by Peter Tonkin
*
A little later, Hercules, Quintus and Artemidorus were seated together at one of the smaller tables. Each man had a goblet in front of him with a bowl beside it. There was a jug of surprisingly good local wine and a jug of water beside that. ‘Drawn from our own well, sirs. Clean and pure…’ The bowls were full of fragrant beef stew, which was such a rarity that the spy was hard put to remember when he had last eaten it. The meat had been roasted over the open fire in the kitchen and was served in a sauce made of pepper, lovage, celery seed, cumin, oregano, dried onion, raisins, honey, vinegar, wine, broth, and oil. It was served with crusty bread fresh from the oven.
The three graces and their lyricist had gone. They were replaced by a comedian in a battered comic mask who seemed to be very popular with the butchers. Though that was as much to do with what they had drunk as with what he was saying.
‘No. Listen… There’s this man, just back from a trip abroad. He goes to a fortune-teller, see? But he doesn’t realise the fortune-teller is completely incompetent. So he asks about his family, how they all are… and the fortune-teller replies: “Everyone is fine, especially your father.” Well, the man gets all upset at that and says, “What are you talking about? My father has been dead for ten years!” Quick as a flash, the fortune-teller replies: “So you think you know who your father actually is, do you?”’
‘We have to think this through,’ said Artemidorus, raising his voice above the howls of laughter, refusing to be distracted by the way the joke’s punchline made him think of Brutus and his questionable paternity. ‘Who is most likely to get the boy to agree to come and see Antony? Four soldiers? Four messengers? Four ambassadors bringing gifts and tokens of goodwill?’
‘I’d go with the last one. The men bringing gifts and good wishes,’ said Hercules and Quintus nodded his agreement.
‘I think so too,’ said the spy. ‘So the next couple of questions are these – how do we disguise ourselves as friendly emissaries. And where do we get goodwill gifts rich enough to impress young Octavius and his friends?’
‘Gifts that might reasonably have come from Antony,’ added Quintus.
The three fell into silent thought as they cleared their bowls and mopped up the sauce with the bread.
‘There was this bloke who really hated his wife, see? Then one day she drops dead. And there he is at his wife’s tomb paying his final respects when this stranger comes up to him and asks, “Who is it that’s resting at peace, friend?” And this man replies. “Me! I’m finally at peace now that the bitch is dead.”’
Artemidorus jerked as though he had been slapped. Looked around, frowning. Met Quintus’ eyes and looked guiltily away. ‘What?’ asked Hercules.
‘Nothing,’ answered the spy shortly.
But the comedian’s words echoed in his mind and memory. ‘Canicula mortus est.’ The bitch is dead. The words he had used to Quintus a few days after the Ides of Mars. Telling him Cyanea, as he believed, was dead indeed. For he had thrown her, naked, to the mob.
ix
Artemidorus woke a heartbeat before Quintus sat up. They were side by side in the bed belonging to the innkeeper and his wife. Ferrata was snoring in the low truckle bed assigned to him and Hercules was less restfully on a mat on the floor. The cloud cover had vanished. The light of a low full moon streamed in bars through the latticed shutter of the little window opening. Which let in sound as well as light.
‘What?’ whispered the triarius.
‘Hush!’
The noise that had disturbed them came again. The jingle of tack. The soft percussion of an unshod hoof beat. Someone was leading horses in or out of the stable across the yard beyond the pretty decorative garden. Artemidorus rolled out of bed and crossed to the window. Thanking the gods for the deft ministrations of the masseur. His legs worked almost as well as usual. By pressing his face against the laths he could see down into the road-side of the hospitum stabulum. Two black shapes – scarcely more than shadows bundled in travelling cloaks – were leading horses into the stables. A lamp burned welcomingly inside, so that parts of them seemed cast in silver and parts of them cast in gold. His interest piqued, the spy caught up his own travelling cloak and wrapped it around himself. Then, barefooted and silent, he ran out of the room and down the stairs.
Heat and smoke lingered in the air of the big atrium but the guests had long since returned home or gone to bed. The caupo and caupona were both likely asleep in whatever chamber they had taken for themselves. Only the slaves in the stable seemed still to be up and about – no doubt guarding the horses. And entertaining some midnight visitors.
Artemidorus tiptoed into the black throat of the vestibulum, feeling his way forward in the dark towards the broad, welcoming ostium. Explored the door with his fingers until he discovered the great bolt and eased it back. Well greased, it slid silently. And the door swung equally quietly towards him. Cold night air washed over his bare legs and feet. Night sounds of whispering breeze and tinkling water flowed in with the chill. The lamp in the flying phallus above him was still burning. That, the moonlight and the brightness in the stable were sufficient to show him that the garden and the yard beyond it were empty. He ran forward into the darkest shadow available, just beside the open stable door.
‘…No, I’m sorry, masters. This is not a staging post. These horses are not for sale or hire. They belong to four guests…’
‘Money is no object. We need to get on. We have important business.’ A hard voice. A soldier’s voice. One with authority. An equitum knight or patrician. A man used to getting his own way. Angered by the slave’s refusal to co-operate. Keeping himself under control with quite an effort.
‘I can’t help that, sir. These horses are spoken for. And by men I would rather not cross.’
‘And yet you would cross me. Gaius Valerius Flaccus. And my employer Lucius Cornelius Balbus. One of the richest and most powerful men in Rome… Secretary to Caesar himself…’
‘And the men who own these horses are soldiers too, sir. Another centurion. From the Seventh. And according to my master they are on a mission for Co-consul Antony himself. With a warrant over his own seal and sign.’
‘Antony!’ Another voice, lighter in tone. Breathless with shock. ‘Are you sure?’
‘If you doubt me, sir, then go and ask the master.’
There was an abrupt hissing sound. The eavesdropping centurion recognised it at once. Someone had just pulled a gladius from its sheath.
He stepped forward into the light. ‘Good evening, nobili gentlemen.’
Four pairs of eyes regarded him. Two slaves, trembling on the knife-edge between worry and outright fear. A square, hard-looking soldier in centurion’s armour – except for the helmet. Bareheaded except for the hood on his cloak. Legion badges covered. Gladius in hand. And, beside him, not, apparently, in armour, a younger patrician-looking companion. Behind them, two exhausted-looking horses. Necks white with salt sweat. Legs shifting uncomfortably, dragging worn hooves in the straw. The soldier was first to move, his naked gladius catching the light as he raised it.
There was a silent stirring at Artemidorus’ shoulder. The grip of his own gladius was pressed into his hand. Quintus stood beside him, fully armed.
The stranger’s sword point wavered. Fell.
‘There are no beds here,’ said Artemidorus.
‘And no spare horses either, as you can see.’ Quintus added.
‘And the beef’s all gone as well,’ Ferrata’s rough voice struck in as he arrived at Quintus’ side. ‘Not one sweet mouthful left.’
‘So, I think perhaps Lucius Cornelius Balbus would prefer that you went on your way. I know Co-consul and General Mark Antony would. As I move at his order and speak with his voice.’
There was a moment more of silent confrontation. Interrupted by the arrival of Hercules and the sounds of stirring in the hospitium behind him. Then the stranger sheathed his gladius and led his limping horse out into the yard, heading back onto the moonli
t road. His aristocratic companion followed. His patrician gaze sweeping over them, making no distinction between the soldiers and the slaves.
x
‘Time to move on,’ said Artemidorus as the hoof beats faded away down the Appian Way. ‘Now we have the moonlight we can follow the road. Saddle our horses and load up the pack animal please.’
‘We don’t want those two to get too far ahead of us,’ said Ferrata as the slaves hurried to obey.
‘No,’ agreed Artemidorus, turning and beginning to retrace his steps towards the gathering bustle of the hospitium. ‘If they work for Balbus then they’re on the same mission we are. And I want to get to Octavius first if we can.’
‘Our horses are rested and theirs are tired,’ rumbled Hercules. ‘Is there anywhere else that they can get mounts that are better or fresher?’
‘There are staging posts every fifteen miles,’ answered Quintus, his voice echoing a little as they crossed the vestibulum into the brightness of the atrium. ‘But I don’t know whether there’ll be horseflesh at all of them – or what it will be like if there is. No farms this near Rome; only huge latifundia estates. No horses there, either, I’d say. Not anywhere near the via at any rate. So it’ll be as Fortuna dictates in whatever towns and villages they pass.’
‘Well, as long as they’re ahead of us, they’ll get first pick of whatever they find,’ said Ferrata as he mounted the first stair.
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Especially as they’ll have limitless funds if Balbus is backing them. So we’d better hurry.’
They were ready in a surprisingly short time. Tab settled, basic breakfast in a bag and a wineskin which Ferrata carried. Horses saddled and pack animal loaded. It was still well before moonset, let alone dawn, as they led their mounts out onto the road. Artemidorus relieved Quintus of the packhorse’s lead rein. ‘As far as I can remember there is no other urbs city or oppidum town between here and Caserta or maybe Aquinum,’ he said. ‘Just one or two vici villages. And Caserta’s almost a part of the urbs of Neapolis. Two days or so from here.’
‘That’s what I remember too.’ Quintus nodded.
‘Right. Then what I want you to do is this. Take this money and go to the market in Campoverde. Hercules will guard your back. Get yourselves breakfast there and then buy whatever you think would make an acceptable gift for young Octavius. I trust your judgement. And the market is a good one by all accounts. Then catch us up again. Ferrata and I won’t go at full speed until you rejoin us. But we should still be able to get closer to Balbus’ messengers. Their horses are blown and they’ll have to rest them soon unless they plan on riding them to death.’
Quintus nodded once and turned his horse into the side road leading to the town. Hercules followed him downhill, and the westering moon kept the path between the gathering trees clear enough to follow. And to be fair, thought Artemidorus, the main town was not too far away, crouching behind its battered walls.
Then he turned his horse’s head towards the long, straight, moon-bright line of the Appian Way and eased it into a trot. Ferrata fell in at his side and the packhorse trotted happily behind.
They ate breakfast in the saddle at an easy canter as the gathering dawn lit the eastern sky away above the mountains on their left and the moon at last set in the sea away beyond Antium. Overlooked, Artemidorus judged, by the wide balcony of Cassius’ villa where he and Brutus were staying. The two soldiers were soon joined by the early traffic that usually filled the main road between Rome and the south. But it was never heavy enough to slow them – or varied enough to hide the two men on exhausted horses they were following. Even as dawn turned to day and the sun itself rose majestically over the eastern peaks.
‘Something’s just occurred to me,’ said Ferrata suddenly, after a long, thoughtful silence.
‘What?’
‘Well, if news of the boy’s arrival has got as far as Balbus, then it might well have got as far as whoever sent that assassin after you.’
‘Yes. The same thought had occurred to me,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘But they’d need to have a really good soothsayer or maybe an encantatrix enchantress to know for certain Antony would send me to greet him.’
‘Anyone who could send that assassin with that murderous bow would probably be able to get a striga witch.’
‘Then they wouldn’t need assassins would they? A striga could strike me down with a curse! In fact I’m surprised I’m still upright if what you told me is true and that striga Cyanea is still alive.’
‘Now there’s an ill-omened thought if ever I heard one!’ Ferrata clutched at the fascina good-luck charms hanging from his belt. Most of which were phalluses of one type or another. Smaller than the lamp above the hospitium’s doorway. All erect. With or without wings and testicles attached. Pulled his horse away from the spy’s as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit him.
Artemidorus drew in his breath to follow up his observation with a question. For Ferrata had been among the murderous mob to whose tender mercies he had left his treacherous lover. And yet Ferrata said she had managed to walk away from them. Having killed the first two men who released her from the whipping post to which she had been tied. And injured two others who had tried to stop her. And then had set fire to Minucius Basilus’ villa on her way out. All this while stark naked and apparently unarmed. The spy knew well enough that she had been trained as well as he. Had served as a gladiatrix just as he had featured briefly in the arena as gladiator Scorpius. She had known all of Quintus’ weapons and how to use them. But to have done what Ferrata described almost made him believe she did in fact have magical powers.
But before he could ask his question, Ferrata called, ‘Look!’
xi
Because he had pulled his horse over to the side of the road, pretending to fear a thunderbolt, Ferrata had given himself an excellent view downhill into a valley that sloped into a broad green field. And here there lay a carriage on its side. At the bottom of a track of torn and muddied grass. It was a light carriage, not quite a chariot. A wooden box large enough to seat two or perhaps four with a driver at the front. All on four sturdy wheels with a central shaft and enough tack to secure two horses to it. But the cart’s horses were gone. And in their place, two exhausted, sweat-white mounts listlessly champed the grass nearby. And someone, presumably the driver, was sprawled on the ground beside the wreck. Face down. Unmoving.
The two men reined to a halt. Artemidorus looked around but the via was empty at the moment. He slid off his horse and ran down the slope to the vehicle. Everything was still and deathly quiet. He slowed, regretting the fact that his gladius and pugio were in the packhorse’s bags. Then pressed on, thinking he was more likely to need a surgeon than a sword. For the grass around the driver was stained with russet darkness. And his head lay at a strange angle.
The shaft was still attached to the front axle so, even though the carriage was on its side, he had a foothold that allowed him to climb up and look down through the door. A young couple lay on the lower side, which was resting on the grass. A young woman and a handsome youth with their arms wrapped around each other. And, like their driver, they weren’t going to get any older. The young woman was lying half on top of the young man. And, again like the driver, various parts of their bodies lay at odd angles, suggesting that their carriage had rolled over and over on its way down here. As, in fact, the state of the grass on the slope behind him attested. But the wounds in their chests made the ex-gladiator certain they had been stabbed before their carriage was rolled off the road. Even though he knew it was hopeless, he heaved himself onto the side of the carriage that lay uppermost now and lowered himself through the door as though it was a trapdoor. Both bodies were cold. And a swift but thorough search revealed that they had been stripped of anything that might identify them. Except for their clothing, which was of good quality and looked expensive. The same was true of the roughly dressed slave who had been driving, whose corpse he checked after scrambling back out of the
carriage. Not that slaves carried much in the way of identification. Unless they had been collared.
It didn’t need much intuition for him to see that the two desperate messengers working for Balbus had taken the carriage horses in exchange for their own. Leaving the exhausted animals as they would only slow them down. Even unladen and led on a long rein like the packhorse. And when the youngsters and their driver had objected, the ever-ready gladius had come out again. As swiftly as it had in the stable. And there had been no one there to restrain him this time.
‘I don’t need to come down there do I, Septem?’ Ferrata interrupted Artemidorus’ thoughts.
‘No. Three dead. Stabbed. And the horses tell us whose gladius is responsible.’
‘That nothus bastard,’ swore the legionary.
‘Looks like they wouldn’t sell their horses,’ said Artemidorus turning and running back up the slope.
‘No idea who they were or where from?’
‘Nothing to identify them. We really ought to find and warn the local aedile magistrate. But we can’t afford the time to get involved.’ Artemidorus stopped by the packhorse. Opened the big bag and pulled out his gladius. Then, after a moment, his pugio as well. Strapped them to his belt.
‘Pass mine too,’ asked Ferrata. The spy obliged. The legionary hooked them to the only sections of his belt not covered with lucky phalluses.
Artemidorus took a short run and vaulted into his saddle just as he had seen Caesar do. Kicked his horse’s sides and trotted forward. The packhorse moved accommodatingly behind.
‘I might get involved if we find those two,’ growled Ferrata. ‘For just as long as it takes me to cut their guts out.’ He eased his gladius in its scabbard and folded his face into a murderous frown.
*
He was still frowning at midday when the sound of galloping hoof beats rose over the general bustle of the busy road behind them and warned that they were being followed. The combination of the threat from the assassin and the murder of the young couple in the carriage was enough to make both men stop and turn, hands on sword-hilts. But the men galloping towards them were Hercules and Quintus.