It was the residence confiscated from one of the first victims of the proscription, and the head of the sect had secretly transferred his mother, Atia, and his sister, Octavia, there, along with Octavia’s little daughter, Marcella, while putting about the story that they had gone to the country to recuperate. Their respective husbands, Quintus Marcius Philippus, Octavian’s stepfather, and Marcus Claudius Marcellus, had been informed that the death of Pedius had been anything but accidental, and they had been asked not to say a word and to stay in their own homes so as not to arouse suspicion and to confirm the official version. The triumvir had absolutely no intention of giving the impression of being afraid for the safety of his family. He was aware of not being able to conceal his women for long without arousing suspicion, but he hoped to find Pedius’s killers in the meantime, and in order to prevent the rumour spreading among the soldiers he had entrusted the responsibility of protecting them to Ortwin’s small group of Germans. At that time, Ortwin himself was more useful for the executions of the proscribed. He had suggested that his woman replace him for this task, and thanks to his conviction that she was up to the job, Veleda had won over the ministers of the sect from their initial scepticism. She was given her assignment.
Her first assignment.
More than likely, the matrons she was supposed to protect were less than happy. Because she was a woman, or perhaps because she was a barbarian. Or maybe they just did not like having the house full of grim, smelly Germans, accompanied by an amazon with a stump for a hand. Veleda had sensed the revulsion the two women felt for her immediately, and had declined to make conversation with them. Although she and Octavia shared membership in the sect – which made them in a sense sisters – their roles remained distinct, and there could never be much familiarity between them.
Etain had noticed the situation and had immediately busied herself in attempts to justify the behaviour of her mistress. Or rather, her employer, given that, as Veleda had been informed upon entering the cult, she was a free woman but preferred to pass herself off as a slave. That was something that she, born to be a queen, just could not understand: she had always refused to be a slave to anyone, even though the vicissitudes of life had more than once forced her to satisfy the demands of others: a Gaul nobleman, Quintus Labienus, a Dalmatian tanner, Pompey the Younger… All the men who had taken her and kept her with them against her will, and who had found it exciting to have a woman with only one hand as a lover. Ortwin was the only one she had chosen to be with, and she was proud of the fact, although Quintus Labienus had remained inside her and she still wondered if she had not consented, at least in part, to his often brutal acts.
“You must excuse the domina, Veleda,” the free Celt had told her. “She is very upset in this period, and not only over the death of her cousin. She needs familiar faces around her.”
“Of course! Faces as wild as ours will not do!” Veleda had replied, dismissively. “Don’t worry, we’ll stay in our rooms without bothering your domina with our presence! Anyway, it is I who does not wish to mix with you – I am the daughter of a king, not just some little lady from Roman high society.” And with that she had spoken no more of the matter, despite regretting her words immediately. She had spent her life in the lowest places and positions, and should not have given in to this outburst, which was caused more by her frustration at the defeat of her father Ariovistus and her capture, which had denied her the more auspicious fate and position that was rightfully hers. And that evening she felt especially sad, and knew it was because Ortwin was not was beside her. The enthusiasm of being given her first assignment was long gone, now. The hiding place was secret, and she could not see what danger Atia and Octavia were in, even if the killers of Pedius were still in Rome and had not already decamped. The more time she spent without her man, the more she realised that she loved him as she had never had the courage to tell him. In many ways, she had ruined his life, and not simply because of her accidental gouging out of his eye.
But he had never held her errors of judgement against her, nor had he ever criticized her for what might have been. He was an extraordinary man, and would have been a king or a great general had he only been given the chance. Not only did she love him, she admired and esteemed him, and although she had never openly admitted it – the ancient pride of a princess still controlled her feelings – she could no longer live without him. Without him, she felt incomplete and imperfect. And even insecure.
She had wavered in Syria earlier this year when they were following Dolabella and had been besieged by Quintus Labienus himself. The man who had made her a woman against her will, and who had loved her obsessively for years in his perverse, sick way, was still able to disturb her. For a long time, she had thought that his unbridled passion was love, and considered it more worthy than Ortwin’s apparent indifference, which only later she had understood to be a form of extreme respect. But when she had to finally choose between the two, she had opted for Ortwin, realising that only he could make her happy.
And if she was not happy, it was her own fault and because of the mistakes she had made, forcing them to live a life that was not theirs. A life, however, that Ortwin still found worthy of living, dedicated as he was to avenging Caesar, a goal to which she was completely indifferent.
Without knocking, a slave walked into the room where Veleda was sitting with her four men, the only ones who had been with her and Ortwin since the flight from Germany.
“You – domina Atia wants to see you in her cubicle.”
She glared at him. “See that you show a little respect, slave,” she replied, getting to her feet. “I am a free woman – unlike you.”
The slave shrugged, turned and walked out, without even turning around to check that she was following him. Veleda was too dejected to make a fuss, and followed him obediently. It had been dark for some time now and she had learned the habits of the women she had to protect. Atia went to bed as soon as the sun disappeared behind the silhouettes of the buildings, while Octavia, with her daughter and maid, remained in the tablinum to study the financial reports and decrees, so as to keep up to date with all the sect’s activities. Etain had told her that, in the hope that her brother would involve her more than he did, Octavia needed to prove herself competent, the fool! She didn’t understand that this was and always would be men’s business. Although Octavian had brought three women into the secret society, he considered them nothing more than mere labourers.
Accompanied by the slave, who stopped at the door, she entered the room of Atia, who was unaware of the existence of the cult of Mars Ultor. No lamps burned, and no voice welcomed her. As she let her eyes adjust to the darkness which was only slightly mitigated by the dim light filtering through the shutters of the window, she felt herself pushed violently inside, losing her balance and banging into the bed. To stop herself from falling she put her hand out in front of her, and as she heard the door slam her fingers touched a body. With a quick glance, she saw that the door had closed, and the sound of a key turning told her that they had locked her inside.
In the meantime, she had begun to realise just what it was she was touching. She felt the rigidity of a corpse, and when she touched its face and closed its eyes she began to identify the contours – it was Atia.
She had failed to protect her. She had failed. But how had they had done it? Then she wondered why they had locked her in there. And immediately, she had her reply.
So that they could concentrate on Octavia, Marcella and Etain.
XI
“Allow me to make a suggestion, centurion,” said Ortwin to Popillius Laenas, as he indicated Cicero’s villa in Gaeta. He made sure that the other soldiers would not hear him before speaking. “No brutality, here. Octavian might not like it if you make him suffer: he worked long and hard for his support in the past, and perhaps still has some affection for him.”
Laenas scowled. “You forget that Mark Antony wants him dead, barbarian. Much more than Caesar Octavian. And he want
s Cicero to suffer. He expressly told me so in a letter when he learned that I would be handling the matter personally.”
“And who do you obey? Caesar Octavian, the man who has taken a liking to you, or Mark Antony, who sooner or later will end up clashing with Octavian?” said Ortwin, certain that his point would enter even that dense mind.
And in fact, Laenas appeared confused. A very rare sight in a man of such little imagination and such unshakable faith in himself, despite his atrocious temperament. He mumbled something unintelligible and did not answer, then spurred his horse and advanced at a trot towards the building. It was an imposing construction jutting out towards the sea in one of those beautiful places that had always impressed Ortwin, who had grown up in the forests of Germany, and was completely unfamiliar with the ocean. For him, the huge expanses of water remained dark and mysterious – another world that the old shamans of his tribe had always described as populated by mythical and dangerous monsters. He approached it, as always, with suspicion and with reverence.
He would never have wanted to live by the sea, in a place like that villa which loomed up before them as they approached, for fear of being attacked by some supernatural creature, but he could not help being awed by the majesty of a sunset or a sunrise on a horizon which met the sea. Heaven and earth melted together, evoking in him the awareness of a world beyond the endless forests where his destiny would have lain, had he only remained in the service of Ariovistus. A world that he had discovered, at least in part, thanks to Caesar. For that alone, he could never be grateful enough.
When they neared the entrance, the slaves immediately realised why they were there, and stared at them in terror, abandoning their work in the villa courtyard and standing immobile in front of the horsemen. After riding down the driveway leading to the front door of the building, Laenas stopped and from the saddle shouted to the doorman, who was watching him with a bewildered expression, “I am the centurion Popillius Laenas, responsible for carrying out the sentence of proscription on behalf of the triumvirate Caesar Octavian, Mark Antony and Lepidus. Tell your master to show himself immediately.”
“My master is not here…” mumbled the slave.
“He is not here?” Laenas dismounted and grabbed the slave by his tunic. “And you expect me to believe that?” he hissed in his face.
“It’s… it’s the truth!” said the trembling man. “He left for the port an hour ago…”
The centurion turned to Ortwin. “You! Take five men and go along the coast to the port, while I search the house to see if what that slave says is the truth. If you find Cicero, do nothing to him – lock him up and send someone to tell me. I will kill him personally, to make sure that my orders are carried out! And woe to you if you do it your way, barbarian!” he warned.
All Ortwin could do was to obey, even though he would have preferred to keep an eye on Laenas during the search, which, considering his sadistic nature, was likely to be bloody. In any case, even if Cicero was hiding in the house, he wanted to be present at the moment of his execution. But he resigned himself to it. He had vowed not to create further tension with the centurion, so he chose five companions and rode back down the rough path leading to the shore. Once on the beach, he urged his horse into a gallop, enjoying the pleasant sea breeze whipping his face and bursting into his nostrils, breathing it in and letting himself be lulled by memories of when, more than a decade earlier, he had followed Caesar in his campaigns in Britain, riding just like this on both sides of the channel separating the island from the coast of Gaul.
He had been struck by the magnificence and the glow of the cliffs that rose up along the British coast, their blinding white visible from afar, silhouetted against the grey and gloomy landscape characteristic of the area. But he was equally amazed now as he rode along the beaches – sunny, though it was almost winter – in a landscape of elegant villas perched along a hillside full of vegetation, sand glittering in the sunlight and rugged rocks which came up beyond the shoreline, often forcing them to take a diversion through water which came up to the horse’s withers.
He saw Cicero sooner than he had imagined. An elegant litter proceeded along the hillside, and perhaps he would not have even noticed it had not the sparseness of the trees and bushes revealed it. Slaves followed it on a covered wagon, which probably contained his most valuable possessions. Ortwin climbed the slope, urging his horse on over the uneven ground and through a thicket of Mediterranean scrub until he reached the road, heading straight for the convoy. There was no time to lose, and if it was not Cicero, he would just have to immediately go back to searching for him. When they saw him coming, the bearers halted, and a head peeked fleetingly through the curtains, before disappearing back inside.
Ortwin came close to the first litter. He decided not to waste time by asking the slaves who they were carrying. He drew his sword from its sheath and pushed back the curtain with the blade. Inside, huddled in a corner, was an elderly man whom he recognized immediately. He had seen him several times in the few months he had been in Rome with Caesar, between the campaign in Africa and the one in Spain which had been the dictator’s last – as well, of course, as the ubiquitous busts of the orator which constantly reminded you of the man’s features.
“Senator Cicero, you are under arrest on the basis of the decree of proscription of the triumvirate of Caesar Octavian, Mark Antony and Lepidus,” he said, motioning to the bearers to lower the litter to the ground. Cicero looked at him and nodded.
Ortwin ordered one of his men to go and inform Popillius Laenas. Suddenly he felt very small and embarrassed before that titan of Roman politics, and he was glad that it would be Laenas who would be carrying out the execution. Caesar had always spoken ill of Cicero as a coward who had repeatedly attempted to hinder his plans, but the dictator had huge respect for his intelligence, memory and learning, in front of which a barbarous, ignorant man of rudimentary education like himself felt inadequate. He found it unfair that a man like this had to die at the hands of an ignorant killer. Certainly, Laenas had no such qualms and would not hesitate when the time came.
“Will it be you who executes me, barbarian?” asked Cicero. “Or has your master Octavian, who I have helped much in the recent past, decided by chance to show a shred of gratitude?”
With each moment he spent with the great orator, the idea that he would receive such a humiliating death seemed increasingly unjust to Ortwin, and he decided to give him a chance, even at the risk of creating further friction with Laenas. “Caesar Octavian will comply with the provisions, Senator. But…” He dismounted and pushed his face between the curtains. “If you do not have a knife with you, I will gladly give you one myself in order for you to die a dignified death as a Roman…”
Cicero’s eyes widened, tired and terrified under a crown of uncombed hair, and Ortwin realised that he would never dare, even before the orator answered him. Caesar was right about his cowardice.
“My friend, I did not have the courage to run away and prevaricated until I was taken – do you really think I have the courage to kill myself? No, do what you want with me. It no longer matters now,” concluded Cicero, while Ortwin could already hear the distant cries of Laenas’s men urging on their horses.
*
With Atia she had failed, but she had to save the other women even if it cost her own life, thought Veleda as she banged on the locked door of the room where she had found the body of Octavian’s mother. Her life would have no value if she was unable to prove at least once that she was deserving of an extraordinary man like Ortwin. She began to peer around her in the dark, trying to work out how she could escape while at the same time asking herself the question that, in the confusion of the moment, had only occurred to her then: why had they put her out of action without killing her? She certainly did not look like the most dangerous of the bodyguards assigned to the women – the other warriors were experienced soldiers, capable of giving anyone a hard time. If anything, it was upon them that the killers sho
uld have concentrated.
Apparently, the killers were planning to attack the Germans first, and for some reason had spared her. She gave up trying to understand why she was still alive and focused her attention on what to do. She looked around for something to use to open the door, but realised, after having ransacked the elderly matron’s bedroom, that it contained nothing useful, but she took the precaution of pocketing a hairpin that she had found on the nightstand next to Atia’s bed. Having left her weapons in her quarters, she had to make a virtue of necessity.
All that was left was the window.
She checked it and found that the shutters were locked from the inside. They hadn’t been forced from without. Apparently the killers had overpowered the two men who had been set to guard the entrance, perhaps disguising themselves as Roman citizens so as not to attract attention, and had entered by the main gate of the house. Not only had they been certain of finding them there, in that place which was supposedly secret, but they knew exactly where to go once inside. They had found the room of the most harmless person immediately, killing her while the warriors and her daughter were in another wing.
They knew the floor plan perfectly.
That was something no one could have predicted. Octavian would kill her for failing to protect his mother, but there was really no way of forestalling a plan as perfect as this. In any case, the only way to avoid his retaliation was to save what was left of his family. She opened the shutters and cautiously peered outside. Like almost all the other bedrooms located on the upper floor, the room overlooked the back garden. There didn’t seem to be any movement below so she went back inside, picked up the corpse of Atia and laid it on the floor, then quickly tied the sheets into a rope, pushed the heavy bed towards the window and knotted one end of it to one of the bed’s legs. She tested its resistance then lowered herself to the ground, using her feet to steady herself against the walls of the building. Once on the ground, she stopped for a moment to reflect upon how to avoid capture, and saw, in the gloom, a body lying near the window. Peering at it in the dim light of the waxing moon, she recognised one of the men who had been on guard, and her suspicions about how things had gone were confirmed.
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