by Peter Tonkin
Disregarding the outraged Dolabella, Artemidorus crossed to the box and eased the last two bags out of it. They were tied together at the neck, which made them easy to carry – slung across a shoulder, saddle-bow or the withers of a horse, he calculated. And they needed to be easy to carry for they were very heavy. He swung them down onto the floor and squatted, pulling the neck of the nearest wide. To reveal a hoard of gold coins. Freshly minted and still so new that they glittered in the lamplight. ‘It’s Trebonius’ treasure,’ he said. ‘Some of it at least. Whatever this part of it the bitch of no account, as you called her, has left you. Because she’s escaped with the rest and I doubt you’ll see her again. Unless you’re on her kill list, in which case you might get a fleeting glimpse of her as she slits your throat one night.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s little better than a she-wolf in a lupinaria. Though I find it hard to believe she just sat there and watched as we questioned Trebonius. All he said was “Civis Romanus sum!” Even when the red hot pincers went to work. And she could have stopped it. With one word she could have stopped it!’
‘She did that once before,’ Artemidorus said, wearily, straightening. ‘Stopped someone being tortured with a word or two. Or thought she had. But actually she hadn’t – he was still beaten to death. And in the end, those were the words that got Caesar killed.’
Dolabella swung round and looked at Artemidorus, frowning. ‘So that was her!’ he said. ‘I thought you threw her to the mob.’
‘I did. She came back. Left a good few of them dead into the bargain. That reminds me, there’s a dead legionary in the storeroom you had her locked in down by the culinea.’
‘By the gods below, I’ve had enough of this!’ snarled Dolabella. He slammed out of the room, calling for soldiers and lamps. Artemidorus followed him as he stormed through the palace, the dark heart of a gathering river of brightness as the attendants he summoned joined him. Out through the door they went and into the forum. Which was still dripping but no longer rainswept. There wasn’t even enough breeze to stir the lamp flames as they all ran up the steps of the curia’s colonnade.
Without hesitation, Dolabella strode up to the crucified man. Trebonius seemed to be deep in an uneasy sleep. Dolabella woke him with two explosive slaps – forehand and backhand – across his ruined face.
‘Civis Romanum sum,’ he mumbled.
‘Your bitch, who is definitely not a Roman citizen, just ran away with a good deal of your treasure,’ snarled Dolabella. ‘I just wanted you to know I’ll be back in the morning. And I’ll be asking about the rest of it.’ He snatched at the front of Trebonius’ loincloth and tore it off. Grabbed the testicles his action revealed. ‘And this is where we’ll start the questioning,’ he spat.
*
Artemidorus and Puella were woken next morning by Quintus. ‘There’s trouble brewing,’ he said. ‘Apparently the loincloth was a step too far. A Rubicon Dolabella shouldn’t have crossed, you might say.’
There was no modesty within the contubernium. He didn’t even turn his back as they climbed out of bed and into their clothing. The other three were waiting for them outside the bedroom door. All six went down together, stepping three abreast out of the big double doors of the governor’s palace into a clear, blustery dawn. And into a forum that seemed packed with people. All, at the moment, standing quietly. Looking at the naked wreck of their legally appointed governor. And at the man who had tortured him to the very edge of death.
Dolabella stood in front of Trebonius, in parade armour and helmet; every inch the general. Flanked by his tribunes, backed by his centurions who were in turn standing in front of long lines of legionaries.
As riots went, it was a quiet, short-lived, almost sedate affair. The shops, stalls, courts and public buildings round the forum were all closed. There was nothing to break or to burn. A few of the assembled citizens had armed themselves with stones, but as soon as these were thrown half-heartedly towards Dolabella and his troops, he ordered the legionaries to clear the square. Which they proceeded to do, employing a great deal more violence than anything that had been used against them. Dolabella himself took the lead in both elements of this, striding forward, safe in his full armour, laying about him with his gladius. Thankfully mostly with the flat of the blade rather than the edge or the point.
Artemidorus watched as the lines of soldiers followed their leader, leaving Trebonius guarded by the two lines of legionaries. Who moved to the forward edge of the colonnade, the toes of their caligae boots overhanging the top step of the marble stairway, watching their colleagues at work. He looked at the tortured man hanging naked and shamed from the cross half a dozen feet behind them. The marble beneath him soiled with all sorts of solids and liquids. Having nothing left to look forward to but more agony and eventual emasculation. On a sudden impulse, the secret agent stooped. Picked a round stone off the cobbles of the forum and walked purposefully towards the western end of the colonnade, nearest the governor’s palace. ‘You are all dismissed,’ he said to his companions. ‘I don’t want you to see this.’
As they moved obediently away, Artemidorus glanced around. It seemed that Trebonius and he were alone in the forum except for the guards who stood with their backs to both of them. So they were unobserved. For the moment at least. He pulled his sling out of its tiny pouch on his belt, unrolled it, put the loop over his index finger and slid the stone into its soft leather pocket. Level with the dying man, perhaps forty paces distant from him, and out of sight of everyone, even the guards, the secret agent turned, whirling the sling with deadly expertise. Releasing the string at the moment of maximum power. Sending the stone faster than the eye could see down the length of the colonnade.
There was a crisp SLAP! As the stone connected with Trebonius’ temple. But none of the guards moved. The hanging head jerked sideways. Artemidorus remembered Quintus’ melons. The way they burst and leaked red flesh from gaping wounds. He could see no new wound on Trebonius’ already battered head. But the way the body slumped in the ropes securing it to the cross was a giveaway. As though every bone in his body had suddenly melted like wax. Especially the bones of the neck, which seemed oddly to stretch under the sudden weight of the ruined head. There was no doubt in his mind that the fragile bones of Trebonius’ skull must be shattered.
And he was dead.
viii
‘Dead!’ spat Dolabella. ‘This just keeps getting worse and worse. I have only found a tiny fraction of the treasure he was supposed to have brought. And I only have that because that bitch of his left what she couldn’t carry when she took the rest out of the box hidden in their bed. Now she’s vanished and he’s beyond my reach! It must have been one of the stones the rioters threw that did it! The guards saw nothing but there was a stone in the excrementum shit on the ground beside the cross. And the side of his head was caved in!’
The governor was pacing up and down across the tablinum office area of the palace, waving his arms as he shouted. His tribunes were there, and one or two senior centurions. Together with the leading citizens he had entertained to dinner yesterday evening. And Artemidorus.
‘What I think I’ll do is to search out the ringleaders of that mob. Maybe replace Trebonius with one or two of them…’
The leading citizens paled at the thought. Clearly calculating the likelihood of ending up there themselves.
But Artemidorus stepped forward. ‘General, Governor,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you have thought through the implications of the situation you have discovered here. Which I will report to my General Antony at the earliest opportunity. But it seems to me that if Brutus and Cassius have the money and arms sent south by Trebonius, they will have built an army several legions strong in a very short time.’
‘I understand that,’ said Dolabella. ‘But I don’t see how it affects me…’
‘If Brutus is recruiting in Greece and Macedonia and Cassius is busy in Egypt and Arabia, then what are the provinces most at risk?’
&nb
sp; ‘Asia,’ breathed Dolabella, in the grip of a sudden revelation. ‘Asia and Syria! My province…’
‘And the Syrian capital of Laodicia must be almost a thousand miles from here, General. You have another long march in prospect, unless you want to ship your legion south…’
‘Legions!’ snapped Dolabella. ‘I’ll be taking Trebonius’ men under my imperium leadership. But I see what you mean. Yes. I must get matters settled here and move on as swiftly as I can. It could take me until Aprilis to get to Syria if we go by land. Even if the roads are clear and the weather clement. And it would be a disaster to arrive, only to find Cassius waiting there for me. Gentlemen,’ he swung round to face the city’s leading citizens. ‘I will need a precise accounting of all the vessels in the immediate vicinity large enough to transport my men! Under the circumstances I will not be able to hire them. So I will have to commandeer them. A final gift to you from your late governor!’ he added with a sneer. And as they hurried out, dismissed by his abrupt announcement, he turned back and met Artemidorus’ level stare. ‘But there are matters that must be attended to before I leave,’ he concluded.
*
Dolabella ruled that Trebonius’ body be left secured to the cross. A table large enough to bear it was carried out of the governor’s palace and placed in the colonnade. The cross was lifted onto it. And laid so that the dead man’s body was uppermost. His battered face staring up at the ceiling under which he had died. The table was then positioned so that the top of Trebonius’ head pointed out into the forum. Where Dolabella’s legion was paraded. Or as many of them as would fit into the cramped space. The balding pate of the middle-aged corpse seeming suddenly frail and almost pathetic in the thin winter sunlight. Soldiers and citizens crowded the streets leading off the square. Artemidorus and his command were given positions of importance beside the tribunes on the steps. Witnesses to carry the report of proceedings back to Antony.
Two of the legionaries standing guard at the time of the late governor’s death stood on either side of his head and adjusted it so that the chin was raised and the throat exposed. Then Dolabella himself came forward. He was armed, not with a gladius but with a longer, curved sword that looked like an Iberian falcata or a Greek kopis. Examples of which Artemidorus had seen and wielded in Quintus’ secret villa. A long blade, slightly curving, almost leaf-shaped with a strong spine up its back. And a well-honed edge that gleamed wickedly even on a dull day like this one.
There was no ceremony. Nobody spoke. The governor raised the big sword above his shoulder and brought it down with all his might onto the exposed throat. The edge of the blade cut through the dead man’s flesh and buried itself in the wood of the cross. Blood sprayed sluggishly. The head jerked up and down, the back of the skull landing with a CRACK! that echoed across the silent square. Frowning, Dolabella worked the sword free, raised it once more and brought it down again, unerringly, into the wound he had just created. The head rolled grotesquely. But still did not fall free. Dolabella jerked the blade out of the wood impatiently, raised the sword for a third time, taking the hilt in both hands now.
‘Should have done that first time,’ breathed Quintus knowledgeably. ‘This’ll do it though. Watch out…’
Dolabella brought the sword down with all his force. The head seemed to leap off the wood. It flew through the air and went bouncing down the steps like a ball. So much like a ball, indeed, that the soldier at whose feet it landed kicked it without a second thought. Within a heartbeat the head had vanished beneath the legion’s feet and was being booted from side to side across the forum by several hundred hobnailed caligae. Dolabella waited, watching, as Trebonius’ blood slowly pooled on the marble at his feet. Then, ‘That’s enough!’ he bellowed. ‘Bring the traitor’s head to me!’
The shoving and jostling stopped. Someone stooped and retrieved the thing. Picked it up by the thinning hair on its scalp. Raised it above his head. Passed it to the man in front. Who passed it on in turn. Like a piece of flotsam on the crest of a wave, the head swept forward until a soldier from the foremost rank came and placed it at Dolabella’s feet. Had it been battered before, now it was utterly unrecognisable. The nose was flat, smeared across black-bruised cheekbones. One of which was split open to the bone. One ear was missing. The eyes were swollen almost shut. The eyeball visible through the slit on the side the fatal sling-stone hit was bright red. The jaw was broken and most of the teeth were gone. The tongue seemed unnaturally swollen and lolled out of the side of the lipless mouth like that of a stupidus idiot.
‘There you are, Centurion,’ said the governor to Artemidorus, gesturing towards the horror at his feet. ‘I will arrange to have the body sent back to Rome. And you may take the head to Antony.’
XII
i
At much the same moment as Trebonius’ head was bouncing down the steps of the curia in Smyrna, Antony’s tribune and spymaster Enobarbus was standing on the steps of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus in Rome. Watching Marcus Tullius Cicero through narrowed eyes. Cicero was standing down in the precinct, surrounded by his cronies. A headcount of Antony’s greatest enemies, thought the spy. Cicero was glaring with simple outrage at Antony’s wife Fulvia, his mother Julia and his son Marcus Antonius Antyllus. Who were up in the colonnade that fronted the oldest and most sacred space in the city. They were all dressed in mourning black. And were here to attend the Senate meeting which had been dragging on in one location or another for several days. Which was convened in the Temple of Jupiter today.
Enobarbus was here with Antony’s spokesman, Divus Julius’ father-in-law Lucius Calpurnius Piso. Under orders from his general to watch and report events. Because the turning of the year changed everything in a heartbeat. Just as Trebonius’ treachery in Smyrna had – although they didn’t know that yet.
At the calends of Januarius, the first day of the administrative new year, the new Consuls Aulus Hirtius and Gaius Vibius Pansa had taken up their responsibilities, relieving the absent Consuls Dolabella and Antony. Just as Brutus and Cassius had been relieved in their turn as praetors. So that the Senate could finally be formally summoned. For the last four days, Piso reported faithfully, and the records of Senate Secretary Adonis confirmed, Cicero had argued that the Senate, on behalf of the People of Rome, should remove Antony’s imperium generalship and the governorship of Cisalpine Gaul. The governorship and imperium awarded him by the Comitia of the People in exchange for his surrendering the governorship of Macedonia which Divus Julius had planned for him this year. Cicero was demanding that the Senate should in fact pronounce Antony hostis enemy of the state. And then declare war against him if he persisted in trying to replace Decimus Albinus as governor of that vital province. From which, famously, Divus Julius had launched his bid for absolute power by crossing the River Rubicon heading south with his legions. A fact that lay very near the heart of Cicero’s worries about Antony and his true motives.
Because Antony was currently encamped with three full legions – the IInd Sabine, the Vth Alaude Larks and the XXXVth – as well as a range of auxiliaries including a thousand Gaulish cavalry, just north of the Rubicon, within striking distance of Mutina. The walled city which Decimus Albinus had chosen as his bulwark to defend his claim to the governorship of Cisalpine Gaul. A city into which he had moved his own legions. Antony being the legitimate ruler of the province by the will of the People. Decimus Albinus holding it on the orders of the Senate.
Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filius being also encamped nearby with several more legions he had managed to assemble. The wondrous boy, in Cicero’s words, on whom the Senate and People could rely for protection against the monster Antony. Particularly if he could be persuaded to share some of his power and a large number of his soldiers with the Consuls Hirtius and Pansa – who were tasked with leading Rome’s senatorial armies when she went to war.
*
In fact, Adonis and his sister Venus had proved to be invaluable in reporting and interpreting
all this. For when Cicero spoke, there was as much communication in his tone and gesture as there was in his words. So, when Adonis recounted the lawyer’s orations as recorded in the secret minutes he kept in parallel to the official ones, he mimicked Cicero’s delivery with disturbing accuracy. And Venus, with almost uncanny insight, interpreted and extrapolated every gesture. Every shift in timbre. Every calculating nod and knowing wink.
But the increasingly desperate tribune had gone well past merely being an observer of the events unfolding so rapidly here. Fulvia and Julia were at the Senate’s door with young Antyllus because Cicero’s plan of declaring Antony an enemy of the state not only allowed any citizen anywhere in the empire the right – the duty – to kill him on sight. It also took everything he owned into the state’s possession. Throwing his family, dependants, servants and slaves all out onto the street. Something Antony’s family were just about to plead should not be done to them.
Antony’s tribune and Caesar’s father-in-law had discussed this move at length with Fulvia, all increasingly well aware that Cicero’s bitter condemnation of Antony in speech after speech was turning the Senate against him in a way that his dwindling list of friends could no longer stop. Cicero had even started boasting that he should call the speeches his Philippics, after a series of speeches the great Greek orator Demosthenes had given in his attempt to destroy Philip II of Macedon exactly three hundred years earlier. There was no doubt in the Senate – or in the city itself – that Cicero saw himself as the one man who could stop Antony fulfilling for himself the ambition that got Caesar killed.
A hand clapped Enobarbus on the shoulder. ‘Time to go,’ said Piso as he strode past. And he walked up the steps, gathering the black-clad family together and ushering them into the temple. Cicero threw the tribune a cold glance and followed them into the Senate meeting. Enobarbus turned away and ran down the steps. All too well aware that even if Fulvia’s pleading saved Antony today, it would not stop Cicero’s venomous attacks. Only death would do that.