by Peter Tonkin
‘Remember what Cicero did at the end of the Catiline conspiracy? How many did he kill out of hand? Without trial? Five! Patricians and senators. Strangled in the Tullianum.’ He glanced across at the nearby prison building as he named it. ‘No formal accusation. No trials. Execution on his say-so. Despite Caesar’s defence of them in the Senate. Including Publius Lentulus. My stepfather! I even had to plead with the little cockroach to get him a decent burial!’ Then he concluded, his face still reflecting some of the outrage he had felt as a nineteen-year-old in seeing his family so brutally destroyed. ‘He can be absolutely ruthless. He’ll urge them to proscribe and execute us all.’
‘You’d have to run,’ said Enobarbus. ‘And if you run, you’ve lost everything. You might as well fall on your sword and have done with it.’
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘So, leaving the citizens on one side for the moment as an unknown quantity, we have two immediate objectives. Get enough soldiers in here to keep you safe if need be. Even from the Libertores. Including Cicero. And find a way of slowing or stopping Albinus’ and Basilus’ gladiators.’
‘We can’t use the Seventh Legion, though,’ warned Antony. ‘I’ve thought this through. Discussed it with Lepidus. Talked it over with Fulvia as I say. The Seventh can only come in if we do manage to start a riot. Ostensibly to keep the peace. Any earlier than that and it will look like a coup. Like Sulla all over again.’
‘No. I wasn’t thinking of the Seventh,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I was thinking of the Sixth. The Ironclads. Ferrata. They’ve been disbanded. No one will think you are trying to stage a coup using old soldiers. And I have some idea of where they’ll be.’
‘Taverns or brothels, I should think,’ said Antony, brightening up. ‘At least that’s the way it was in my day. And the gladiators?’
‘At least we know where they’ll be. At the Circus Maximus. The games start today. For the Quinquatria festival. And for Caesar’s funeral. But wait! I’ve just thought… Lord Antony, didn’t you announce that the Senate had agreed to pay for the funeral out of the public purse?’
‘Yes. That’s right…’
‘Then it’s entirely possible that the gladiators don’t work for Albinus anymore. They work for the Senate and People of Rome. What difference would that make?’
‘I’m not sure. But it’s a good point. How can we find out?’
‘We could ask…’ suggested Artemidorus. ‘Just simply go down there and ask.’
‘Right!’ said Antony. Fizzing with energy once again. ‘You get the soldiers organised and find out about the gladiators. And I’ll take care of all the rest.’
Ferrata looked as though he could scarcely stand. Let alone guard Antony’s back. ‘By Jupiter that was a good night,’ he said. ‘I just wish I could remember more of it. We established that she was a better mulier equitans horsewoman than an entire cavalry unit. Especially when it came to riding me. Then my memory goes hazy.’
While Enobarbus was regaled with what else the legionary could remember of his visit to the brothel next door, Artemidorus ordered him the best breakfast the taberna could provide. Not out of simple charity. They needed the old soldier up and out. Organising his fellow legionaries from the VIth. As with Artemidorus’ wine of a couple of nights ago, this inn could produce the odd surprise. So Ferrata was soon tucking into sweet libae rolls, with dried figs and Egyptian melon. Drinking honeyed mulsum wine instead of the bitter posca of yesterday evening. And, surprisingly quickly he was back to his old self.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can organise Valens and as many of the old Ironsides as you want. But I can’t arm them all. I mean we’ve all got our pugio daggers. Some of us have our gladius swords. But that’s about it.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ve thought of that. You need to go out to Tiber Island. Take Valens and however many men as you can recruit. Ask for the Centurion Oppius and the Legionary Quintus. First centuria. Tell them Septem sent you. Septem and the Tribune Enobarbus. They’ll supply whatever you need. But remember. No badges, banners or eagles. You cannot even begin to look as though you’ve come from the Seventh.’
‘Wouldn’t want to,’ said Ferrata, mightily offended. ‘I have my reputation to consider. And the reputation of the Sixth.’
They split up then. Ferrata went in search of Valens and his other friends. Artemidorus and Enobarbus began to make their way towards the Circus Maximus. The Vicus Tuscus Tuscan Road took them round the western slopes of the Palatine, down towards the river and the Forum Borium cattle market. The forum was conveniently placed. Between the Tiber, straddled at this point by the Aemelian and Sublician bridges. And the square western end of the Circus Maximus.
It was convenient because the forum housed more than the cattle it was named for. The menagerie was close by, housing the wild animals that had not managed to escape during the storm six nights ago. Which were destined for the circus. This was also where the horses were stabled that took part in the games. The horse races. The wild beast hunts. The gladiatorial contests, ridden by equites. And of course the incredibly popular chariot races. Each of the four chariot teams, Red, White, Blue and Green, kept their horses here. As well as maintaining clubhouses up in the centre of the city itself. Where enthusiastic supporters could meet like-minded men. Get drunk in good company. And go out to beat up the supporters of opposing teams.
‘Which team do you support? I’ve never asked,’ said Enobarbus as the forum came into view.
‘It’s a dangerous question,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘The Blues.’
‘Thank the gods. Me too,’ laughed the tribune.
They finished the conversation as they entered the forum, with its rich smell of cattle and their droppings. The noise of their lowing. The chatter of their handlers. And the men and women here to look or to buy.
They turned left, with the river to their backs. Heading up the slope towards the square western end of the circus. Which towered dead ahead. The main, central entrance was high and topped with a statue of a chariot drawn by a pair of horses. The bronze charioteer stood tall. Looking over the cattle market towards the Tiber. The Janiculum Hill. The villa which had housed Cleopatra. And the spacious, pine-shaded gardens Caesar had just willed to the People of Rome.
Five lesser entrances opened on either side of the main one, all topped with statues of gladiators. Inside the circus itself, the chariot racetrack stretched away. More than two thousand pedes feet. To the even larger entrances at the far, curved end. Partially concealed by the columns and obelisks that rose from the wall in the middle of the racetrack. On either side, the stands stretched away. Largely unoccupied as the games had not yet started. The lower stands were masonry. The upper ones were wood.
At the near end of the chariot circuit there was a wide space. Floored with sand. Where pairs of gladiators were rehearsing their individual combats. Which later in the day would be put on for real. Now it was just sweat raining onto the sand, thought Artemidorus as he neared the arched entrances. Later it would be blood. Immediately inside the circus he could make out a pair of litters and their porters. And a couple of familiar figures. Standing on the marble flagstones of the area behind the starting gates. Which would be erected later when the gladiatorial contests were replaced by chariot races. One figure was huge. The other youthfully slim. ‘Good morning, Hercules. And young master Lepidus,’ said Artemidorus as he neared them. ‘What are you two doing here?’
‘My father has come to arrange some details of the funeral games,’ young Lepidus answered, turning round and smiling. ‘He and Lord Albinus are discussing whether Albinus’ troupe will take part in these games. Agreeing a price for them to do so, I think. Now that the Senate has ruled that the games will be financed from public funds. We accompanied him because Hercules thought I could learn a lot about various types of combat simply from watching these men practise. They are supposed to be the best. They come from the leading school in Campagnia.’
‘So did Spartacus. And most
of his army. You could certainly learn a lot from watching such men practise,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘More than you can learn from watching them die, I think.’ His tone was preoccupied. His eyes narrow. Scanning the carefully moving pairs of men for a Syrian club. But he couldn’t see anyone who looked like Syrus. Or who resembled the members of his gang.
As he completed his swift survey, Lepidus senior and Albinus came strolling over. Locked in apparently companionable conversation. Artemidorus wondered whether Albinus had the slightest idea what Ferrata’s legionary friends thought of him. Or what Antony was planning. Probably not. Or he wouldn’t be getting rid of his gladiators. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he was saying as he approached.
‘A fair price, I think,’ Lepidus nodded.
‘As it comes out of the public purse.’ Shrugged Albinus.
The treacherous senator’s gaze swept over the two soldiers with no sign of recognition. He got into his litter and was borne away.
Lepidus looked after him. ‘He did his best to cheat the public purse out of far too much,’ he said. ‘He’s incredibly greedy. Especially as he’s so rich in the first place. But it was a fair price in the end, I think.’
Lepidus was really talking to himself. But Artemidorus joined in the conversation. ‘I don’t see any of Minucius Basilus’ men out there, Lord Lepidus,’ he said.
‘Oh Basilus wouldn’t part with his gladiators at any price,’ said Lepidus. ‘So they won’t be taking part in the games. He says he’s still got a use for them. An account he wants to settle.’
‘Right,’ said Enobarbus. ‘It’s clearly not just Antony who’s living dangerously today. And ironically enough, his plan is a double-edged sword as far as you’re concerned.’
‘I see that,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘If there’s no riot, Antony loses – but Syrus and his men will have only a limited chance to get to me. On the other hand if there is a riot, Antony wins. And I’m likely to turn up among the roll call of rioters’ victims. Head broken open. Brains in the gutter…’
‘That’s what the man said. And it’s exactly what I was thinking,’ agreed Enobarbus.
‘But on the positive side,’ countered Artemidorus. ‘If there is a riot, everyone will be on the lookout for trouble. Including me. Especially me, now. And the Seventh will be on the streets.’
As they talked, the two soldiers were retracing their steps though the cattle market and up Tuscan Street. The Tiber lay on their left, skeins of mist like spiders’ webs rising from its limpid surface into the cool morning air. The Palatine rose on their right. The Capitoline reared ahead with the Temple of Jupiter on its crest. The road followed the Velabrum valley up to the Forum itself. And as with yesterday, the two men soon found themselves being swept along in a river of humanity all heading the same way.
The Forum was packed but not yet as full as it had been in the recent past. The shops and stalls round its edges were all open and doing brisk business. Their wooden counters piled with everything from seasonal fruit and vegetables to tiny models of household gods. At this season, winter apples, broccoli and artichokes; models of Venus, Minerva and Mars. The two soldiers were able to cross to the Rostra and take up position in front of it. Facing the crowd. Then, as the sun rose over the rooftops and pine trees clothing the upper slopes of the Esquiline, the forum filled to capacity. The praeco continued to advise the crowd that the funeral procession would soon begin. The ceremony would soon be under way. And those with gifts and sacrifices should take them out to the pyre on the Field of Mars.
No sooner had the first long golden sunbeams illuminated the Rostra and the model of the temple to Venus on top of it than the buzzing chatter of the expectant crowds was stilled by deep, mournful music. It seemed that every head in the Forum turned at once to look towards the Domus. The low, sad music of tubae military trumpets and cornua horns rang across the heart of Rome. Seeming to come from every corner and echo against the sky. As the doors to the Domus Publicus were thrown wide.
Piso, as Caesar’s father-in-law, led the procession out of the shady atrium and into the morning light. The crowd parted to let the procession cover the short distance between Caesar’s home and the shrine awaiting him on the Rostra. Spreading out into the side streets and up onto the slope of the aquimelium on the Capitoline as they did so. Artemidorus could feel the emotion of the crowd shift and swirl. Like a sailor reading the wind. Someone cried. Almost a scream. High pitched. Man or woman? He could not tell. But the sound was taken up. And spread.
Caesar was borne out into the light, feet first. On an ivory couch. Carried shoulder high by what looked to be every aedile magistrate in the city. All in mourning robes. The dead dictator’s corpse was little more than an outline beneath a gold and purple funeral cloth. At each side of the couch walked a torchbearer, as tradition dictated. Blazing flambeau held high. The flames pallid, almost ghostly in the morning brightness. But bringing memories of the far-off days when funerals were held exclusively at night.
Behind Caesar’s corpse came his widow Calpurnia and the Lady Atia. Then Antony, alone. And behind him, rank after rank of men lamenting in one way or another the death of Gaius Julius Caesar. The first rank bore the long military tubae, pointing upwards to left and right. Larger than those used in legionary camps. Their sounds deeper. Darker. The gold of their wide mouths gleaming. Then the cornua, wrapped like gilded snakes around the bodies of the men who played them. Behind the musicians, came a choir, singing dirges. Behind them, the mourners. Professionals. Their numbers fleshed out with actors. Many in tragic masks. Playing their parts well. All costumed in funeral robes, weeping and wailing. Almost as loudly, thought Artemidorus, as the crowd through which they were passing.
Then, as tradition dictated, the jesters. Many in comic masks. Jumping, juggling and joking. Artemidorus could not make out what their jokes were. But he could see very plainly that no one much was laughing at them. Behind the jesters, almost as though they too were part of some grim joke, came rank after rank of senators. Artemidorus searched their solemn faces to see if any of the murderers were brave enough to attend. Brave enough or foolhardy enough. But no. There was no sign of any of the so-called Libertores.
Behind the senators came Caesar. And behind him, Caesar. Then Caesar. Then Caesar. And, finally, Caesar. The effect was disturbingly disorientating. It took an instant for Artemidorus to realise that the line of Caesars was made up of actors wearing wax masks of Caesar’s face. The masks were of highest quality beeswax. Carefully painted. They were unsettlingly lifelike. Furthermore, the men had been chosen for their physical similarity to Caesar. They were wearing Caesar’s face. And they were also wearing his triumphal robes. They processed through the Forum in the order that Caesar himself had celebrated his triumphs. First over Gaul. Then over Cleopatra’s brother and her other enemies in Alexandria. Then the Pontus triumph. The African triumph. And lastly. Still most controversially, the Spanish triumph memorialising his destruction of Pompey’s sons at Munda. Which he had celebrated through these very streets only five months earlier.
As the funeral was a family affair, though not without political weight and implications, there was no further political involvement apart from the senators already there. Any other patricians, politicians or foreign dignitaries who wished to observe the proceedings had to mix with the common men and women in the Forum. Consequently, thought Artemidorus, there weren’t many patrician faces about. Other than those tacitly declaring themselves friends of Caesar by walking with his mourners. Or carrying his corpse. Not that that was much of a surprise. Given the way the man whose life they were celebrating had died.
By the time the last Caesarian effigy was in the Forum, Caesar’s body was up on the Rostra. The ivory couch was laid in its place in the shrine modelled on the Temple of Venus. As chance would have it, this stood immediately above Artemidorus’ head. And therefore out of his view. But the instant the body was settled, there came a great commotion. A squad of armed soldiers pushed into the square. What
looked like an eighty-man centuria of them. Fully armed. With helmets and shields. Bursting out of the Clivus Argentarius road. Quick-marching in well-ordered ranks.
As Artemidorus and Enobarbus moved out of their way, they took up station all around the Rostra. On a bellowed command, each man pulled out his gladius and beat it against his scutum shield. The sound was overpowering. The crowd wavered dangerously back and forth. Settling only when it was obvious that the anonymous soldiers presented no immediate threat. That they were here to honour Caesar. Not to avenge him.
From his new position, Artemidorus could now see the Rostra clearly. And those assembled behind it. So he noticed at once that Fulvia had joined her husband. And had brought Cyanea with her. Escorted by Promus and some of Antony’s house slaves. But it was not Antony who began the next section of the funeral. Marcus Fossilus, the oldest and most widely respected of the senators who had followed the body slowly made his way up onto the Rostra. He stood beside the shrine that held Caesar’s corpse. He painstakingly unrolled a scroll. And began to read from it. His voice was stronger than his aged body led the spy to expect. But still it quavered. Almost as though the man was scared of what he was reading. It took a moment for his words to sink in. Then there was a kind of muttering from the crowd. Artemidorus looked at Enobarbus, understanding the ancient senator’s nervousness. The tribune shrugged. Neither man had expected this.
The senator was reading out the oath that the entire Senate swore on behalf of the People while honouring Caesar on his return from Spain. The senator’s words came and went under the growing murmur from the crowd. ‘Pater patriae… Father of your country… Immortal leader… Benefactor to all… Sacrosanct… Inviolate… We swear to honour, obey and protect you…’ Having read the oath, senator Fossilus made no comment. He simply turned and left the Rostra. The atmosphere in the Forum, thought Artemidorus, was such as could be felt just before the first thunder of a terrible storm. And yet, still the people did not move. No one came forward to lead them. To lance the boil of outrage with the needle of violent action.