by Peter Tonkin
Antony was different. Antony loved her in a way he could never love his wife Fulvia. Or any other of the women he casually and repeatedly bedded. Perhaps the root of the problem was that he had never bedded Cleopatra. She remained for him something as precious and unattainable as the moon whose light was silvering the world around them. But the problem facing Enobarbus now had more than one root. It had a double root like a mandrake – to which strigae witches, aptly enough, gave a magical sexual power.
On the one side of the double problem was the unattainable, departing Cleopatra. On the other was Antony’s legendary love of wine. Tonight, when he had come through the deluge to take his leave of her, the two roots of the mandrake had come together. After the formal farewells, Cleopatra and Caesarion had retired and left him to his own devices. Mother and child had been in bed since moonrise. And now it was almost dawn. The interim which the broken-hearted Antony had filled with drinking. And an increasingly bellicose refusal to go home. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps by accident, he has simply drunk himself into a stupor. With the consequence that it was now difficult to be certain that he was even living. Nothing the increasingly desperate Tribune Enobarbus had done gave any sign of bringing the general to his senses.
Antony gave another stentorian snore. An echo of the one that had brought Enobarbus back in off the balcony. For an instant the soldier thought the noise might be loud enough to wake his commander. But no. Antony settled back into the depths of drunken insensibility from which Enobarbus had been unable to rouse him.
Though the tribune had been circumspect in his actions. Antony was not a man to be slapped or shaken into wakefulness. Quite apart from the assault that would make upon his dignity as Co-Consul of Rome, there was also the fact that he had been a dangerous tearaway in his youth. If Enobarbus wasn’t careful, he would wake the streetwise bully who had run with notoriously violent street gangs such as Publius Clodius Pulcher’s. And anyone waking that Antony was unlikely to survive the experience. Not for nothing did he claim direct descent from Hercules. And, if he had left at home the lion skin he often wore – as Hercules wore that of the Nemean Lion slain with his own hands – he was still a man of enormous size and strength. More than capable of killing a man with his bare hands. If not a lion.
Raging with frustration, all too well aware that the dawn was creeping relentlessly up the sky behind him, Enobarbus looked around the huge reception room. And its very size gave him an idea. He turned to the sleepy steward. ‘Do you think we could get Lord Antony’s litter through those doors?’ he asked.
‘I should think so, Tribune. Do you wish the consul’s litter brought in here?’
‘Yes. And rouse the rest of his retinue. His lictors should make sure the axes in their fasces are sharp and easy to use. I don’t like the feel of the night, and twelve well-armed lictors will make me feel better. Even if we have to dispense with some of them when we enter the pomerium. I’d like as many men with torches as you can find. And arm them as best you can. With gladius swords if you have them. We’ll leave them outside the Servian wall if anyone should complain. And then I want half a dozen of your strongest but most gentle men in here. Now.’
Within moments the double doors opposite the fireplace were standing wide as Antony’s personal litter was carried in. At the tribune’s direction, the litter bearers put it on the floor beside Antony’s chair. With the gentle care of a mother moving a sleeping child, the six strong men lifted the insensible Antony out of the chair and laid him in the litter. Enobarbus closed the curtains and gestured. The bearers lifted the litter and carried the sleeping consul out of the room with Enobarbus close behind. The twelve lictors were waiting in the anteroom outside, axes gleaming at the centre of the bundles of ceremonial wooden rods they carried. As the growing group of men moved through the anteroom and out of the villa altogether, twenty more strong servants gathered round them, flaming flambeaus in one hand, naked swords in the other.
As the main door to Caesar’s villa closed quietly behind them, Enobarbus bid a mental farewell to Queen Cleopatra, with whom he was also more than half in love. And then he settled into the business of getting Lord Antony home in time for this morning’s meeting of the Senate in the curia of Pompey’s Theatre on the Field of Mars.
*
The villa belonging to Lucius Minucius Basilus on the Esquiline Hill was set back from the road. Although the ancient and impressive frontage was open, the sides and the rear were surrounded by trees. Artemidorus looked at their moon-bright canopies. As far as he could see they were all pine trees. Some rose straight up like tall green-black candle flames. Others opened and spread like massive mushrooms. It was these that overhung the roof of the Minucius family villa, which appeared to have been standing here as long as the ancient vegetation had done. He stood, deep in thought, while Kyros and the others stood in the circle around him, their flambeaus dangerously bright in the last of the predawn darkness – dulled as they were by the brightness of the setting moon. The spy had little time to linger or plan before someone in the villa saw the flaming torches and grew suspicious.
Artemidorus’ plan of action sprang into his head almost ready made. The trees would replace the ladder with which he had freed Puella. But only if he could get out as easily as he got in. He needed something that would double for the ladder even though in the final analysis it had proved less useful than he had hoped. But once again the bustling industry that Caesar had brought to Rome together with his fortunes in tribute, gold and slaves, offered the secret agent a chance to take action. For one of the villas on this road was clothed in scaffolding. Just as the villa opposite Spurinna’s had been. Scaffolding made of wood held together by a combination of rough metal brackets and length upon length of rope.
‘Kyros,’ he ordered. ‘Take a couple of these men and get me as much of that rope as you can.’
‘Yes, Seven.’
‘You two,’ he said to the remaining slaves. ‘Follow me in here.’
Without further conversation, Artemidorus led the two men with their flambeaus down the side of the villa, among the fragrant trunks of the massive pines. The tops of the trees soared in black outline against the starry brightness of the sky, dimming though it was as dawn threatened. The flambeaus gave an idea of how the lower branches of the wide-spreading canopy were positioned. And most of them were high above reach – especially those belonging to the trees that spread wide enough to overhang the villa’s roof. Silently, his mind racing, the spy led the slaves through the shadowy grove. The ground beneath his feet soft with sodden pine needles. The trunks on either side layered with flakes of bark and running with fragrant balsam. At last the little group reached the rear wall of the villa. The trees stretched across the back to join the others on the far side of the building. Nothing that Artemidorus could see promised an easy climb up to a spreading canopy that would allow him to look down into the open roof of the villa’s inner peristyle garden.
As he paused at the rearmost corner, frowning in thought, Kyros came bustling up with a length of rope looped over and over his shoulder, his companions on either side, their flambeaus blazing. The added brightness showed Artemidorus his best way up. A black pine, shaped like a candle flame, stood beside a tall stone pine shaped like an umbrella. The black pine had branches that started at ground level and should be easy to climb. The stone pine spread its canopy widely. On one side it mingled its lower branches with the top of the black pine. On the other it spread them across the villa’s roof and from down here it looked as though its branches would support the weight of a man sliding along to their outer ends.
‘I’m going up,’ he told Kyros. ‘Follow me with the rope.’
‘Yes, Septem,’ answered the slave unhesitatingly.
‘And, Kyros, bring the sharpest knife we’ve got.’
Artemidorus pushed into the dark, sweet-smelling heart of the black pine and began to climb. The branches were thin and flexible, but by placing his feet in the angles where they joined th
e trunk, the agile spy was able to make his way upward quickly and efficiently. He felt the tall, thin trunk begin to tremble when he was little more than three cubits, six pedes, feet, up as Kyros began to follow him with the rope. By the time he was ten feet above the ground, the black pine was beginning to bend and twist under his weight. But when he paused to let everything settle down, he saw that the lowermost of the stone pine’s sturdy branches were just above him, outlined against the sky by waning starshine. Steadying himself, he reached up and over until he could grasp it and swing out, letting it take all his weight as he heaved himself up onto it. Thankful for his thick leather trousers, he straddled the rough branch and slid carefully along and down it until he was able to grasp the trunk. Then he carefully pulled himself to his feet. Feeling the branch shaking beneath him, he turned to see Kyros’ silver-edged shape humping itself towards him down the considerable slope of the thick branch. Moving in such a way as to make it very clear that the boy had no thick leather protecting his vital parts.
As he waited for the slave to reach him, Artemidorus looked around. The needle-like leaves and nut-filled cones obstructed his view a little – but not too much. The tree was the better part of ninety feet high. It gave a view over the lower slopes of the Esquiline Hill to the south and the west. The rapidly fading starlight showed nothing but a city seemingly cast in lead and pewter – and sound asleep. To the other side, the north-eastern vista was gobbled up by other groves of pines which clothed the gathering slope, between the villas that had stood there seemingly since Romulus was king. And hid, for the moment, the gathering brightness of the dawn.
Nearer at hand, the trunk he was holding onto seemed to split and spread a cubit or so above him, and by the time Kyros arrived with the rope, he had pulled himself up onto a higher branch that reached out promisingly over the roof of Minucius Basilus’ villa. One behind the other, the two of them slid along this branch until it began to sway dangerously. Then Kyros waited while Artemidorus proceeded as close to the end as he dared go. But that was close enough.
The secret agent found himself a few feet from the branches’ fan-like end, which, beneath his weight, was overhanging the inner edge of the villa’s roof. From this position he had an excellent view of the peristyle garden. The moonlight might be waning but it was still bright enough to show the spy every detail of the garden. The columned walkway around its outer edges. The fragrant herb bushes and flower beds immediately within that. The brick-paved pathways that lay geometrically within the gardens. The well-tended square of lawn in the middle. And, at the end of the lawn where there usually stood a statue or a fountain, Minucius Basilus had erected a whipping post.
A whipping post to which Cyanea was tied. Her body sagged with fatigue and hopelessness. Shoulders bowed and face pressed against the post where her hands were secured. All he could see clearly was the back of her head, the tumble of her long, golden hair, her shoulders, and back. She was still wearing her tunic, so her would-be rescuer was pretty certain she had not been whipped or assaulted yet. At least, he prayed to his demigod Achilleus that this was so.
*
After a moment more of watching, Artemidorus was in action. He reached back for the rope Kyros was holding, took it and secured one end of it firmly round the branch. He threw the other end outwards and watched in lively satisfaction as it followed the curve of the branch and fell across the roof, down into the garden. He reached down to his belt and made sure that the largest knife from Spurinna’s kitchen was safely there.
‘Wait here,’ he ordered.
‘Yes, Septem,’ whispered Kyros.
Artemidorus was in motion once again, sliding along the branch until he could grasp the rope and swing himself out and over the tiles of the villa’s roof. Silently, he eased himself over the corrugated slope and down over the edge until he was swinging on the rope itself. Hand over hand, he lowered himself into the garden until the soles of his sandals were brushing the top of a rosemary bush, releasing its fragrance onto the still, cool air. A heartbeat later he was on the ground. He let go of the rope and turned, stepping out of the flower bed and onto the path. He ran on tiptoe across the grass towards Cyanea, reaching for the knife that would cut her free as he did so.
As he neared her at last she looked up, her eyes wide and desperate, her nostrils flared, her mouth sealed shut by a thick gag whose ends vanished beneath her hair. He knew then for certain what he had only suspected all along. That this was a trap. For there was no point at all in gagging someone at a whipping post. The screams of the victim were a major element of the scourging. Especially for someone who enjoyed inflicting pain, like the villa’s master. The only point of gagging Cyanea was to stop her warning anyone coming to the rescue that this was a trap. He pulled the knife out and swung round, shoulder to shoulder beside her, his back to the post.
The wooden doors at the inner end of the garden opened and light flooded out as they did so. Not just light. A tall, cadaverous man in a toga, edged with purple, stepped out of a spacious but crowded tablinum study. Eight or so large and threatening-looking thugs behind him. As the thugs rapidly spread out on either side, looming between the columns, Artemidorus recognised their leader. Syrus the club wielder. Cestus’ right-hand man. Clearly Cestus’ replacement now that the panther had eaten the actual right hand in question.
A whisper of sound distracted him. The rope he had climbed down was gone. He hoped that Kyros had gone with it and stood some chance of getting back to Spurinna with the news of the trap. Because he and Cyanea clearly weren’t going anywhere. Except to the Elysian Fields, perhaps. Mind racing, Artemidorus stepped forward. ‘We know the whole plan, Basilus,’ he said. ‘My associates are talking to Lord Antony even now. Telling him everything. He will put a stop to this. You allowed Cestus to slaughter my friend for nothing.’
‘We’ll see…’ answered Minucius Basilus, his voice as quiet as the hissing of sand blowing over silk.
He gave a tiny gesture and Syrus’ men closed round Artemidorus. The spy gave in without a fight. A fight he clearly could not win. And even if he could, how would he escape? Even were he willing to leave Cyanea to face the wrath of the thwarted Basilus. Which he was not. The club man took his knife with no trouble therefore – and with an arrogant, victorious sneer.
‘You were lucky Cestus didn’t kill you,’ said Syrus. ‘You won’t be so lucky with me.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ answered Artemidorus with more confidence than he felt. ‘The gods were on my side when they set that panther free. Perhaps they will stay on my side.’
‘Poor old Cestus,’ chuckled Syrus. ‘Well, he might have been big. And he might have been strong. But that was about it. I mean, he was the one who beat your friend half to death. But the eyes. The tongue. The crucifixion. The note. Those were all my doing. And it was those things that brought you here. So maybe he wasn’t the sharpest blade on the battlefield, as your friend Vitus the doorkeeper might say. And neither, it seems, are you. Oh, yes. I frowned at poor old Vitus. Really frowned. He was another one who sang like a lark. Priscus, tie this fool up.’
As the Syrian was speaking, his men roughly grabbed Artemidorus’ arms. The one called Priscus said, ‘Have you got any rope?’.
‘No,’ snapped Syrus. ‘Go and find some, fool!’
There was silence for an instant.
‘What do you want us to do with them, Lord Basilus?’ asked Syrus, clearly hoping for the answer: Kill him and do as you like with her. Keeping her alive and untouched had simply made her a better bit of bait in the trap they had set, Artemidorus calculated grimly. But the trap was sprung now.
The skull-face of the villa’s aristocratic owner tilted up. His hollow eyes regarded the sky for a moment. The air in the garden was stirred by a little wind. Artemidorus realised that it was almost daybreak. ‘That is for Lord Cassius to decide,’ Basilus whispered. ‘I am due at his home at dawn so we have no time to linger. You and your men will escort me there. And bring these two alo
ng. And don’t worry, Syrus. What they know and what they can guess is too important for them to live much longer. He will want them killed, I am sure. And you may take your time with them. And I will watch. With pleasure.’ The only part of Basilus’ face that did not look like one of the mummies of Egypt was his lips. They were full, red and glistening.
And he licked them at the thought.
V
‘You knew it was a trap?’ whispered Cyanea, as soon as her mouth was free.
‘I suspected,’ answered Artemidorus. He took a breath. Ready to explain what he had suspected and why. Distracted, as always by the simple beauty of the wide blue-green eyes. Of her face, worthy of Eurydice. Though he was no Orpheus, he would follow her to Hades and back, he thought.
She spoke before he could: ‘And still you came?’
‘Of course…’ Again, he would have added more.
But, ‘That’s enough whispering,’ snarled Syrus. ‘You’ll both have plenty to say to all of us. As soon as Lord Basilus lets us start questioning you.’
Artemidorus took the measure of the man for the first time. In a heartbeat, he noted the colossal shoulders and slim waist round which a thick belt sat loosely. Only there to gather up his tunic to the length his status required. And to carry the sheath for the sword which only soldiers on duty and gladiators were permitted to carry within the pomerium and the Servian walls. Massive thighs, bulging calves and big, square feet in their hobnailed caligae. Brawny arms and brutal hands. Square nailed and callused from wielding the club that gave the gladiator his name just as Cyanea’s eyes had given her hers. Knuckles thick and scarred from punching and pounding those unfortunate victims the club had crippled.