities. Who may or may not be a week to ten days’ journey away from Rome?’ Antony shook his head in exasperation.
‘My Lord,’ said Fulvia quietly. Her use of Antony’s title and the tone in which she spoke focused the mind of every man there. ‘A boy perhaps, and a sickly one. But a boy who may call himself Caesar and stand as heir not only to his name but his fortune. A boy, moreover, who has already made himself popular with six entire legions. Legions, I should add, that you will need to recall and control should anything go wrong with our current plans. A boy who I believe you should be careful not to underestimate. And, if the gods are with him, he might well have come ashore three days ago. If he landed then and gets some decent horses, he could be here in little more than ten days’ time.’
There was the briefest of silences. Then Antony spoke. ‘Very well. You are right, as ever, my dear. Septem. Forget Trebonius and Basilus. You can catch up with them later. Put Cicero and the patricide question on one side for the moment. We’ll come back to it in due course. Leave for Brundisium as soon as you can manage it. Find young Octavius either there or on the road coming here. He can only use the Via Appia so it shouldn’t be too hard to hit upon him. You were briefly in Spain with Caesar, weren’t you? And saw the boy there?’
‘From a distance. But I would know him again.’
‘Excellent. There you are then. Find him. Bring him to me. With or without Quintus Rufus and Marcus Agrippa.’
vii
Artemidorus’ first port of call was the Seventh Legion’s cavalry unit on the Campus Martius. Ferrata and Hercules followed him. On the way there, he left his two companions and stuck his head through the gate in the wooden-walled practice area and called to Quintus, who was testing a range of nasty-looking bows there, with an assistant. Who was left to clear everything up as the triarius answered the centurion’s summons. Under Quintus’ eagle eye, the legionary in charge of the cavalry turmae squadron, selected the best horses he had available and put four of the swiftest and a brawny packhorse at the disposal of the spy and his little cohort. Together with the four most comfortable saddles the unit owned.
The need for four fast horses had arisen out of a brief conversation in the culina kitchen of Antony’s villa earlier.
‘Straight down the Via Appia,’ said Ferrata round a mouthful of boiled egg. ‘You’d better pray that the news of young Octavius’ arrival hasn’t leaked out too far yet. And that no one could ever guess Antony might send someone to greet him. The first few miles of the Appian Way are lined with tombs. Perfect for ambushes and murder attempts. You’d better watch your back, Septem.’
‘I’ve got a better idea, Ferrata. Why don’t you watch it for me?’
‘Stercus! Shit! Me and my big mouth. And who’s going to watch my back?’
‘Hercules here. If Lepidus will spare him for a while longer.’
The gigant
ic tutor looked up with a smile. ‘Better than being stuck in a classroom all day,’ he rumbled. ‘But I have a very large back myself. And unlike you, I’m a tutor not a soldier. And therefore possess little in the way of armaments and armour.’
‘Don’t worry. I have just the man to guard your back, even though it is pretty broad.’
‘But if you’re coming with us, Hercules, you’re going to need a bloody great horse,’ said Ferrata. ‘Several, in fact…’
The four men rode into the city through the Gate of Fontus. Their arms and armour were packed with their other necessaries on the packhorse or in saddlebags on their mounts. They were all in warm, unremarkable travelling clothes. Even so, Artemidorus paused at the gate, showing the guard there the pass Antony had supplied them with. A pass requiring anyone who saw it to render Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus of Legio VII and his companions any aid or succour they required. On pain of death. ‘That should sort out the matter or fresh horses too,’ said Ferrata, approvingly. ‘Even though the “on pain of death” bit may be pushing it. Even for the general.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ said Artemidorus. ‘What he says, he tends to do. Like they say in Egypt: So it has been written; so it shall be done.’ He did not point out that Antony had given him not only the written order but also a sizeable bag bulging with golden coins.
The four of them clattered through the Forum and along the Via Sacra, heading for the Porta Capena, where the centurion showed the pass once more. Then they pushed through the bustle of tourists, farmers, tradesmen and beggars. Walking their mounts out onto the roadway itself. The Via Appia and the Via Latina both originated here and the Via Latina was a more direct route to the centre of Italy, and might actually get them to a meeting point with Octavius more quickly. But not if he was coming to Rome via the Appian Way. And Antony’s orders had been quite clear. Once onto the Via Appia, therefore, they let the horses have their heads and galloped side by side along the ancient military road, apparently oblivious to the traffic that pulled, jumped or dived to one side or the other, getting out of their way. Glancing back, Artemidorus was relieved to see that the packhorse, on a long lead rein tied to Quintus’ saddle, was well able to keep up with them.
Their initial charge down the road was not arrogance or officiousness. Artemidorus had taken Ferrata’s warning to heart. It would do nobody any good if he set out on his mission with one of the nameless assassin’s brutal arrow bolts in his back. But either the news about Octavius had not leaked out yet or whoever sent the anonymous assassin had neither time nor inclination to unleash him once more. The four men rode south through the forest of tombs unmolested.
They had set out in the early afternoon, and so they made fewer than twenty military miles before the sun set. Making even a fine road such as the Appian Way too difficult and dangerous to follow at full gallop in the darkness. They found a hostelry in the town of Campoverde. It was no mere drinking place, or taberna tavern. It was sizeable. A proper hospitium stabulum with accommodation not only for the men but also for their horses. For it was one of the first or last on the busy road running north–south. One of the busiest roads in the empire, in fact. And therefore in all the world.
The four travellers handed their weary mounts to a pair of waiting slaves who stabled the horses and made sure they would be ready before dawn next day. And would bring the packhorse’s load up to the room Artemidorus was assigned. Then they took their saddlebags and went into the tavern itself, guided by the big brass lamp that hung above the door. Fashioned in the shape of a fascinus or winged phallus designed to ward off bad luck and black magic. To do this, they crossed the stable yard and then a tiny formal garden that would have been a tempting place to linger in the warmer months. Even in early spring, the fountain played gently and the flickering lamps made the statues seem to dance. The main entrance was lit by a series of lanterns which cast an enticing glow. Almost as enticing as the odour of roasting meat which wafted out into the darkness.
The interior of the hospitium would have flattered many Roman villas. The wide ostium doorway and broad vestibulum entrance hall opened into an atrium which was unusual only in that there was no opening in the roof or impluvium pool beneath. The large, square area was filled with tables, many of which had been pushed together to make one large board that was surrounded by neatly dressed, serious-looking men. The rest were filled with an assortment of people who were being served by what appeared to be a small army of pedisecae waitresses. The atmosphere was warm, settled and welcoming. The erotic pictures on the walls almost decorous. Certainly when compared with the ones in Antony’s bathhouse, Artemidorus thought. At one side of the room stood a bar piled with amphorae, jugs and barrels. At the other a low stage where a young woman was playing a lyre as three girls, diaphanously dressed as Graces, danced. Beyond the stage, a short passage led to a staircase. Which mounted, no doubt, to the rooms above. Behind the bar, a wide doorway opened into what could only be a culina, from which the mouth-watering odours were wafting, along with a good deal of smoke.
A tall man wearing a tunic and an apron, who was obviously the caupo innkeeper, came out from behind the bar and hurried forward. ‘Welcome, gentlemen. How may the hospitium of Campoverde be of service? Food? Wine? We offer only the best. And at very reasonable prices.’
‘Accommodation. A room for the night.’
‘Ah. Now there I must disappoint you, sir. All our rooms are taken.’
The spy reached into his saddlebag. Pulled out Antony’s pass and showed it to the man. Who read it slowly and laboriously. But read it nevertheless.
‘Well, Centurion, I don’t know…’
‘We’ll pay fair rates. But we need a room. One room will do for the four of us.’
‘Well, I suppose. I will discuss matters with my wife…’
‘Excellent. Do you have a bathhouse?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘We do. And the water is hot. We can also supply masseurs if you have been riding long and hard.’
Artemidorus didn’t bother to ask how the innkeeper knew they had been riding. Not only were they not local – and unlikely to have walked here. But they also stank of horses. Which was why he had asked about the bath. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘My companions will each discuss their individual needs but for me it is a bath, a drink, a meal and a bed for the night.’
‘You have arrived at a most opportune time,’ said the innkeeper, signalling to a woman who was clearly the cupona the landlady, his wife. ‘We are very busy but I’m sure we can accommodate you.’ He turned to his good lady, including her in the conversation. ‘My wife and I usually sleep in the front overlooking the stables, but we will move out and arrange for more beds to be put in there…’ She nodded agreement and turned away while he continued. ‘And we are so busy tonight because the collegium carnifexes guild of butchers is meeting here as it does at the end of every month.’ He gestured at the serious-looking men gathered round the largest tables. ‘And the meal, in consequence, is best beef. And particularly fine.’
viii
Artemidorus relaxed in the tepidarium, allowing the warm water to lap at his chin as he made his plans for the night and the morrow. Stopping at the hospitium was an indulgence. But the general was right. Gaius Octavius and his friends could only be coming along the Appian Way – unless he wanted to go adventuring across country. Or unless he decided to turn aside and make a visit or two on the way. The via after all came past Puetoli, outside Neapolis, where Cicero was staying. And, indeed, past Antium, should he wish to talk with Brutus and Cassius for any reason. If either of those possibilities proved true then there would be no chance of meeting the boy and his companions. But it seemed to the spy that Octavius would most likely hurry straight to Rome. He was by all accounts an intrepid youngster. He had smuggled himself across war-torn Hispania a couple of years back to join Caesar on campaign. But he was sickly. No way round that. Therefore he would likely be coming swiftly but sensibly up the Via Appia. And in that case, whethe
r they stopped here tonight – or further down the via tomorrow night, they would come across him eventually.
But what then?
It was all very well for General Antony to order that Octavius be brought to him, but what if the young man had other ideas? Would a squad of four soldiers be enough to change his mind? Artemidorus doubted it. There had to be a better way than simply turning up and shouting the general’s orders. As he had said to Puella, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
He had reached this far in his thoughts when Hercules’ massive shadow fell over him and the huge tutor stepped down into the water. Artemidorus hurriedly sat up. He knew enough about Archimedes’ theories to realise that if he didn’t move, then his face would be submerged the instant his huge companion sat down.
‘Ferrata found a whore yet?’ he asked as the waves washed over his shoulders.
‘Not yet,’ rumbled Hercules. ‘He’s too busy trying to eat an entire cow. Says he’s never tasted beef before. But he’s got his eye on the Three Graces.’
‘It’s only a matter of time. He has a nose for a willing girl that would put a hunting dog to shame. One of the dancers is certainly most likely. Or the girl with the lyre. Where’s Quintus?’
‘On guard outside the bathhouse door. He says there’s something about this place he doesn’t like.’
‘His senses are always battle-ready,’ said Artemidorus, frowning. ‘I’d better be a little more careful myself.’
‘At least we’re all in the same room,’ observed Hercules. ‘Though I’ll never fit on that little bed.’
‘The innkeeper’s bedroom,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘The noisy one overlooking the stables and the road. Where he can keep an eye on whatever’s going on.’
He heaved himself out of the water. Hobbled across the room like a septuagenarian. ‘I think I’ll see if the masseur can untie some of these knots in my legs,’ he said. ‘Full day on horseback tomorrow. And I’m not saddle-broken yet.’