It had been child’s play so far, but the hard part was coming now, the girl said to herself as she applied pigment to her mistress’s cheeks. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that she would not be capable of killing him with her bare hands. She was convinced that the best way was to stir up the discontent of the slaves until the most volatile person reacted. And she’d already identified one young slave, with whom she’d entered into confidence. Even though she was pregnant, she’d slept with him and learnt chilling details about the household – things even more horrific than those of which Octavia had warned her. She would have loved to have had even a fraction of the eloquence she’d so often admired in Octavian now, to convince the slave to undertake the task for her.
But she needed a spark to light the fire, so she waited. She’d been waiting for weeks for Basilus to use his dagger again – perhaps the same dagger he’d used to murder Caesar in the brutal and ferocious fashion she’d heard about. And when she heard a piercing scream which made her mistress leap from her chair, and her start so violently that she dropped the make-up brush into the woman’s hair, she knew that the time had come. The domina ran from the room and she rushed out after her. They followed the sound of the screams to the room of Basilus’ eldest son, a young man who had recently started to wear the toga virilis, even though he wasn’t yet worthy of it. They found him on the bed, naked and in tears, his father standing next to him holding a knife, its blade red with blood which dripped onto the floor. In a corner of the room, a kneeling slave groaned as he squeezed his bloody hands between his thighs.
In a pool of liquid scarlet in front of him, it was just possible to make out his cleanly severed penis.
*
The Curia of Pompey was already packed. Lucius Pinarius noted with satisfaction that virtually no senator had neglected their duty to come and attend the session. That said, with civil war imminent, everyone wanted to have their say, but it would be quite another thing to induce them to vote for the sect’s objectives, which were not exactly those they thought they had come to agree to. He watched as his cousin Quintus Pedius settled into the Consul’s chair on the stage, and sighed. Yes, he thought, I was actually jealous when Octavian chose him as a fellow consul a few months ago, but I wouldn’t change places with him now for anything in the world.
No one could predict what would happen when the senators realised they were being hoodwinked – and they would realise that as soon as Pedius started to introduce the day’s agenda. Would they bend to Octavian’s will? Or would Cicero’s views prevail? It was precisely this that frightened him: if the senators rebelled, how would he and Pedius cope, given that Octavian and the other sect members were already marching towards Gaul? It would be easy for the supporters of Caesar’s killers to take them prisoner, along with Octavia and her mother Atia, and use them as hostages to force Octavian to respect the commitments he’d made to the Senate in return for his election as consul. The cohort that had been left in Rome to protect them, commanded by Gaius Chaerea – a member of the sect – would probably be next to useless.
And Pinarius wasn’t at all sure that Octavian, unscrupulous and ambitious as he was, as well as madly determined to avenge Caesar’s death and to emulate his achievements, would allow himself to be swayed by a threat to his relatives’ lives. The men most useful to him in that moment were already with him, and perhaps that was all he needed.
Pedius let the princeps senatus declare the session open as the last senators took their places in the banked seating of the hall which Octavian planned to close, having defined it a locus sceleratus after the death of his great-uncle. The consul then covered his head with his toga, offered a prayer to the gods, and placed an offering of food on the brazier which burned on the podium. Pinarius distractedly followed the sacred ritual whilst focusing most of his attention on his colleagues’ expressions, trying to work out who might give his cousin trouble.
“Illustrious colleagues, as you know, the young consul Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian is currently nearing Gaul’s borders with the legions entrusted to him by the Senate,” Pedius began. “He has taken upon himself the immense task of bringing the enemy of the state Decimus Brutus Albinus to justice, and of bringing the rebels Mark Antony and Lepidus back under the authority of the Senate. We should therefore be grateful for the dedication he is showing in protecting Rome and our communal interests.”
Pinarius watched the senators, catching sight of the occasional fleeting grimace and laugh – Pedius’s words undoubtedly lent themselves to facile mockery.
“But it is a mission full of unknowns,” the consul continued. “We do not know how many allies Decimus Brutus will find as he flees. The latest news has him headed towards the Rhine. And we do not know how a pitched battle between Republican troops and those available to Antony and Lepidus would finish. Nor do we know who the provincial governors will side with. During the recent battle in Modena, they behaved in a highly ambiguous way. And you know how many deaths a civil war might cause, how many privations it could force on the very people who have entrusted their fate to we senators.”
Here he goes, thought Pinarius, feeling a slight shiver run down his spine – he’s preparing the ground to deliver his blow.
“Julius Caesar’s heir has always put himself forward as a peacemaker. He has never sought confrontation with anyone, apart from his father’s murderers. Ever since he received his inheritance from the dictator, he has always tried to seek consensus, never to impose it, persistently calling for the assistance of Mark Antony and the most distinguished members of this assembly, starting with you, Cicero. Conversely, Mark Antony has never shown himself to be accommodating, but has rather exacerbated the situation, even forcing us senators – we who at first appreciated his approach – to deny him support. Antony is unpredictable. He has his own personal agenda, which is impossible to know, but he holds sway over the soldiers and over Lepidus, and we cannot afford to ignore that. Rome is already engaged in a battle without quarter against Caesar’s assassins, who are becoming increasingly powerful in the East. Wearing ourselves out in a conflict against Antony and Lepidus would only play into the hands of people like Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus. They are waiting for any chance to launch a counter-offensive and regain control of the city. In short, a civil war against Lepidus and Antony would only benefit Caesar’s killers, the very people you have just defined ‘enemies of the state’.”
These were valid arguments. Pinarius saw that some senators were nodding. But there weren’t yet enough of them to constitute a re-assuring block of support. On the other hand, many held that the condemnation of Caesar’s killers had been unjust and that it had been forcibly extorted by Octavian and his troops camped outside Rome.
“Therefore, distinguished senators, why should we help our principal enemies by killing one another? Why should we decimate our troops when we could build an invincible army by joining forces with Antony and Lepidus – an army strong enough to destroy any opponent, and to finally put to rest the threat posed by Brutus, Cassius and the rest of them? Why should we give up the very real possibility of regaining control over the East, over the precious provinces of Asia, Syria and Macedonia, that these criminals have stolen from Rome, with the attendant risk of starving it?”
This time there were more signs of agreement from the senators. Some appeared hesitant and muttered to their neighbours whilst others spoke animatedly. Many more, however, and not only those related to Caesar’s killers, made sneering faces of superiority or shook their heads.
“I would therefore ask you Senators – you, the principal guardians of Rome’s welfare and that of its citizens – to drop your many rightful demands for revenge against Mark Antony. Illustrious fathers, grant my colleague Octavian the opportunity to once again attempt to convince Antony and Lepidus to return to the service of Rome and to place themselves under the authority of the Senate. In return, we will lift any charges laid against them last year and during the war of Mode
na.”
Uproar broke out in the hall, echoing off the high walls. Pinarius thought that Octavian’s offer of a Senate amnesty would easily convince Antony and Lepidus to join him in the game for power. His cousin had reached the pinnacle of state power thanks to a play of strength, but he no longer had the means or the authority to stay in the saddle: his position was precarious, and his lucid intelligence wouldn’t let him deceive himself. Only by convincing Antony and Lepidus to support him could he become unassailable and thus pursue his vendetta, as well as his plans to reform Rome and give it a stable and lasting empire.
“That’s a contemptible proposal! First Octavian gets us to give him a consulship to fight Antony, then he makes an agreement with him.”
“You’ve made fools of us! You’ve been planning to join Antony all along!”
“Right! And maybe you’ve always been in league with him – even before you marched on Rome!”
“Of course! Octavian hasn’t fought him since the war of Modena!”
Pinarius glanced at his cousin standing on the podium. Pedius, his concern evident, returned his gaze. Only the dissenters were shouting. There were far too many of them, but fortunately there were no prominent figures among them. What counted was what Cicero might have to say, and Cicero had always shown himself to be favourable to Octavian, believing him to be the lesser of the evils in play.
The great orator rose after the protests had quietened down and the Senators’ anger had dimmed to a level which allowed him to speak.
“Distinguished colleagues,” he began, “you all know how strongly I spoke against Mark Antony both before and during the war of Modena. I now regard him as the worst of Rome’s enemies, and my speeches against him will stand as a testimony indelibly etched upon the memory of the Romans. I certainly cannot retract them, even if politics often requires us to retrace our steps for the good of the State. By expressing my views so clearly I undoubtedly earned his everlasting enmity, but I have no regrets, nor fears for the consequences. I am increasingly convinced that this man – the same man who exploited our support to consolidate his own power – is the worst tyrant to have ever befallen Rome. I am convinced that from the very beginning he has sought to become a new Julius Caesar, or worse, given that he is no genius and is not of equal stature. Because I will grant that Caesar had stature, even if he was an autocrat. I would therefore urge you to fight him to the bitter end. Not to protect me but because I think he represents a far greater threat to our Republic than those who acted in good faith and in the name of freedom. Rome would suffer more under Antony than under anyone else!”
Pinarius saw with dismay that senators who had earlier been favourable to Pedius’s argument, were now nodding thoughtfully at Cicero’s words.
Things were looking bad.
II
“He doesn’t really want me to do it,” Veleda kept repeating to herself, as she approached the village’s home fence. “He can’t want me to do it. It just wouldn’t be like him, not after what we’ve been through.” In the meantime she continued to glance furtively at the men Ortwin had left her after having first assured himself that they were ready to spring into action at her command. When they’d left for Gaul, he had struggled to convince these coarse Celts that in his absence they would have to obey a woman. And now they would find out if he had taught them well.
She was close enough to the Gauls to be able to see the mistrustful expressions of the two warriors who had come to guard the entrance and escort them to their chief. Veleda could read lust for the money Ortwin had promised them in their eyes, which stared fixedly at the wagon. No, he can’t really want me to, she continued to say to herself. Bauto and Decimus Brutus would kill them anyway, and even if they didn’t, Octavian would never forgive them for their failure and they would once again find themselves without a home or hope. Their earlier success in the East, where they’d killed Trebonius and Dolabella, wouldn’t count for anything. She didn’t expect any sympathy from Octavian, and was certain that he would abandon them at their first mistake.
Thirty men. Only thirty men against an entire village. And with no weapons, as Bauto had insisted. For all she knew, there might be hundreds of warriors inside the enclosure they were about to enter. It was madness even to think she could do it, but it was clear that Ortwin wanted her to do something. Veleda approached the sentries, who checked that she and the Celtic troopers were carrying no arms, their fingers lingering unnecessarily long on her body. She had to struggle to resist the urge to grab the hands that were groping her and bite off their fingers, but just when she thought she could restrain her impulsive nature no longer, the other sentry motioned for her troops to bring the wagon into the village.
Encouraging. Or was it simply deceptive? Veleda tried to re-assure herself by thinking of the many times that she and Ortwin had been up against it, but she could think of no situation riskier than the one they found themselves in now. She was escorted to the centre of the village, past wretched huts and pack animals, until she could make out the form of her man, against whose chest two warriors stood pressing the tips of their swords. Next to them was another man, wearing a decorated helmet and chain mail, who she took to be Bauto. As she moved forward, she exchanged another quick look with her men to ensure they were positioned closely around the wagon, and studied the situation. The Gaul chief was surrounded by about fifty warriors while many others roamed the area, some armed, some not. About the same number of women also stared at them with hostility, and it was clear that they wouldn’t just be spectators if a fight broke out.
It would be impossible to take them all on.
She only had one chance, and she had to use it well. In the eerie silence, with everybody’s eyes fixed upon the wagon that the Gauls already considered their booty, Veleda looked at Ortwin, hoping to understand what he expected of her. But he remained impassive. His face gave nothing away, and his eyes bore no message.
Veleda approached the Gaul chief while staying close to the wagon. Bauto inspected her with an expression of contempt and desire, his eyes dwelling upon her mutilated hand.
“This is the first time I’ve see a woman – and a maimed woman at that – lead a squad of soldiers. Are things so bad for our new consul that he has to make use of half-women?” asked Bauto, derisively. “And who are you, anyway?”
“I am his consort,” she said neutrally, pointing at Ortwin, “and he is our leader.”
Bauto gave a hoarse laugh. “A one-eye and a cripple! It gets better and better! What a lovely couple!” The other warriors followed their chief’s lead, and soon a chorus of laughter echoed around the village.
“An old joke,” scowled Veleda. “A sign of little imagination, if not actual stupidity.” She’d heard it countless times over the last couple of years, ever since she’d mistaken Ortwin for an enemy and stabbed him in the eye. For his part, years before he’d had to follow Caesar’s orders and cut a hand off every one of the defenders of the Gallic stronghold of Uxellodunum, and it was only after he’d put his sword down that he’d recognised her.
The chieftain was suddenly serious. “Woman,” he said, “you don’t appear to be in any position to make jokes. Unlike me.”
“I bring you great riches, my lord,” replied Veleda, trying to keep her nerve and not lower her eyes, “which surely earns me some privileges.” If these Gauls were like the Germans she’d grown up with, they’d appreciate a proud attitude more than a submissive one.
The chief nodded. “Well, let’s see this money, then,” he said, signalling for one of his warriors to jump up onto the wagon and open the chest that stood in the middle.
Veleda pretended to believe that he was addressing her, and moved to jump onto the wagon ahead of the man. The Celtic troops closed in imperceptibly on the wagon, and, as they’d agreed earlier, one of them casually took hold of the horse’s harness. The woman glanced quickly at Ortwin and thought she saw a flicker of concern in his eyes. She then peered at Bauto, who looked annoyed.
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br /> “Leave it to my soldier, woman,” the chief said, immediately.
But by now she had climbed up onto the wagon. “The chest has a complicated lock,” she muttered. “I wouldn’t want you getting angry with me if your man can’t open it.” The soldier had now climbed up as well and they found themselves facing each other. The Gaul hesitated a moment and stared at his chief, his expression asking whether he should step back. The chief was undecided. He looked at Veleda suspiciously, but gave no order. She leapt towards the large trunk, opening the lid easily and grabbing the swords she’d placed inside earlier then throwing them quickly to her men. Before the Gaul next to her, who had recovered from his surprise, had time to throw himself at her, she seized the one remaining sword and ran it through his stomach.
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