Revenge

by Andrew Frediani

  As he left his cousin’s house, Quintus Pedius found the twelve lictors which, as a consul, were his by right, and made his way home. It was evening now, and Lucius Pinarius took the opportunity to go with him for part of the way. At night the streets of Rome were always poorly lit and dangerous, and those who could afford bodyguards didn’t think twice about having themselves accompanied. Pedius wished him farewell without revealing his discomfort, not wishing to have to put up with his usual teasing. He had wanted to be in charge of the war against Sextus Pompey – a smaller civil war than that being fought in the East against Brutus and Cassius, but still vital. The blockade the skilled pirate had put in place was attacking all cargo ships bound for Ostia and seriously threatening Rome’s supplies. He had wanted to very much, not because he had military ambitions, but to escape the horrors of an increasingly bloody city, many of which he was responsible for.

  But he had not even attempted to propose this to Octavian. He knew that as far as the head of the sect was concerned, the soldier among them was Agrippa, with Rufus in second place, and he would certainly entrust the naval campaign, which looked as though it would be far from simple, to his close friend. They had discussed this in the meeting, and Agrippa had proposed many ideas which were brilliant, both from a strategic and technical point of view, demonstrating a real expertise in sea battles that he, Pedius, would never have. Among other things, it was an important test for Octavian: the responsibility for eliminating Sextus Pompey, which the other two triumvirs had delegated to him, perhaps in the hope that he would fail and thus provide them with an excuse for marginalising him or diminishing his importance. Therefore, a good man was needed, and he had never been good enough, – otherwise, as Lucius Pinarius often reminded him, Caesar himself would have given him more important responsibilities. Moreover, he felt absolutely exhausted. The commitments and business of recent days had taken it out of him, and he had made no secret of the fact, having twice been forced to suspend sittings in the Senate due to sudden bouts of illness.

  He arrived in front of his house on the top of the Esquiline hill and dismissed the lictors, two of whom remained at the entrance, while his personal slave knocked on the door. The porter opened up and ushered them into the hall. Pedius barely had time to notice how tense he seemed when a man armed with a knife appeared in front of him, coming from the direction of the atrium. He pointed the knife at his throat and pulled him towards the impluvium, where all the family’s slaves stood around the pool, bound and held by other thugs like him at sword point. With swords that they should not have had, given that soldiers were the only ones permitted to carry swords in Rome.

  His wife, bound and gagged, was on her knees, and one of the intruders was pulling her head up by her hair. This, thought Pedius, excluded any attempt to get the attention of the lictors outside. The man walked over to him and looked at him for a long time without saying a word, seeming to enjoy the tension in the air and the terrified faces the consul could see in the flickering light of the torches set around the walls of the atrium. He was probably less than forty, with a long face framed by a mass of curls. A light of despair and madness shone in his deep-set eyes, and his mouth, which was too wide, was twisted into a grin.

  “What do you want?” Pedius asked him, not even trying to control the tremor in his voice.

  The man smiled, leaned his face towards his and whispered in his ear, “Only to bring you the greetings of Cassius Longinus and all those friends of his that Octavian is killing…” And he pushed him backwards towards the nearest doorway. Pedius saw him pull the sword from his belt and felt himself rising up and slamming into the wooden door as the blade penetrated his stomach.

  A spasm of pain shot through his abdomen, and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness were his own feet, dangling at least a foot above the ground.

  *

  They had not even taken down his body. The corpse of Quintus Pedius was still hanging on the door of his tablinum, impaled upon the sword which had pierced his stomach. Maecenas shook his head and looked at the two lictors who were standing with the slaves, embarrassed looks upon their faces. They were the ones the consul had set to guard his house and it was incredible that they had not noticed anything. Then he saw Octavian, to whom he had sent a message to hurry quickly to his cousin’s, arrive. The young Caesar contemplated the consul’s body and began to walk up and down the hall, his expression simultaneously shocked and furious.

  “Did the slaves tell you?” the Etruscan asked him.

  “No. It was his wife, poor thing,” said Octavian, ordering the two men closest to take the corpse down from the door. “Whoever did this took her with them so that the slaves wouldn’t be able to warn the lictors on guard. And, in fact, they didn’t call anyone. Then they dumped her in front of my house and left – but not before giving her a good hiding. I’m late because I asked her a few questions.”

  “I am sorry. It’s a warning, then. And what did she say?”

  “Not much. She’s in no fit state to speak, and in any case, they apparently didn’t identify themselves. There were eight of them, I believe, but they didn’t say who they were, who they were acting on behalf of, or for what reason. They gained entrance to the house by pretending to be clients, then they immobilised everyone and waited for Pedius to return. As soon as he did, they slaughtered him like a dog. All just to frighten me…”

  “The war doesn’t run in only one direction, Octavian. We have killed four of them so far, as well as their associates. They want us to understand that they can hurt us too,” said Maecenas. “Which means that it might not be over yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That they will try to strike again. We have to put your family under protection. All of your family. And try to find the assassins by way of a thorough investigation. Let’s get the slaves and Pedius’s wife to give us a description of them.”

  Octavian nodded. “But I don’t want to give Caesar’s assassins the impression that I fear them too much. I must always appear strong and undaunted if I’m to make myself respected by the people of Rome and the other two triumvirs. Mark Antony is just waiting for me to make a mistake so that he can push me out of the way,” he concluded, bitterly. “I have to keep a watchful eye upon my allies as well as upon my enemies…”

  “So let us not disclose that Pedius was killed,” suggested Maecenas, after careful consideration.

  “What?”

  “Yes, that’s it! Who actually knows what happened here? Only us, his wife and Pedius’s slaves. We must forbid them from revealing what has happened and spread the story that your cousin died of some illness… Everybody knew that he was unwell, he had seemed very tired recently.”

  “Of course!” cried Octavian, seeming suddenly to snap out of his torpor. “We must not give the impression of being vulnerable. It would be the end. We are invincible, our ascent over this last year and a half has been unremitting, with one political and military success after another. That’s why I have so much popular support: the people love to win, just like they loved Caesar, and a winner makes them feel secure – they cling to him, entrusting all their dreams, hopes and illusions to his abilities. But if he takes a single false step… Do you remember how the memory of Caesar was abandoned after he had been killed? One false move and they’ll crucify you. Were they to see me overcome by emotion, I would no longer be able to offer them security, they would no longer feel protected and they would abandon me, and that would compromise everything we’ve done so far. No, we have to hide the way poor Pedius died. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t do everything in my power to avenge his death…”

  “You cannot create a commission of inquiry or entrust the investigation to anyone outside the circle of the sect, though,” Maecenas observed. “We have a lot of people on our payroll, but sooner or later someone would speak and word would spread that he was killed…”

  “True,” agreed Octavian. “We must carry out the investigation ourselves. I
will entrust it to Chaerea, as soon as he is well. And he mustn’t use anyone, except perhaps Ortwin. Tomorrow morning I will have him sent for and put him immediately to work, even if he is sick. This is no time for laying about in bed. In the meantime, you collect statements from the slaves and I’ll see what else I can get out of Pedius’s wife.”

  Maecenas nodded. There was a long night ahead of him. “By the way, if she was badly beaten we cannot let her be seen in public for a few days,” he pointed out. “We will say that she was so deeply shaken by the death of her husband that she does not even want to attend the funeral.”

  “Excellent. And we must also consider how to curb Mark Antony and Lepidus’s ambitions regarding the new consul. I managed to convince them to leave Pedius, at least, in office, when I had to give up the consulate, and now they will use this opportunity to put another of their men in. Damn them! I must return home and reflect upon a new strategy!” concluded Octavian, heading towards the vestibule and then towards the front door.

  Maecenas looked at the corpse of Pedius which the slaves had placed next to the impluvium, and sighed. His friend had completely forgotten about him, nor had he even really been the subject of their conversation, in fact. Octavian had never particularly valued his cousin, and yet he had thought that the young triumvir felt at least some affection for the man who, after all, had given him his share of Caesar’s inheritance and had always supported him, even at the cost of his own life.

  But Octavian was like that. He always looked to his ambitions and plans without being influenced by the childish sensations normal human beings felt. Just like Caesar, who, in all probability, had recognised in him a kindred spirit. A great mind and a small heart: that was how you became invincible, and it was for this reason that he was the leader of the sect.

  *

  Ortwin was torn. He should have intervened and stopped the massacre, but on the other hand, perhaps that had been the only way to reach Cicero in time, before he could leave for the East and his Caesar-murdering friends. Allowing the great orator to escape would have serious repercussions on relations between Octavian and Mark Antony, and risked compromising the agreements they had, not without difficulty, recently concluded. That was a responsibility he had no intention of taking, and therefore he forced himself not to intervene while Popillius Laenas tortured Quintus, the brother of the most prestigious of the proscribed.

  “It’s up to you how you die, traitor,” the centurion was shouting at the condemned man, who, his hands tied behind his back, was sitting in a chair next to his son, who was in the same position. “Tell us where your brother is without making us waste time by looking for him and I’ll make sure your death is a quick one,” he said, punching him in the chest, but it was useless – he had asked the same question over and over again, but there had been no answer.

  Quintus’s slaves were crying, and the other soldiers of the platoon were laughing, but Ortwin didn’t find the situation comical. It was sacrosanct that Cicero was eliminated, if it was true that he had protected Caesar’s killers, but poor Quintus was not, in his opinion, to blame. He had been a brilliant legate during the Gallic War and had saved the Aduatuca camp after the massacre of a legion at the hands of the rebels. Ortwin had fought at his side more than once during the long conflict and had always considered him a man of substance. His only crime, apparently, was that of being the brother of the man most hated by the triumvirs.

  Shortly before leaving for the coast of Lazio, to whence it was said the orator had withdrawn while he decided whether to stay or flee, they had been advised by an informer that Quintus had secretly returned to Rome to collect his personal effects from his house. They had thus ambushed him, not only to cross another name from the list but also to extract information upon the movements of his brother. But Ortwin knew that he would not talk, and had preferred to leave when Laenas had started using more determined methods.

  It was useless. The centurion had beaten the former legate bloody, but not a word had he uttered with his battered mouth, apart from the occasional insult to his torturer.

  Suddenly, Laenas moved towards Quintus’s son, who looked to be even younger than Octavian. He drew his sword from its sheath and grabbed his ear. “Come on, tell me,” he hissed, “or I’ll chop him into little pieces but keep him alive until only his torso and head are left!”

  The man looked desperate, and was about to open his mouth and say something, when his son interrupted him with an unsteady voice: “Say nothing, father. I will be worthy of you, fear not.”

  “How touching!” cried Laenas, happily. “Let’s see if you really are, then!” And he moved towards him. Ortwin had had enough and, without fully realising what he was doing, lunged towards him and pulled the sword from his hand before pushing him away. “That’s enough,” he exclaimed indignantly. “These are brave men!”

  Laenas stood there for a moment, stunned by the German’s reaction, then he advanced towards him and tried to punch his face, but his movements were made clumsy and slow by his anger and Ortwin had time to dodge out of his way, sending him flying. The centurion lost his balance and fell to the ground, and only then did the German realise he had made a mistake: one should never give outsiders the impression of a lack of cohesion, nor humiliate a commander in front of his subordinates. Not to mention that it was Laenas who was in charge of the operation, and that Octavian would not have wanted his actions questioned.

  And that was not all. When he saw the look of hatred on the officer’s face, he realised that he had made an enemy of him. A dangerous enemy, if Octavian thought him worthy enough to consider allowing him into the sect. Maecenas had explained to him that the young Caesar was in no way demoting him by taking away his responsibility for the death of Cicero, but was simply giving Laenas the opportunity to gain membership to the secret society.

  “You ugly one-eyed barbarian piece of shit, you’ll pay for that!” said the centurion, his words immediately confirming Ortwin’s fears. Laenas moved towards him again, this time with a more determined air. At the same time, Ortwin was aware that, though he had no responsibility for the operation, he did have responsibilities towards the sect, and could not risk undermining its cohesion with grudges and disagreements. He held out his hands and declared, “Centurion, I don’t know what got into me, forgive me. I fought with this man in the past and…” but Laenas did not let him finish his sentence – the centurion’s fist hit him directly on his cheek. Ortwin’s experience of combat allowed him to realise the blow was coming an instant before the impact and move his face to the side in order to lessen the blow. His massive body did the rest, letting it absorb the punch with sufficient ease. However he did not want to prolong the battle, and began to stagger, pretending to have been knocked out. To avoid falling over, he swayed towards the wall and leaned against it, acting dazed.

  “I am not interested in the excuses of a barbarian piece of shit like you!” raged Laenas. “I demand respect, and you have been disrespectful. Even if you are Caesar Octavian’s bodyguard, you are nothing compared to a centurion of Rome!” He walked over to him and grabbed hold of his tunic, then pushed him away contemptuously and, trying to regain his composure, snatched up the sword Ortwin had taken off him and headed back towards Quintus Cicero’s son.

  “No, I beg you! Mark Tullius Cicero is in Gaeta now!” said one of the slaves present, seeing that Laenas was again making for the boy’s ear.

  Laenas froze. “Really? And how do I know I can believe you?” he asked, while Quintus Cicero glared at the slave who had spoken.

  The mortified slave looked at his master. “Forgive me, Dominus,” he said, “but I brought up your son, and I cannot bear the idea of him being cut up into pieces like that.” He turned to the centurion. “I was with the former consul in Astura when we left him, my master and I, to return to Rome. He told us that he intended to go to his villa in Gaeta, and there would decide if and when to leave. But he was hoping for something to happen that would allow him to remain,
he didn’t want to face a sea voyage…”

  Quintus’s expression was eloquent – the former legate was furious, so it was clear that the slave had told the truth. Even as unperceptive a man as Laenas had noticed, thought Ortwin at the sight of the relieved expression on the face of the centurion, who however said, “Listen to me, slave, if we discover that Cicero is not in Gaeta I will do to you what I was about to do to your young master. For this reason, you will be imprisoned until we return. If you are telling the truth, you’ll get your freedom and a reward, according to the decree.”

  “I don’t want anything,” said the man proudly, “I didn’t do it for a reward.”

  “Everyone in this house everyone has such noble feelings, I see. Well, that means that you will give your money to me when the time comes,” continued Laenas. “And now it’s time to end this farce. Execute them and let’s get out of here!” he ordered.

  “Please, kill me first, centurion!” said Quintus Cicero. “Spare me at least the pain of seeing the death of my son.”

  But immediately the boy cut in. “Never! I could not witness the death of the best of men. Kill me first, centurion. “

  “No, don’t listen to him! Kill me!”

  “Leave him! Kill me!”

  Laenas looked on, amused. He turned to one and then the other, these two men fighting over the right to die first. Suddenly, he raised his hand for silence. “Do not say that I am heartless. I will not refuse your requests – either of them. I will make you both happy. You two,” he gestured to two of his soldiers, “stand by the condemned men and place your swords on their throats. At my order, kill them.”

  *

  Veleda would never have imagined finding herself in a luxurious domus in the heart of Rome, spending her afternoons and evenings in the company of two upper-class matrons and their handmaidens. In her eventful life, she had slept almost everywhere – in huts, legionary’s tents, barracks… And when she had been the lover of Pompey the Younger she had also benefited from the services reserved only for people of rank. But never in Rome, in the residence of a senator, like the one in which Octavian had decided to bring together the women of his family immediately after the state funeral of Quintus Pedius.