by Peter Tonkin
*
At the back of the atrium, where the next inner passage led through to the rear of the villa, the pater familias’ chair was placed facing the impluvium, with its back to the peristyle garden. Open at the moment, this area, the tablinum or study, could be closed off on one side by curtains and on the other by wooden doors. Artemidorus came through from the kitchen and wearily folded himself into this large, comfortable chair, his mind deeply lost in thought. The storm had calmed at last. The pool had settled until its glassy surface mirrored the last rags of cloud scurrying across a starry sky which contained the promise of a full moon. It looked as though dawn was going to arrive early. Except that the light was silver, not gold. Sunrise was still some time away. But it was coming, thought the weary man. The moment the sun peeped over the horizon, the city’s clock keepers set the water clocks to measure the hours and the day itself began.
The Ides of Mars was coming all too soon.
The wind had died and the flames on the lamps and candles in the atrium steadied and did their best to challenge the stars. There were no longer any discernible flickers of lightning and the thunder was so distant that the sound of it might have been imagination.
The exhausted secret agent had much to consider. The sudden eruption of violence made him as certain as he could be that the conspirators were on the point of acting. This was a fact that he had to get to Enobarbus as soon as possible. But it was only worth disturbing his chief if he came armed with sufficient evidence to make the tribune rouse the general to action. For as far as he could see, the general was the only man likely to stop Caesar following his usual routine – and walking into whatever trap the conspirators were laying for him.
Puella had a new level of evidence locked in her memory. Precise details of plots being hatched and the names of the men discussing them. But nothing as yet which said unarguably, These men will do this thing in this place at this time. And Caesar will die because of it. When she and Spurinna had completed the list of names contained in Telos’ secret coded communication, then there might be enough of sufficient weight to make worthwhile a visit to Pompey’s palace on the Clivus Publicius to rouse the tribune and his general.
But, as the conspirators had planned, the spy was torn. Not only between the certainty that time was running out and the worry that if he acted too soon he would do more harm than good, but also between the absolute importance of his mission and his overwhelming concern for the woman he loved.
He had no doubt that the fact he had only met groups of Cassius’ and Cestus’ men in the streets on this side of the Forum was no coincidence. Somewhere along the line he had come to suspect that the two groups were closely associated. And both were probably also associated with Lucius Minucius Basilus. Who liked to torture people. Who was the man in Rome most likely to possess both the twin of Brutus’ dagger and a whipping post. The dagger at least must have been responsible for Telos’ cut throat. Just as the whipping post was the most likely place for Telos to have been secured while the life was being beaten out of him. Added to the fact that Cestus’ spiked fists were most likely to be responsible for his terrible wounds. And as Syrus the Syrian and Cestus had discussed just before the panther attacked, raping Puella would make up for the fact that they had been forbidden to touch the girl they had been near earlier. And if Cestus was the man who beat Telos, then the woman Syrus had been forbidden to touch could only be Cyanea.
And the place where all this happened had to be Basilus’ villa, where, no doubt, there was a whipping post that was all too familiar to Basilus’ slaves. Where there were likely to be sheets of top quality amphitheatre papyrus. With the Greek mu woven into them to celebrate the Minucius family’s name and ancient aristocratic heritage. It had been part of his mission during the last weeks not only to go undercover in the leader’s house but also to try and keep an eye on anyone else with a grudge against Caesar. Therefore he knew where Basilus’ villa was. Not too far from here in fact, further up on the Esquiline Hill.
But when it came right down to it, he was not a free man able to follow his own desires. He was senior centurion of the Legio VII, under orders from his tribune, even if he was disguised as a common freedman. He was, as Spurinna insisted on reminding him, Septem the secret agent codenamed Seven, tasked with protecting Caesar until they all departed on the Parthian campaign in five days’ time. He had his duty, which came before everything. Even Cyanea.
He pulled himself wearily onto his feet, therefore, and went back to the kitchen to see how Spurinna and Puella were getting on.
They were still busy fitting the pieces of splintered tablet together. But they had made some progress. ‘We have a list of surnames, cognomen, Seven. All of the ones listed here,’ announced Spurinna, who sounded pleased with himself. ‘We’re still working on the praenomen and the nomen, though. So we still can’t be absolutely certain who we’re actually talking about.’
‘Surnames are a start,’ said Artemidorus with a touch of impatience. He knew what Spurinna was up to – the repetition of his codename kept emphasising where his duty lay – and let Cyanea look after herself. ‘Let’s have the list.’
‘Puella has memorised it,’ said Spurinna. ‘I haven’t had an opportunity to get it written down yet.’
Artemidorus turned to the woman who was rapidly becoming the most indispensible element in any report he would take to Enobarbus. ‘Well?’
‘Lords Brutus and Cassius,’ she said at once, her tone confident. ‘Casca, Labeo, Cimber, Aquila. Basilus, Caelius, Bucolianus, Ruga.’ She paused for breath, frowning with concentration. ‘Ligarius, Galba, Naso, Parmenses, Petronius and Turulius,’ she concluded.
‘There may be more than one of each,’ warned Spurinna. ‘You know there are several names repeated. That may mean there are several conspirators all with the same surname. Brothers. Cousins. Fathers. Sons – natural and adopted like Lucius Minucius Basilus.’
‘But at least sixteen for certain.’ The spy persisted.
‘At least sixteen. Maybe more than twenty.’
‘All patricians.’ He probed.
‘All senators, in fact,’ nodded Spurinna.
There was a moment of silence as the exhausted spy’s mind caught up with Spurinna’s apparently unthinking observation. ‘Wait. Say that again…’ he demanded.
‘All senators…’
He swung from the augur to the slave girl. ‘And Puella, what did Lord Brutus say about attacking Caesar on the Via Sacra?’
‘That they could not do it because there was no good reason for a large number of patricians to be in a group all together there.’ She frowned, still not making the connection.
‘But there is one place where it is inevitable that there will be a large group of senators gathered together!’ he breathed.
‘In the Senate!’ said Spurinna, his voice full of astonishment. ‘It’s so obvious! How could we not have seen…’
‘When is the next meeting of the Senate?’
‘Today! In the curia meeting hall of Pompey’s Theatre. At the third hour or soon after. Later this morning!’
‘That’s it, then. That’s where they will try to put their plans into action. At the meeting of the Senate, in Pompey’s Theatre at the third hour. Today.’
Abruptly all hesitation, weariness and indecision was gone. He was speaking with the voice of the senior centurion of the Legio VII, alerted by the insights of the speculator Septem and his associates. Taking clear and decisive action at last.
‘Gather your stuff together, Spurinna, and don’t forget Telos’ tablets. Lend Puella a cloak. We have to take her and all of this to Tribune Enobarbus. At once.’
*
In spite of his impatience to be gone, Artemidorus’ experiences so far tonight advised caution. And the largest possible bodyguard of burly slaves that Spurinna’s household could supply. The storm was over, the moon full and nearing its apogee. Nevertheless the men Spurinna roused lit flambeaus on Artemidorus’ order. For he was w
ise enough to know that light would announce their presence and keep the shadows at bay. And those who lurked in the shadows. Swords were forbidden within the Servian walls – to all except gladiators and soldiers on duty. So the cook was upset once more as, not content with ruining her favourite oven, her master confiscated every promising-looking knife in her kitchen. But at last the party was armed and assembled. While Antistius saw to the disposal of Telos’ corpse, the sizeable group going down to see Enobarbus and Antony at Pompey’s villa left him to it.
There would be no report to the local aedile magistrate about Telos’ death, thought Artemidorus as he led Puella, Spurinna and his men down the slope past the scaffolding on which the murdered spy had been crucified. No investigation. No charges. No legal redress for the slaughter of his friend and the kidnapping of his lover. But there would be retribution. There would certainly be revenge.
Then he put all thoughts of the past to one side and began to focus on the work in hand. The moon was as large as he had ever seen it. The whole of Rome seemed to be bathed in silver as the raindrops, puddles and still-running gutters gleamed and twinkled. The storm had left more than water in its wake. The last of the night was surprisingly warm. A wind from the south promising a bright and balmy early spring day, when the sun began to rise. Its gentle gusts at first smelt of the pine trees clothing the Palatine Hill and then of rosemary as it blew across some local Lucullan gourmet’s herb-garden. Rosemary and, tantalisingly, of hyssop.
But soon enough they bore the familiar stench of the Forum. Even as the keening of the breeze in empty streets was replaced by the gathering bustle.
Artemidorus led his little cohort straight ahead with the central group of Puella, Spurinna and Kyros at his shoulders and the larger group of household slaves spread in a protective circle around them. Artemidorus was keeping to the north of the Forum itself, heading past the Temple of Tellus for Antony’s house on the Clivus Publicius.
With little immediate to worry about, Artemidorus’ mind inevitably returned to his other concern. Given unusual co-operation from the gods, he rather hoped he might come across the remainder of Cestus’ gang. Especially Syrus the club man. Artemidorus knew his face, could find him and recognise him. Could beat out of him as necessary the final details of where Cyanea was. Of how Cyanea was. Although preoccupied, he led the little cohort across the benighted city at the double. Marching them at the legionary quick march which could cover more than twenty miles in a five-hour marching day. They were unladen and marching in the best possible conditions. So they reached the Temple of Tellus within half an hour and were outside Marc Antony’s residence a few moments later. The prows and rams of the ships with which it was decorated shining like silver along with everything else nearby.
With Spurinna at one shoulder and Puella at the other and Kyros guarding his back, Artemidorus hammered on the general’s imposing front door – as though he were an important guest too elevated to consider the more discreet posticum side entrance he would have used under most other circumstances.
After a while a sleepy ostiarius answered, easing the door open apprehensively. Hardly surprisingly, thought Artemidorus – given the rough-looking gang demanding entry. ‘Rouse the Tribune Enobarbus,’ he ordered. ‘Tell him the speculator Septem is here with people bearing vital information for the protection of Rome and the Republic. And we need to see the Consul Antony on the most urgent business…’
‘But the consul is not at home,’ answered the doorkeeper nervously. ‘And the tribune is not here either. Do you wish me to wake the Lady Fulvia?’
‘Is she likely to know where the consul is?’ The Lady Fulvia was notorious for her temper, Artemidorus knew. And she was unlikely to appreciate being woken by men on business with her errant husband.
‘No, sir,’ answered the ostiarius. ‘I heard the Lady asking her serving women if they knew where Lord Antony was as she prepared to retire.’
‘And do you know where the consul is?’
‘No, sir. But I expect the tribune is with him…’
Artemidorus let out a frustrated sigh. To have worked so hard and accomplished so much, only to be disappointed at the final moment…
‘Perhaps you would like to wait, sir. If your business is as vital as you say, the tribune and the consul will wish to be made aware of it at the earliest opportunity. The instant they return, in fact.’
‘But you don’t know when that will be.’
‘It can’t be much later, sir. The consul will wish to perform his ablutions, visit his tonsor for a shave and change his clothes before his first appointment. He always does, without fail. Especially as there is a full meeting of the Senate that he must attend this morning. At the third hour I believe…’
Artemidorus swung round like a beast in the arena. He felt trapped. Tricked by whatever gods there were. It seemed brutally hard to him. He had come here, following a path dictated by his duty, a very different path to the one he really wished to follow – the path that led to Minucius Basilus’ villa on the Esquiline while there was still a chance of rescuing Cyanea. And to have come this far, leaving her in the most terrible danger, only to be invited to sit and wait… He was action personified. It was simply not in his nature to do what Antony’s doorkeeper advised. And yet…
‘Septem,’ said Spurinna softly, ‘Puella and I can tell the tribune everything he needs to know. You assembled the information but you do not need to deliver it. The pair of us can do that. Take a couple of my men to light your way and watch your back. You can be at Minucius Basilus’ villa well before sunrise and at least find out if she’s there.’
He swung back to meet Puella’s wide gaze. Oddly, he felt he needed her permission too. For he had promised to protect her – and that might well mean standing by her in the face of Antony’s anger. But she nodded. Gave a half-smile. ‘Run!’ she said.
IV
Tribune Enobarbus stood at the outer edge of the balcony fronting Caesar’s villa on the Janiculum Hill. His fists rested on the cool, wet top of the marble balustrade. They were clenched with anger and frustration. His eyes remained blind to the magnificence of the view he was looking down upon. Because they were turned inward to his raging thoughts.
Unobserved by the furious tribune, the Tiber wound past like a ribbon of molten moonlight under the low, star-filled sky. The island in the midst of it lay picked out with tiny points of gold from the VIIth Legion’s watchfires. On this side, the lower slopes of the Janiculum Hill were clothed with jade-black pine trees whose scent lay heavy on the clearing air. Pushed into the tribune’s face by a warm southerly breeze. Beneath the pines lay walks and gardens laid out and maintained by the man who owned them. Caesar. Beyond the gleaming river, Rome rose majestically on her seven hills. From this distance the great city looked like a queen’s jewellery box. The buildings gleamed with roofs and columns all of pearl and silver. Streets of dead black shadow lay like an enormous spider’s web between them. Green-black stands of trees like ebony-winged moths trapped within the obsidian threads. Here and there, specks of golden light moved like sunstruck raindrops along them. A throbbing gilded brightness pulsed at its heart. Where the bustle of the Forum persisted. And would do so until the sun rose to start the new day. The fifteenth day of Mars. The Ides. And if Enobarbus roused himself to look beyond the gleaming city, away to the east, the night-black sky was just beginning to pale with the first, distant promise of the coming dawn.
Enobarbus remained unaware of the beauty all around him. As he raged against the ill fortune that had robbed the one man he relied upon for forceful action of the ability even to stand. Until he was disturbed by a noise in the great reception chamber. The soldier turned and marched back into the beautiful building. The reception room was bright with a wanton extravagance of candles, lamps and flambeaus. Servants waited, the younger and weaker, seated half asleep with their backs against the marble walls. The rest standing in rigid ranks, praying, no doubt to be dismissed to their beds before the mistress
arose and yesterday’s duties ran seamlessly into today’s.
A fire guttered in an inner grate throwing warmth and light unsteadily across the room. Enobarbus caught the eye of the dispensator steward. He was one of the few Romans still part of the household. Everyone else in the room was Egyptian.
Except for Antony.
Antony was seated in a chair so rich and ostentatious it was almost a throne. Indeed, when the villa’s current tenant sat in it, it was a throne, thought Enobarbus. And all too many people down in Rome were fearful that when the villa’s owner sat in it he too thought it should be a throne. For the person who had occupied the chair before Antony had been Cleopatra VIIth of Egypt, Pharaoh, Queen and Goddess. And the man who would sit in it after she had left was Consul and Dictator the Divine Gaius Julius Caesar – who also, perhaps, wished to be a king as well as a god. In Rome the former was far more powerful and fearful than the latter.
Cleopatra’s departure was at the root of the problem Enobarbus was facing now. The Queen had made no secret of the fact that when Caesar left for Parthia in five days’ time, she would already have vacated the villa. Everything she had brought with her from Alexandria more than a year ago was packed. The royal vessel was moored in Ostia, where the Tiber’s delta gave Rome her closest seaport. She had made up her mind. And, independently of her regal standing and unquestioned divinity, she was a woman who did not waver once her mind was made up.
Caesar loved her, Enobarbus knew. Enjoyed the wit and challenge of her company. Was enslaved by whatever Greek and oriental variations on African sexual techniques she used. Techniques the staid and proper, unfortunately barren, Calpurnia would never dream of. Loving and supportive though she was. Techniques through which he had sired a promising son upon her: Caesarion. But Little Caesar would be returning to Egypt with his mother, rather than invading Parthia with his father. Caesar had plans that did not include the Egyptian queen, in spite of the fact that he had erected a gilded statue of her beside the statue of Venus in the Forum. The plain truth was that Caesar was in no way upset by the prospect of Cleopatra’s departure for he was leaving Rome himself.