by Peter Tonkin
He was becoming acutely aware that time to complete their mission must be running out, too. Always assuming that Maecenas and Lepidus actually wanted to keep their own teams of head-hunters cooped up behind the Servian Walls. It was getting well past the calends now. What was it? The fifth of December? The sixth? Ten days after the planned ratification of the Triumvirate by the Senate and the People’s Assembly. The legalisation of its powers. The publication of the first long prescription lists. The releasing of the hunters tasked with finding the men named and returning with their heads. No matter where in the world they might be hiding.
They would have to be sending all their hunters out soon – if they hadn’t done so already. So it was becoming a race against more than time and fate. Though it seemed to him that the goddess Fortuna – Tyche in his native Sparta – was being particularly flighty and unreliable at the moment. Perhaps, also, the demigod Achilleus was asleep. Artemidorus strained to feel the demigod’s protective hands covering him. Realised with a shiver that he could not do so.
‘Is that it?’ called Mercury who was well in front. ‘That leather-roofed coach pulled off the via down there?’
‘Let’s go and see,’ answered Artemidorus.
The coach was at the bottom of a gentle downward slope. Beyond it there was a sparse wood clothing an upward slope that tried – and failed – to be a hillside. The horse was contentedly cropping the grass. There were no humans about – no driver and no passengers.
The crypteia dismounted. Artemidorus had a bad feeling about this and his inclination was to ask Puella to stay and guard the horses. But he was pretty certain that she would argue the toss if he ordered her to do so. So he detailed Hercules to do it – as the largest and least likely to move through the scrub as silently as he wanted. Once the giant was holding all the reins, he gestured and the well-practised team vanished silently into the tree-line.
As they picked their way through the thin mixture of cork oak and beech with a scrub of laurels and wild olives between the wide-spaced tree trunks, a distant muttering came to them on the cool, shadowy breeze. It was by no means loud, but it was sufficiently clear and consistent to give them a guide as to what direction they should take. After a while, individual words became audible.
‘... me...’
‘...no, me...’
‘... you choose...’
‘... or both...’
‘... at once...’
‘... at the same time, then...’
Guided by the conversation they came upon a small clearing. Cicero’s younger brother and his son stood surrounded by a tight group of soldiers. A slave, presumably their driver, cowered away in the gathering shadows. Hoping, no doubt, that he was invisible. Artemidorus recognised Lepidus’ tribune Pontius Rutillius Lupus. He and his men were clearly about to execute the proscription on the men at the heart of the circle – and carry their heads to Antony or Caesar. Whoever was offering the most.
So the hounds have been unleashed. Without conscious thought, Artemidorus looked around and behind. Then he caught himself doing it and reasoned his unconscious motivation: if Lupus was out, Popilius Lenas would hardly be far behind.
Ferrata and Quintus looked at him, as though awaiting his signal to attack. But, he reasoned, war between the hunters would only breed ill-feeling between their masters. The triumvirate had only existed for a matter of days. Bringing any kind of strain to bear on its fragile youth could do untold damage. So he made the gesture that meant ‘stand back’ and waited with them to see what would happen next.
‘Very well,’ decided Pontius Lupus, addressing Quintus Tullius Cicero and Quintus Tullius Minor formally and with respect. ‘Neither of you wishes the other to die and both are willing to die in each-other’s place. This cannot be permitted, honourable though it is. Neither of you wishes to die first – or second, as far as I can judge. This wish we can fulfil, however. I commend your spirits to whichever gods you worship. Your heads are going to Rome.’
He made a gesture and the soldiers stationed behind each of the men swung their swords in unison, sideways, a little above shoulder-height, the blades chopping deep into the back of their necks. The first blow separated the bones of their spines, cutting the spinal cords. So they were dead even before their knees gave way and they began to collapse. But it took several more blows of the two gladii actually to separate the heads from the twitching bodies. An enormous amount of blood soaked into the grass as the two executioners skipped around, trying to protect their footwear while chopping and sawing the heads free.
Artemidorus stepped forward then, as the heads were lifted out of the grass and shown to Pontius Lupus. ‘A job well done,’ the tribune said, congratulating himself more than his men. When his eyes met Artemidorus’ he gave a start of shock. ‘If you were after these two, Septem, you’re just too late,’ he said. ‘Have you finished with Marcus Tullius?’
‘No,’ said Artemidorus. ‘But I know where he probably is.’
Lupus gave a strange, lop-sided smile. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘Popilius Lenas said exactly the same thing to me when we parted company this afternoon.’
v
These have been without doubt, some of the worst days and nights of my life, thought Marcus Tullius Cicero, looking over the fishing boat’s prow and the restless grey sea beyond towards distant Formia and blessed landfall. His stomach heaved in unison with the pitching of the boat. It was empty – had been since he first came aboard back at Puteoli and vomited at once. But crippling sea-sickness still held him in its grip. Though his uncontrolled shivering had as much to do with chill and damp as it had to do with nautical nausea.
Nautical nausea. The little play on words almost raised a weary smile. Until it reminded Cicero of the play on words that had alienated Caesar and played an important part in getting him in this predicament in the first place. When he had suggested that the senate should Laudandus, ornandus, tollendus the young Caesar. Which had become widely believed to mean that they should Tolerate, elevate and exterminate him. Caesar certainly believed Cicero planned to get rid of him as soon as he destroyed Antony; and perhaps he had. It would have been the logical thing to do, had circumstances been different. Now however, it looked very much as though it was Cicero who was to be got rid of.
The wind was moderating at last but it still came from the south, driving the little vessel relentlessly northward. In spite of the best efforts of the apologetic captain and his meagre crew. Putting Cicero’s own slaves to work alongside them made no difference. All the gods, it seemed, were conspiring against him. Driving him relentlessly back to the place from which he was trying to escape.
Away to the west, on his left, the sun was setting somewhere beyond the slowly departing storm clouds. To his right, the black line of the coast already seemed to be in the grip of night. Dead ahead in the distance, he could just make out the first glimmers of light like stars as they lit the lamps in the little harbour at Formia and the havenator harbourmaster caused the modest pharos lighthouse to be illuminated.. ‘We should be able to dock it before it’s full night,’ called the captain who was at the tiller with the steersman. ‘Even with short sail, we’re making good speed.’
Hurrying to my doom. Thought Marcus Tullius Cicero. Hurrying to my doom.
As the boat eased alongside the dock, Cicero sent the strongest of his slaves ashore with orders to fetch his litter. Then he too went ashore and sat on a pile of netting and cordage shivering with cold and exhaustion until Philologus himself appeared with a flaming torch, the litter and the better part of a dozen slaves to carry it, two more of whom were carrying torches.
‘There have been soldiers at the villa looking for you, master. I sent them away.’ Philologus called above the battering of the wind in the torch-flames and the roaring of the trees, which sounded indistinguishable from the surf.
‘I’d go home even if they were still waiting for me there,’ said Cicero as the solicitous steward helped him to his feet. ‘I’m too
cold and exhausted to care.’ He turned and waved farewell to the boat and its crew as the last of his slaves staggered ashore.
Philologus helped him into the litter and led the way up the hill. The flames of the torches flickered and danced, making a hypnotic play of light and shadow in the thickets of trees either side of the narrow path. The way was not particularly long or steep, but Cicero, lying back in the litter and looking out through the fluttering curtains on either side was very nearly lulled to sleep. The wind roared more gently through the treetops as the storm began to die at last. The mewing of the gulls became almost soothing as they ceased fishing and returned to their nests along the shore. The crows that nested in the high branches cawed sleepily as they too settled for the night.
Only Philologus’ incessant chatter kept Cicero awake. ‘Your brother and your nephew passed through yesterday on their way to Rome. They visited Minucius Basilus briefly then moved on. They were lucky to miss the soldiers. One group visited the house before they arrived and returned just after they left. Commanded by a Centurion. I heard them call him Septem. Seven. A strange name...’
‘I know Septem. He is Antony’s man, though he has worked for young Caesar as well.’
‘He also visited Minucius Basilus’ villa, then he rode off towards Rome. But, talking of Minucius Basilus, the most dreadful thing has happened...’
Stunned with fatigue and horror at what seemed to have happened to his neighbour, Cicero climbed into bed. He had paused only to have a drink of water and to direct that some reliable slaves be posted along the road and down at the docks in case anyone should try and sneak up on him as he slept. It was full night now and the instant his bedside lamp went out, he was plunged into absolute darkness.
He sprang awake an instant later, disturbed by the urgent cawing of the crows. He opened his eyes to see that his bedroom was flooded with the grey light of dawn. What had seemed a mere heartbeat had in fact been an entire night. But the crows, he thought. What could have disturbed the crows?
Philologus burst in, the lamp he carried illuminating his terrified expression. ‘The soldiers are coming,’ he said. ‘What will we do?’
‘My litter,’ snapped Cicero. ‘I’m too stiff to run. You’ll have to help me walk until I can get into it. I’ll go back down to the port and back aboard the boat. It’ll still be there. Once we cast off I’ll be safe. For the time being at least. Because the legal power of the Triumvirs stops at the tide-line. Not even Caesar rules the sea. Hurry, man. Get my litter and the bearers.’
vi
The crypteia were riding full-tilt back towards Formia when the trap was sprung. Mercury as pathfinder was in the lead with Artemidorus and Ferrata close behind. Quintus and Puella led the others in the next rank back and the wagon brought up the rear behind Hercules, and Furius. The moon had set and they were only able to move so swiftly because the day was beginning to dawn. By Roman calculation, the instant the sun came over the horizon, the seventh day after the calends of December would begin.
The thunder of the horse-hooves on the road below and the cawing of the crows in the wind-tossed branches above disguised the sound of the incoming arrows until it was too late. The day was dawning but not yet bright. Which explained, Artemidorus calculated later, why the first flight of arrows targeted Mercury, on the assumption that he was the leader because he was riding ahead of the others. Four of that first flight thumped at point-blank range into Mercury and his horse. The horse went down as though it had been tripped, falling to Mercury’s left and into the path of Ferrata’s steed. Competent horseman though he was, Ferrata went down with his mount as it plunged over Mercury and his fallen horse. Ferrata was hurled over his own horse’s withers to crash face-first into the roadway. Just as the second flight of arrows hissed past their falling bodies.
Reining to a halt, Artemidorus managed to avoid the tangle of legs and bodies. And the third flight of arrows. He threw himself to the ground and ran full-tilt towards the black-hearted clump of pines from which the arrows had come. He felt Quintus, Puella, Furius and Hercules fall in behind him. A flight of arrows hummed low over his head, hurling in the same direction he was moving. The rest of the contubernium were as quick off the mark as their leaders. Their arrows whispered into the trees, thumping into tree-trunks, vanishing into shadows, covering the charge. Followed at once by a second flight.
Artemidorus hit the shadows between the trees with his spatha in one hand and his pugio in the other. This was not the sort of action – or battleground – where a shield would be of any use. Quintus and Puella surged into the fragrant darkness immediately behind him. A third flight of arrows whirred low over his helmet crest, disappearing into the shadows ahead. But after half a dozen steps he stopped. Crowding close behind either shoulder, the others did the same. Their attackers had vanished. Beneath the restlessness of the trees and the cawing of the crows, everything was silent and deathly still.
‘What the fuck?’ demanded Quintus, his voice just a whisper above silence.
‘Hit and run,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Ghost Warrior tricks.’
‘Just trying to slow us down?’ Quintus suggested.
‘If that was the objective, they’ve succeeded.’ Artemidorus grated.
’Who do you think they were?’
‘Someone else after Cicero’s head.’
‘That narrows the field...’
‘What’s this?’ Puella broke into the whispered conversation. She stooped, almost invisible in the shadows – a formless shape clad in steel-scaled armour that just about caught the light. She straightened holding something else that gleamed. A fascinus winged phallus good-luck charm. Wordlessly she handed it to Artemidorus who glanced at it but could make out precious little in the grey dawn light. So he slipped it into his money-pouch and forgot about it.
‘Not Ghost Warriors, then,’ said Quintus. ‘Not if they worship Fascinus, god of good luck.’
‘Ferrata will be able to tell us more about it – if there’s anything much to tell. He’s got more fascinum charms than anyone I know.’ Artemidorus’ words were still lingering on the restless breeze when Hercules interrupted them.
‘You’d better come,’ he said.
‘This doesn’t sound good,’ said Quintus as they turned to follow him.
‘It’s not,’ the giant tutor flung over his shoulder. ‘It’s bad.’
Mercury and Ferrata were both badly hurt. Mercury’s horse was dead, its neck broken, and Ferrata’s would need to be put out of the misery resulting from two broken forelegs. Not least because it was impossible to think – let alone talk – with the sound of its agonised screams. Artemidorus nodded grimly to Furius who drove the point of his gladius into the poor creature’s neck. Taking it out of its agony in half a dozen fountaining heartbeats as its life-blood arced the better part of thirty feet down the road.
It was touch and go whether the wounded riders should also be granted an easy quietus. Ferrata had somehow landed on his left cheekbone. The cheek-guard on his helmet had gone some way towards protecting his face from the rough stones of the roadway. And his armoured shoulder-guard had at least stopped his neck, shoulder and arm from breaking. But from the brow-ridge of his helmet down to his chin, from his flattened nose right across to the ragged remains of his ear, all of the skin and much of the flesh of his face seemed to have gone. And, at first glance, his left eye had gone with it. The eyebrow was pulled down onto the gross swelling of his pebble-dashed eyelids. The white ridge of the cheek bone stood stark below the oozing mess and above the raw expanse of his cheek. But he was at least able to speak clearly. ‘Fuck,’ he was saying. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’
Mercury was not so fortunate. He had an arrow through his face which entered on the right side through the muscles of his jaw immediately in front of his armoured cheek flap and wedged there. Its barbed point stuck out of the opposite side, the shaft held firmly - agonisingly - in place by the bones containing his teeth. Another, a hand’s width below it and a li
ttle further back, pieced his throat from side to side, the shaft not quite able to contain the blood pulsing rhythmically past it to foam down his breast. He was gasping in terminal shock, the great arteries of his neck both pierced – perhaps severed – thought Artemidorus. The deadly shaft held in place behind the great tubes of his gullet. Any attempt to move or remove the arrow would just make him bleed out more quickly. Hastening the inevitable.
His eyes were huge and fastened on Puella. Hers were fastened on his. It was hard to gauge which pair contained more acute distress.
As gently as possible, Artemidorus, Hercules, Furius and Quintus loaded the wounded and the dying men into the back of their supply wagon. Ferrata continued to swear, the volume of the obscenities rising as first Artemidorus and then Puella examined the ruin of his left profile.
Mercury could not speak, but the sounds he made when Puella turned away from him were full of meaning. He had loved her since he first saw her. Had turned spy for her. Betrayed his legion and his commander – young Caesar – for her. If he was to die, and there was little doubt about it, he wanted to do so in her arms.
Artemidorus glanced at the slaves driving the vehicle. Legionary slaves, chosen for their soldierly skills. Excellent bowmen, as they had just proved. They were almost as formidable as Quintus and would keep the wagon and its occupants safe. ‘Take them into Formia,’ he ordered. ‘Try and find a doctor. And the local adile magistrate. This is likely to be murder and should be reported as such, as we are not actually at war. Puella, practise as much as you can of the skills you learned under the doctor Glyco in Caesar’s camp. We will finish this bloody business here and find you as soon as we can.’