by Peter Tonkin
‘We’ll know,’ said Artemidorus. ‘We’ll know what it is when it starts. And that’s the moment we’ll know the best way to stop it.’
‘But only if we get all this put clearly into order and it fits in with what your girl knows,’ countered Spurinna, counting the sequence off on his fingers. ‘If we can get it to the tribune and the tribune can persuade the general to take action in a heartbeat and alert the Divine Julius with evidence so clear and damning that it cannot be refuted.’
‘Mark Antony has never in his entire life been shy of taking action in a heartbeat. I’ve seen him do it. On the battlefield as well as elsewhere,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Speaking as the senior centurion of the Legio VII.’
‘True. But a good deal of that instantaneous action has landed him in a great deal of trouble.’
‘Not this time,’ answered Artemidorus forcefully. ‘This time I think we’re only in trouble if Antony doesn’t act.’
‘Puella,’ said Spurinna, his tone of voice in marked contrast to the one he used earlier. ‘Is there anything you overheard that might give us more of a clue? Not names. Not who was at what meeting or where… But what they actually said?’
Puella’s gaze flashed to Artemidorus and then away again before he could even react. ‘They have talked about attacking him on the Via Sacra, when he goes for one of his unaccompanied walks. I heard Cassius and Casca discussing this with Lord Brutus.’
‘I see,’ said Spurinna. ‘But what I don’t understand is how a household slave like you – even a favoured servant rarely far from her master’s side – gets to know all of these important people by name…’
Puella opened her mouth to reply but Artemidorus took over the explanation. ‘You don’t understand the full formality with which Lord Brutus and Lady Porcia run their social lives. Almost every guest is not only conducted to the meeting room, whichever room that is on any occasion, but is also formally announced with full name, by the atriensis, major domo. Even regular visitors. Praenomen, nomen, cognomen. All three elements.’
‘Almost everyone. I see,’ nodded Spurinna. Then he shrugged. ‘So, back to the conversation…’
‘My Lord Brutus argued that there would be no reason for a group of patricians to be all in one place, even on the Via Sacra.’ Her eyes closed. Her voice deepened. With a shiver of shock and surprise, the spy heard the conspirator’s very words issuing from the mouth of a slave. A slave Brutus must simply have forgotten was standing close enough to overhear what he and his guests were saying. ‘So many aristocrats strolling along the Via Sacra together must arouse suspicion. That such an act under such circumstances in such a place would simply appear as murder. And he would only be involved in an enterprise that was obviously protecting the good of the Republic. That their action should appear to be a sacrifice for the good of the Republic; almost like the sacrifice that gladiators make when they die in the arena as an offering to the gods. That they must be liberators, not murderers. Liberators like his famous forefather. They call themselves Libertores. Liberators.’
A picture flashed into Artemidorus’ memory. Of the family tree in Brutus’ atrium, tracing his ancestry back to the Lucius Junius Brutus who led the uprising that rid Rome of King Tarquin the Great and founded the Republic four hundred years earlier.
‘Interesting,’ mused the augur. ‘Though I don’t believe Caesar has ravished any suicidal aristocratic matrons recently – as Tarquin’s son raped Lucrece, with such fatal results for all.’
‘Only because he has managed to fulfil himself with more than enough willing women since he could first achieve an erection, perhaps,’ observed Artemidorus drily. ‘Like the one visiting her son Brutus even as we speak. Brutus, who Caesar may even have sired when he was fifteen and Servilia, his first mistress, was little more than nineteen. Like the current mistress occupying his villa on the Janiculum Hill at the moment.’ He gestured southward with his chin.
‘Ah, the fabulous Cleopatra,’ nodded Spurinna. ‘Who has captured more hearts than Caesar’s. Marc Antony’s for a start, I understand. But proceed with your story, child. It is the twenty or so men who hate the Divine Julius that we want to know about – not the infinite numbers of women who love him.’
‘On another occasion they discussed Marcus Tullius Cicero, with Quintus Labeo and Tillius Cimber. Cassius wondered whether Cicero should be asked to join the Libertores,’ continued Puella obligingly. ‘My Lord Brutus decided that Cicero would support the cause because he fears that Caesar plans to become the next King of Rome…’
‘As Lucius Cotta has already suggested the Sibylline Texts may predict…’ interrupted Artemidorus.
Spurinna merely shrugged. ‘Carry on, child,’ he ordered.
‘But my Lord Brutus believed Cicero would be incapable of following a plan he had not made himself – that he was incapable of taking orders.’
‘Lord Brutus has the measure of the man,’ nodded Spurinna, much amused. ‘Cicero’s opinion of himself, like his sentences, hardly ever ends. He will follow no man…’
‘And then there was the question of Lord Antony…’
The laughter drained from the augur’s face. ‘Lord Antony,’ he repeated. ‘Go on, Puella…’
‘Cassius put most strongly the case that Lord Antony must meet whatever fate they have planned for the Caesar. They are co-consuls together and only Lepidus as master of the horse holds more power. The others there all agreed with him.’
‘Did he?’ the augur’s eyes were narrow. ‘Did they? And what did Lord Brutus say?’
‘That they were to be physicians. Not butchers. That Antony is only a limb of Caesar’s in any case. And once the head is off, the limb will be helpless. Even a limb that holds a gladius.’
‘By that they must mean the legions,’ said Artemidorus. ‘The Seventh is on Tiber Island. Lord Antony as co-consul or Lord Lepidus as magister equitum can have them on the streets of the city within a matter of hours.’
‘No wonder they want him taken down with the Divine Julius,’ said Spurinna. ‘I’m surprised they don’t want Lepidus killed as well.’
‘They do.’ Puella answered. ‘Tillius Cimber put that case most strongly and the Lord Cassius agreed. But my Lord Brutus gave the same answer as he had given for Lord Antony…’
‘Looks like Cicero isn’t the only one who will only follow a plan he made himself,’ said Spurinna. ‘Though at least Brutus punctuates his speeches. On the other hand, that doesn’t make them particularly interesting or moving. He’s no better as an orator than he was as a soldier.’
‘But we can’t rely on Cassius doing what Brutus tells him,’ warned Artemidorus. ‘Brutus may be of the ultimate Republican bloodline. And one of the most respected men in Rome even if he is no great orator. But he’s an administrator. Cassius is a soldier – and a good one to have walked away from Crassus’ Parthian slaughterhouse at Carrhae with ten thousand men behind him. He’ll act if he gets the chance, no matter what Brutus has said.’
Spurinna nodded. ‘We’d better get these tablets clean and assembled as quickly as we can – and then get them and this young oracle to the tribune as fast as possible. Do you know where Enobarbus is, by the way, Seven?’
‘At Antony’s house.’
‘Oh. You mean at the palace on the Clivus Publicius he stole from Pompey’s estate. After Cleopatra’s brother handed Caesar Pompey’s head on that beach near Alexandria? The one decorated with the prows of all those galleys?’
‘Yes,’ said Artemidorus. ‘That’s the house I mean. That’s where the tribune and the general will be. Guaranteed. If everything is proceeding as planned.’
‘And do you think that’s likely?’ demanded Spurinna. ‘Tonight of all nights?’
Even as he spoke, the physician Antistius entered the crowded, smoky little room. ‘Can I have you with me for a moment, Artemidorus?’ he said. ‘I’ve found a couple of things I really think you should see.’
*
‘Have you cut many throats?’ asked
Antistius as they crossed the restless, but no longer storm-bound atrium.
The vision of Brutus’ doorkeeper sprang into the ex-gladiator’s mind. And the numberless others that Scorpionis had despatched in the arena. ‘Not cut, no,’ he answered. ‘Not many.’
‘But you have seen cut throats?’
‘Enough…’
‘Then perhaps you can explain what is unusual about this one…’
Telos was lying on his back, arms at his sides and legs straight out, closed together. His ruined tunic lay across his loins. The papyrus lay nearby, with its almost-mu woven into the fabric of it. Artemidorus noted all this only distantly, for his attention was focused on his dead friend’s throat. Antistius had rolled the ball of his skull back so that the gaping wound was clear and easy to examine under the lamplight.
As he had admitted, the ex-gladiator and centurion had seen cut throats before. Cutting a throat was often the easiest and most merciful way to send a terminally wounded man out of howling earthly agony to the peace and quiet of the Elysian Fields. Whether in the arena or on the battlefield. Perhaps that was why the killing stroke was called a quietus.
‘The two most effective ways of doing it are to cut across the front with a sharp knife, dagger or sword. Or to push the point of your knife or pugio behind the big tube immediately beneath the chin here and pull the blade straight out to the front. That’s the best way in my experience. You cut all the blood vessels and end matters most quickly. If there is any resistance from the organs of the throat it hardly matters because the blood vessels are all severed in any case. Slicing in from the front can be more problematic. This pipe here is solid gristle, almost as hard as bone, and it can be tough to cut through. I’ve seen men sawing and sawing while some poor bastard chokes and screams.’
‘Fascinating. And this one?’
Artemidorus had been studying Telos’ wound as he spoke. ‘This was from the front, clearly…’ The wound was wide, almost from ear to ear. And deep. All the tubes and vessels of the throat were neatly and completely severed. The muscles of the neck were cut and white points of bone showed where the blade had scraped across the spine. But most striking of all, the wound was clean. There were no rough edges. No torn skin. No signs of sawing at all. Telos had been given his quietus with one single stroke of a fantastically sharp blade. Hanging against the scaffolding, half dead already, his head held up by someone pulling a handful of hair. Surrounded, in all probability, by the five or so men it would have taken to hold him in place while he was lashed and nailed. Even fainting near death, he would have struggled. Almost certainly no room for a gladius sword or anything of comparable size, therefore. Just as there was no room for a legionary to swing a club in battle. So it was done with a knife or a dagger. Not a gladius: a pugio. And one clean stroke had cut to the bone.
Cut to the bone…
The phrase echoed in his mind and he understood what Antistius was telling him. The knife that did this had a blade of almost magical keenness. And as far as he knew there were only two blades in the whole of Rome like that. Brought from the East. From the farthest edge of Alexander’s empire. At the orders of Lord Brutus’ mother the Lady Servilia. One of them was probably back in Brutus’ family shrine – if they had managed to pull it out of the doorkeeper’s ox-like neck.
And Puella might just be able to remember what had happened to the other one if he pressed her firmly enough, he thought, turning without a further word and striding back out into the atrium.
*
Spurinna and Puella had melted the wax off all the tablets and splinters. The clean wood lay on the kitchen table and the pair of them crowded side by side, staring down. Which was a waste of time for at least one of them – unless Puella had been taught to read Greek. That, however, seemed unlikely to Artemidorus. The sharpness of her memory made him almost certain she was illiterate. Most household slaves had to remember complex messages, orders and directions without the support of notes. So their memories tended to get better. She had already proved to possess excellent powers of recall. And was clearly filling her mind with what Spurinna was saying as he translated Telos’ coded list.
‘It’s confusing,’ the augur was grumbling as Artemidorus entered. ‘Naso seems to be on here twice. So does Casca. So does Brutus. Can there be more than one of each? Cassius is named here as Cassius twice but also as Longinus, which is his cognomen. It’s a mess. And we can’t even be sure whether all the names on here are conspirators or men standing against the conspirators. Cicero is on one of the tablets, but Antony, Trebonius, Lepidus and Albinus are on another. And as Puella admits she only knows the names and identities of almost all of them, we could still run into unexpected trouble.’
‘The general and the magister equitum have to be above suspicion,’ said Artemidorus, joining them. Almost unconsciously sliding his body between theirs; thigh, hip, shoulder and cheek close enough to Puella to feel her heat and smell the odour of hyssop that seemed to cling to her. ‘Albinus is one of Caesar’s closest friends. He was at Lepidus’ villa tonight having dinner with Caesar as far as I know. Enobarbus says Albinus may be mentioned in Caesar’s will – he’s planning to adopt him, though it looks as though his great-nephew Octavius will be the principal heir. He rewrote it a few months ago. There may even be an updated document in the keeping of the vestals. No. I have no idea how he learns these things. Perhaps he’s sleeping with one of Caesar’s secretaries. Or all of them. Maybe even with a vestal. Who knows?
‘Trebonius and Caesar have had their differences but he’s Caesar’s legate and proconsul. Caesar made him suffet consul a couple of years ago. He’s almost as close to Caesar as Albinus is! That must be a list of men that Caesar can count on to support him.’
‘We won’t know for certain until we get all the splinters back together and the two sides of each tablet in the correct order. Until we manage that, poor Telos seems to have died for nothing.’
Spurinna’s words prompted Artemidorus. ‘Puella,’ he said. ‘Search your memory. The first knife. The one which cut everyone who used it to the bone. I need you to remember what happened to it.’
‘I told you,’ she said, with some asperity. ‘I don’t remember…’
‘No,’ he corrected her gently, thinking how tired, disorientated and simply terrified she must be. ‘In the public toilet you said you weren’t quite certain. I’m looking for a way to prod your memory. You haven’t recognised any of the lesser names on the list…’
‘The minnows,’ added Spurinna helpfully.
‘And you don’t think you remember any of the other men whose names you knew…’
‘The sharks…’
‘…having anything to do with it. Not Cassius, not Casca, not Tillius Cimber or Quintus Labeo…’
‘The thing was possessed. Why would Lord Brutus give it to a friend?’
‘Perhaps one of them thought that they could tame whatever evil spirits inhabited the thing,’ suggested Artemidorus. ‘Did any of the men who visited Lord Brutus talk in such terms?’
She shook her head, tears beginning to flood her wide brown eyes.
‘Spurinna, have we any other names that might prick Puella’s memory?’
Spurinna handed Artemidorus a wooden tablet still hot from the oven and the spy glanced down it. ‘Aquila… that’s probably Pontius Aquila; he and Caesar are at daggers drawn… Do you recognise the name? No? Well then, Ligarius… Quintus Ligarius, I’d guess; Cicero’s friend and ex-client. No? Spurius… Marcus Spurius I suppose… No? Haven’t we discussed him already? Well, finally, what about this one? Basilus. That would be Lucius Minucius Basilus. Born Marcus Satrius, adopted by his fabulously rich, incredibly aristocratic uncle. Took his name in consequence. Good commander; close to Caesar and also Cassius at one time or another. But, again, at daggers drawn since Caesar tried to pay him off when he didn’t get command of a province this time round. As though he needed more money or social standing. Another friend of Cicero’s too. Thoroughly nasty pie
ce of work, they say. Likes to torture his slaves.’
‘Him!’ said Puella. ‘I remember him.’
‘What do you remember about him?’ demanded Spurinna.
‘Nothing to do with the matters you have been discussing, which is why I did not think…’
‘But you are thinking now,’ said Artemidorus gently. ‘And remembering. What do you remember, Puella?’
‘My Lord Brutus was telling his brother Cassius about the knife. How, as I said, it seemed to be possessed, cutting everyone who handled it, no matter how careful they were. This was before he discovered that the Lady Porcia herself was wounded in the leg…’
‘And this man Lucius Minucius Basilus was there? Was part of the conversation?’
‘Yes. He was very interested; excited. He asked where the knife was and my Lord Brutus said both knives were now in the shrine. Basilus had brought a slave with him, as was quite usual. He asked if the boy could go and get the knife and Lord Brutus agreed. The boy returned with both knives because he didn’t know which was which but the handles were different so Lord Brutus was able to take back the one… The one…’
‘The one I used to kill the doorkeeper…’ prompted Artemidorus quietly.
‘Yes. That one. This man Basilus took the other knife and pushed into his slave’s leg. Just like that! A deep cut. It went through his flesh like a spoon through honey. I have never seen anything like it. The slave whimpered and his master laughed. He said something about the boy being well trained in suffering. Then he pulled it out and told the boy to get the wound seen to before he bled on anything important enough to merit a good whipping. My Lord Brutus was clearly shocked. Perhaps more. He said at once that he did not want the knife returned. Basilus and Cassius left together, deep in discussion, about the knife I think. I suppose now that they took it with them…’
‘Fascinating,’ said Spurinna. ‘This man Basilus has a reputation for brutality. But this goes beyond anything I have heard of him.’
‘So either Cassius or Basilus has the knife,’ said Artemidorus. Then he made the connection that the other two could not. ‘But Cassius has no whipping post in his villa, nor any nearby it. I wonder if the brutal Lucius Minucius Basilus does?’