by Peter Tonkin
Caesar wheeled his horse impatiently and headed back towards the leather-roofed tent that was his own current home. It stood at the heart of a simple encampment – the sort Marius’ legionary Mules erected each night after a long day’s march through enemy territory. They passed through a gate in the stockade, where guards slammed to attention, alert in spite of the unseasonal cold and wet. Rode along the straight via to the centre of the camp where the commander’s quarters were pitched. A guard of legionaries crashed to attention, then sprang forward to help them dismount and take their horses. Caesar Octavius strode into his tent. Artemidorus followed, reminded with unsettling forcefulness of Divus Julius’ battle-camp fortresses in war-torn Gaul. They entered the tent side by side, surrendering their sodden cloaks to the legionaries who were acting as servants. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ asked Caesar hospitably. Artemidorus knew the young man well enough now to answer simply, ‘Water, please, Caesar.’
‘I will join you,’ said Caesar, who hardly ever touched wine. A legionary hurried to an amphora and returned with two goblets of fresh spring water. And a look of almost worshipful awe. ‘Thank you Marcus,’ said Caesar. Again reminding the spy forcefully of Divus Julius. Who seemed to know the name of every man following his banners and eagles.
The furnishings in the tent were Spartan to say the least of it. Artemidorus approved: he was Spartan by birth himself. But there were two chairs and the men sat, facing each other over a table big enough to hold a battle plan. As though they were equals. Certainly, thought the spy, it was a mark of Caesar’s absolute trust that the pair of them were utterly alone. For the word on the street was that there were assassins about, tasked with killing many more men than Artemidorus himself. Caesar chief amongst them. But here he was, casually unguarded. Even Agrippa and Rufus were out about some other business. Subverting Antony’s legions, like as not…
‘Cicero is on the run,’ observed Caesar, coming directly to the point – as though, once more, he was privy to Antony’s most secret thoughts and concerns.
‘He plans to go to Athens,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘He says he will simply study there.’ He sipped the icy water. It was very good indeed.
‘Not what Antony wants?’
‘No, Caesar. Antony asked Cicero to rule on a matter of law some months ago. And he has not done so. The general would prefer Cicero did not leave Italy until he has done so…’
‘A point of law?’ Caesar’s eyebrows arched interrogatively.
The secret agent leaned forward, measuring his words carefully. ‘Are you aware of your father’s dying words, Caesar? What they were and to whom they were spoken?’
iii
‘That explains a lot,’ nodded Caesar sometime later. ‘Not least why Cicero has paused at Elea in his flight to Athens in order to talk with Brutus and Cassius. Who are also, I understand, on the point of leaving Italy. Clearly something needed to be settled between them before they parted – perhaps never to meet again in this life.’
‘Brutus and Cassius are also en route for Athens,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘And then to Asia. To take up their posts as corn commissioners. Until they become respectively governors of Crete and Sicily.’
‘And Antony believes they will settle for this, does he? In spite of the fact that I understand Brutus has sent his freedman Herostratus into Macedonia to try and subvert the legions there. As though a couple of corn commissioners need six whole legions to back them up. Even if the Getae are growing restless. Which I doubt.’
‘But, as you know, Caesar, Brutus and Cassius have no money to pay for troops. If Cicero rules as Antony hopes in the matter of Divus Julius’ last words, Brutus will be hostis proscribed, outlawed, in any case. Cassius’ reputation tarnished by association. Both of them far from Rome and helpless. And the Macedonian legions are on their way back in any case. Five of them, at any rate.’
‘Leaving one legion as a fig leaf to confront the warlike Getae. Commanded, when he gets there, by the redoubtable Dolabella. If Gaius Trebonius, as Governor of Syria, allows him passage and a measure of support on his way eastwards…’ Caesar smiled cynically and Artemidorus thought how bad the boy’s teeth were. ‘But Antony’s plan to hamstring Brutus and Cassius may bear fruit – who knows? So, let us leave things as they stand for the moment with the murderous brothers-in-law. They are certainly relatively helpless until they get their hands on some money, as you observe. What does Antony propose to do about Cicero and this troublesome point of law in the meantime?’
‘There has already been much unrest in Rome,’ said the spy, choosing his words with even more care than usual. ‘The citizens feel that Cicero is deserting them. Having established himself as such an important figure in the aftermath of the murder. And now, instead of standing up for the so-called Libertores, he is running like a rabbit. It is shameful. Cowardly. A desertion that will go down in history beside the perfidy of Paris stealing another man’s wife to start the war which destroyed Troy. And the stupidity of Crassus losing seven legions to the Parthians. Seven legions, his son and his head…’
Caesar gave a bark of laughter. ‘So these are the rumours you have started spreading are they? If that gossip doesn’t bring him back, then nothing will. Cicero is as anxious about his reputation as Brutus is! They are both bound by their concern for their place in history as tightly as a criminal is bound by his chains. I think I will return to Rome and see what happens next for myself.’ He glanced around the tent and its Spartan furnishings. ‘Though I mustn’t linger there too long. In case I get a taste for the high life. Which I can no longer afford…’
*
The pair of them rode back side by side along the Appian Way with a modest escort led by Agrippa and Rufus. They rode fast and were approaching the Porta Capena in the Servian wall late the next day under a clearing sky with a kindly late-summer southerly to welcome them. Only to find the entrance to the city blocked by a huge crowd of wildly cheering citizens. Just before they joined the outskirts of this mob, Caesar pulled his right rein gently and guided his horse into the space between two tombs shaded by a tall pine tree. ‘Marcus Vipsanius,’ he said to Agrippa, ‘go and find out what’s going on.’
‘I’ll go too,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Probably best on foot…’ Caesar nodded and the two men dismounted. It took hardly any time for them to join the cheering multitude. And no time at all after that to discover what was happening. ‘Cicero!’ the ecstatic mob started chanting. ‘Marcus Tullius, welcome home! Cicero has returned to us…’
Rather than steal the returning lawyer’s thunder, Caesar waited until he could enter the city quietly and anonymously. Artemidorus waited with him. But soon after they had ridden through the gate, their ways parted. Caesar, having sold all of the property belonging to himself and his immediate family, was proposing to stay at the house owned by Agrippa’s brother. Whose friendship Octavius had won by pleading with Divus Julius to spare him – even though he had sided against Caesar and fought with Cato’s defeated army in the civil war.
Artemidorus went straight to Antony.
As soon as he entered the via leading to Pompey’s villa where Antony was currently living and the Temple of Tellus beyond it where the Praetorian Cohorts were encamped, he was struck by the contrast with Caesar’s quarters. And the accuracy of his words. This huge villa might well represent a weakness in his notoriously self-indulgent general. The very frontage of the villa, with its costly representations of the prows of pirate ships destroyed in Pompey’s naval campaigns, looked so lavish. He rode forward almost in a trance, his mind racing. Hardly noticing the soldiers lining the street and guarding the massive door. He dismounted, still in a dream, and handed the reins of his horse over. Only when he reached the door itself did he pause.
‘Password?’ demanded a familiar voice. His eyes focused on the speaker. It was Ferrata. Who had been transferred with the contubernium of spies into the Praetorians at the same time as the centurion and the Tribune Enobarbus. Though the network was still wor
king all together, undercover in various places, at Enobarbus’ command – answering Antony’s requirements. Facilitating – and informing – his plans. But was Ferrata working undercover here? And if so, why?
‘Let me in, imbecile,’ he said.
The big ex-legionary of the also disbanded VIth snapped to attention. ‘That’ll do, Septem,’ he said with a gap-toothed grin. Then he lowered his voice, ‘Though if anyone asks, it’s Hercules. Again.’
Ferrata turned and thundered on the door. Which swung open just wide enough to admit the spy.
Artemidorus walked towards the atrium, frowning. The whole area was bustling. But not with soldiers as in Caesar Octavius’ camp. With partygoers. Men and women in varying states of inebriation and undress stood and staggered all around the space. Slaves were dashing to and fro, filling plates with sweetmeats and savouries, filling goblets to overflowing. And not with icy spring water. At the entrance to the lively chamber, the soldier paused, looking round. Confused by the contrast with his recent experiences. He could see neither Antony or Fulvia – host and hostess.
As the secret agent hesitated, bewildered by the comparative waste of time, energy and money that the party represented, Antony’s mistress Volumnia Cytheris whirled past. Dressed as Cleopatra. But Cleopatra in one of Antony’s dreams: wearing only a gown of Egyptian cotton so sheer as to be transparent. Which was secured by a snake made of woven gold. That circled her ribs rather than her waist. Immediately beneath the pale fullness of her naked breasts. Their nipples gilded. Reminding him disorientatingly of Cyanea even so. Cyanea in a disturbingly similar costume.
Then, over to one side he saw Enobarbus. He pushed his way ruthlessly through the cheery throng until he reached his commander’s side. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Cicero’s back,’ said Enobarbus shortly. ‘The general is celebrating the success of his clever stratagem. He proposes to party tonight and confront the old man at the Senate meeting tomorrow. Get him to rule in public right there and then about the Divine Julius’ dying words and the patricide matter.’
‘Does he? Why now?’
‘Because he’s run out of patience. Because the old man tried to run for it and might actually manage to escape next time. Not be fooled by the rumours we started that the People of Rome thought him a coward and a runaway – like Price Paris of Troy. An abject failure like Crassus. He might even get beyond Antony’s immediate grasp next time. Because now that the Italian legions are settled, Antony wants the legal matter settled as well so he can get out and about. He can’t stay here forever, not if he wants to boot Decimus Albinus out of Cisalpine Gaul any time soon. And to cap it all, the Macedonian legions are due to start arriving in Brundisium any day now.’
iv
‘Sick!’ snarled Antony just after dawn next day. ‘I’m sick. And I’m still here!’
He had proved the truth of the latter statement by vomiting in the Senate House a few minutes earlier. In front of the entire Senate. The Senate – apart from those in exile or in hiding. And except for the one senator still in Rome whom he needed to be present for his plan to reach fruition.
Artemidorus, standing outside the still-gaping Senate House door, wondered whether Cicero’s sickness was the real thing – or a clever ploy on the lawyer’s part. And, if it was genuine, whether it really was comparable to Antony’s self-inflicted nausea. About which there could be no question. The general had been far too drunk to hear his report yesterday afternoon – and had been either paralytic or deeply asleep ever since. He hadn’t even bathed or shaved in the interim.
Now he was in the worst of all possible conditions. In the grip of a crippling hangover – and yet still so drunk that he was well beyond self-control or reason. He paced the rostrum like a wild beast in the Circus Maximus. ‘It’s a trick!’ he continued, his voice a throaty, phlegm-thickened roar. ‘The old pēdĕre fart is trying to outsmart me! I want him here! And I want him here now! If I have to, I’ll get a builder and go myself to rip off his front door. The whole front of his fornicates villa!’ But then he suddenly seemed to have a better idea. He swung round to address Enobarbus who, as tribune, was permitted inside the Senate. ‘Tribune!’ he growled. ‘Get as many of my Praetorians as it takes. Bring Marcus Tullius Cicero here. And if he continues to refuse my invitations, then burn the old nothus bastard out!’
There was a hiss of horror throughout the entire Senate. Co-consul Publius Dolabella, preparing to take up the governorship of Macedonia and by no means worried even about the fate of his ex-father-in-law, simply shrugged. Made a pantomime of washing his hands – the legal gesture demonstrating that he gave up any responsibility in the matter.
Enobarbus turned on his heel and marched out of the Senate House door. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered Artemidorus. ‘Bring Ferrata and some men we can trust.’
‘Trust to burn Cicero out?’ asked Artemidorus, his voice betraying his shock.
‘Men we can trust not to burn the old fool out!’ snapped Enobarbus. ‘But men who will put on a good show of trying to do so, if it comes to it.’
As the squad Artemidorus assembled for Enobarbus marched across the Forum in the direction of Cicero’s house on the lower slopes of the Palatine, Ferrata fell in at the spy’s shoulder. ‘Have you seen Quintus recently, Septem?’
‘Not since we got back from our mission to Antium and Pompeii, while the legions were being disbanded and the Praetorian Cohorts set up, why?’
‘He wants to see you. He has a surprise. After this is over – whatever it is that this is – I’ll take you to him.’
‘What’s this about?’ The spy abruptly realised that Quintus might well be in trouble. He had lived for the VIIth and they had never discussed what he might do if the legion was disbanded. Artemidorus suddenly realised that the old man might be down there in the mud of Castilium, trying to get some sort of shelter erected. Some sort of subsistence crop planted. But then he thought, No… Ferrata wouldn’t be proposing a three-day journey in the midst of all this. Wherever the old Triarius actually was, he must be somewhere in the city. Perhaps with Spurinna, like Puella, Hercules, Venus and Adonis… But then he realised with a start that he really had no idea where any of his little contubernium of spies actually were at all.
He quick-marched up to Enobarbus’ shoulder. ‘Tribune…’ he began.
‘Right,’ snapped the tribune. ‘Here we are. Let’s see what’s going on shall we?’ And he hammered on Cicero’s door with the pommel of his gladius.
After a few moments, Cicero’s secretary Tiro answered. One glance was enough. His face flooded with recognition and suspicion. ‘The master is unwell,’ he snapped. ‘You cannot drag him to Antony, whether he wants to go or not, this time. He is in his bed and too feverish to leave it.’
‘Right,’ said Ferrata unhelpfully. ‘Then we have the general’s permission to burn him out. The general’s direct order to do so in fact. After he decided against getting a builder and smashing his way in personally. And he was speaking as consul into the bargain…’
‘That will do, Legionary!’ snapped Enobarbus. ‘Tiro. Would your master be well enough to see Septem and myself? For a moment or two only. So we may assess the situation…’
‘Well, Tribune, I’m not sure…’
‘The general and consul did issue the order as reported by the legionary, Tiro,’ warned Artemidorus. ‘But, remember, we are the men who rescued Marcus Tullius from a murderous mob. He is only still alive because of us. We don’t want him dead any more than you do. We only wish to make sure we can honestly tell General Antony that the senator is so unwell that setting fire to the house would simply roast him to death – not frighten him into obedience.’
‘Very well,’ said Tiro. ‘But only you two. And only for a moment. The master is exhausted. And he is asleep at the moment, so tread softly.’
Artemidorus was shocked by the change he saw in Cicero. Even though the senator had not been at his best during their last meeting, n
othing could have prepared the spy for the deterioration in the old man’s appearance since. What little flesh there had been on his face seemed to have melted away. There was nothing more than skull beneath the ivory skin. The high forehead, framed with white, woolly hair, was beaded with sweat. The eyeballs behind the closed lids jerked feverishly from side to side above big black bags. The body on the bed, outlined beneath the covers, seemed bloated. While the arms and legs had grown more spindly still.
‘Do you know where Antistius the physician lives?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Yes,’ answered Tiro.
‘Send someone to fetch him,’ commanded the centurion.
‘We’ll explain matters to Antony,’ added Enobarbus. ‘There’ll be no more summonses to the Senate today…’
‘… or talk of builders and burning.’ Artemidorus added.
v
Side by side, Artemidorus and Enobarbus led their little command back across the Forum to the Senate House. ‘Antony’s not going to like this,’ said Artemidorus uneasily, all too well aware that he was still in the general’s bad books – even though he had yet to present him with even more unpalatable news. News about Caesar Octavius and his plans; the sluggish progress of mud-bound Castilium and the recurrent restlessness of the legions Antony supposed were happily settled. Not to mention the fact that Caesar Octavius appeared to have surrounded himself with more than one legion. Perhaps two or three thousand men, all old soldiers. Who seemed to be almost on a war-footing in the heart of Italy just three miles north of Capua. And of course there was the fact that the young man was in Rome now, watching this farce with his two bosom companions and a great deal of cynical amusement.
But then the goddess Fortuna, perhaps at the prompting of his own personal deity the demigod Achilleus, hero of Troy, smiled on him. A military messenger came riding into the Forum and, seeing a squad of soldiers, reined to a halt beside them. ‘Ave, Tribune,’ he saluted from horseback. ‘I have news for General Antony. Do you know where I can find him?’