by Peter Tonkin
A range of other priests and concerned onlookers also would be waiting. The white ram would be waiting. With another, part-prepared also in case the first sacrifice proved to be ill-omened. Caesar himself might well be waiting. All that would be lacking was the man himself.
‘Is it Achilles you pray to?’ puffed the augur to the spy.
‘Achilleus,’ confirmed Artemidorus, giving the hero his Greek name. ‘Yes.’
‘Then pray that we can find sufficient warnings in the weather, the flights of birds, the feeding of the sacred chickens and the entrails of our sacrifices to slow the Divine Caesar. Until Lord Antony can come and stop him altogether.’
‘The night was rough,’ the spy observed. ‘That’s a good start.’
‘It is,’ agreed Spurinna. ‘And the signs have been building up. I couldn’t find a heart in the bull I sacrificed at Lupercalia. Before the business with Antony and the coronet. That went so badly the bull’s entrails might even have been predicting it. The liver of the next sacrifice, a boar, on the first of the month, was badly malformed. Both of these signs were terribly unlucky. I warned Caesar then to beware the month of Mars.’
‘And has he paid any attention?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘None that I’ve noticed. As usual.’
Puella struck into the conversation then. ‘I heard that yesterday a great owl roosted all day in the Forum. Its wingspan wider than a tall man. Every now and then it would swoop screaming as though to carry off some woman or child. That must be a bad omen, surely…’
‘Owls are birds of ill omen, certainly,’ agreed Spurinna. ‘But I hadn’t heard about this one…’
‘I heard something,’ added Kyros. ‘While I was waiting for you to come out of Lord Cassius’ domus, Septem. There was talk of a man running around in the Forum at the height of the storm. With his hand on fire. Every time he held it up above his head, it would burn with blue fire. And yet it wasn’t hurt. The skin wasn’t even blistered.’
‘That’s certainly unusual,’ allowed Spurinna.
‘I’ve never heard of anything like it,’ added Artemidorus. ‘Or anything like a thunderbolt releasing animals from the menagerie at the arena, come to that.’
‘And you’ve travelled all over the world,’ added Puella. ‘You have seen so many wonders.’
Had Cyanea been speaking, Artemidorus would have assumed she was being ironic or simply joking. But Puella seemed to be talking in earnest.
‘But,’ the spy observed, ‘omens, like the storm, the owl, the animals and the burning man, are general. They might just as well be warning that something is going to happen to me as much as to Caesar.’
‘With all due respect, Septem,’ huffed Spurinna. ‘Unless these wonders have been engineered by your demigod Achilleus, then they are not likely to refer to you. You are simply not important enough. The gods wouldn’t bestir themselves to put on a storm because something was going to happen to you. Any more than they would bother with me. No wonderful events predict the deaths of mere mortals such as us. But Caesar… Now Caesar is different…’
‘I take your point,’ Artemidorus said. ‘Quite apart from anything else, Caesar is a god.’
‘I heard Lord Antony is chief priest of his new cult,’ added Puella. ‘One of Lord Brutus’ guests was saying…’
‘A god in waiting, perhaps,’ interrupted Spurinna, beginning to slow as the Forum came into sight. ‘He won’t be properly a god until he’s escaped from his mortal body.’
‘You mean,’ said Artemidorus grimly. ‘Until he’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the augur. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘Then let’s try and make sure his deification stays far in the future,’ said the spy.
*
They entered the Forum at precisely the same point as Artemidorus, Cyanea and the other two had entered it earlier. It was busier than ever, the confined space heaving with people of all sorts, ranks and stations. But the crowds were mostly streaming away down the length of the Forum on their right. They were planning to turn left into the quieter spaces around the Regia, the Domus and the Temple of Vesta. And this time there was no hesitation.
But they had hardly taken half a dozen steps before a young man detached himself from the crowd and ran up to Artemidorus with every sign of recognition. Puella gave a tiny shriek and hid herself behind Spurinna as best she could. Kyros and Narbo closed ranks in front of her. The recognition between the stranger and the spy became mutual. The youngster was one of the slaves from Brutus’ household. Artemidorus tensed himself for a confrontation. But the look of recognition changed to one of relief. ‘Artemidorus,’ said the young slave. ‘Thank the gods. Have you seen Lord Brutus? Lady Porcia has set the house in uproar and she’s sending messenger after messenger to see whether Lord Brutus is all right. I have no idea why she is so worried. But I must find Lord Brutus as swiftly as possible and report back to her. Have you seen him?’
‘He’s on the tribunal at the far end of the Forum,’ said Artemidorus, unable to keep the relief from his voice. Gesturing forcefully with his right hand in the direction of the raised tribunal. ‘He’s hearing cases as urban praetor. Or at least he was until recently. If he’s not there, ask at Pompey’s curia. He also hears cases there. And that’s where the Senate is due to meet.’
‘The tribunal,’ said the slave. ‘I’ll start looking there. Then Pompey’s Theatre. Thank you.’ And he was gone, vanishing into the crowd as though he had never been. Apparently without registering Puella’s presence at all.
Before there could be any further interruptions or hindrances, Spurinna led them on. Not to Caesar’s quarters in the Domus but to the door of the Temple of Mars in the Regia. And the space outside it. Which was not part of the Forum – and therefore was not bustling. But which was filled with the augur’s assistants and a range of other priests, diviners and vestals. The assistants held the ram. The priests held the wine. The vestals held the sacred bread that they alone could bake.
Artemidorus paused, struck by the work Caesar had ordered to be done on the thick marble walls of the Regia. One of the oldest buildings in the city. The building that had once housed the ancient Kings of Rome. And also by the glittering, gilded statues he had more recently caused to be erected there. Companions to those further down the Forum depicting Cleopatra as Venus. But his calculated hesitation was motivated by more than awe. It also sprang from the need to ensure the four of them could vanish into the crowd if anything went wrong here.
For they would not be out of danger until they had made sure Caesar would stay safely at home until Lord Antony came. Until the conspirators realised that they had lost. And there was no point in sending Syrus and his murderous gladiators out to capture or kill them. Until Artemidorus could remove the disguise that identified him as a housebreaker, slave stealer and murderer. And until they had found some way of looking after Puella, the runaway slave.
Immediately outside the door of the Temple of Mars itself, an altar had been erected. Beside it was a blazing brazier. A sparking red mound of flame, smelling fragrantly of pinewood charcoal. Contained in a big brass bowl, held at waist height on sturdy legs. This bowl matched a second bowl – of gold this time – that stood on the ground beside the altar. One of the temple attendants hurried to greet the augur, and lead him ceremonially to the altar beside which lay a pure white ram, with its legs all lashed together – much as Cyanea’s and Artemidorus’ arms had been just before sunrise. Artemidorus half expected to see it fighting as energetically as they had done in its efforts to be free. But it lay still. Even when its legs were untied. It had obviously been drugged. For some reason the spy thought of Brutus’ mother the Lady Servilia. Her drugs, potions and poisons. The stupefied creature’s horns were decorated with ribbons and a garland.
Spurinna crossed to the altar, on which lay the tools of his trade. All sharp and gleaming in the morning light. As he did so, the priest who would actually cut the animal open also stepped forward. An
other attendant hurried to the Domus to summon the pontifex maximus. And, as Spurinna arrived at the altar, Caesar himself appeared, dressed as Artemidorus had suspected he would be. In his full ceremonial robes, ready for a meeting with the Senate – or yet another triumph.
Tall, spare, dynamic. The personification of decisive energy. His face lean. Lips thin; mouth tight and pulled slightly downwards at its corners. Vertical creases joining square chin to pronounced cheekbones. Straight, sharp patrician nose, nostrils slightly flared. Bright brown eyes gleaming. Broad forehead rising above delicately curved brows. Crowned with a golden garland unsettlingly similar to the one the sacrificial ram had on its horns.
‘Ah, Spurinna,’ said Caesar, sounding cheerful, forceful and full of life. ‘I seem to be surviving the month in spite of your predictions. I’ve made it to The Ides at least!’
‘The Ides aren’t over yet,’ answered Spurinna.
Caesar laughed. His bright gaze swept over the bearded Artemidorus and the shy Puella with no sign of recognition – or surprise that his augur should be bringing strangers to the ceremony. ‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ he said. ‘I have a very busy day ahead of me and we’re already running late. If I’d organised things at Pharsalus the way you’re doing now, you’d be talking to Pompey the Great instead of me today!’
‘That,’ warned Spurinna severely, ‘is an ill-omened thought, Caesar!’
‘Oh don’t you start,’ snapped the ruler of the world. ‘I’ve had enough of that from Calpurnia!’
‘Really?’ Spurinna’s eyes narrowed as he rolled the folds of his toga back from his forearms. An assistant bustled up behind him and tied the Gabine knot which was designed to keep his clothing clear of any liquids splashing around during the sacrifice. ‘What has the Lady Calpurnia been saying?’ the augur asked. ‘She is a wise and insightful woman in my opinion.’
‘Something about a dream,’ snapped Caesar, his sudden frown betraying to the spy, if to no one else, that he regretted having mentioned his wife at all.
‘I will talk to her after the sacrifice,’ decided Spurinna. ‘The gods often speak to us in dreams. As well you know.’
‘I also know that we often dream without any divine intervention at all,’ snapped Caesar. ‘And you know that as well as I do!’
So the subject was closed.
*
The ritual of the sacrifice proceeded. Silence was called for. Foreigners dismissed, though Puella remained. She was by no means the only attendant whose skin was dark. There was a place in the ritual for women as well – there were vestals in attendance after all. Music was played. Aromatic oils were sprinkled over the brazier. The flames roared upward. The perfume of pine was augmented by other, rarer scents. An assistant approached with a bowl of water, steaming in the cool of the morning. The celebrants, priest and augur washed their hands and forearms.
The golden bowl was lifted onto the end of the altar nearest to the fragrant brazier. The ribbons were removed from the ram’s horns. Its forehead was sprinkled with wine and bread. It was made to seem an active part of the process. It was asked if it was ready to be sacrificed, as though the beast spoke Latin. It seemed to nod acquiescence, perhaps agreement. A silver hammer smashed onto its forehead between eyes and horns. Stunning it, perhaps killing it. It was immediately lifted by the attendants. Laid on the altar. It was rolled onto its back and held, horned head hanging inverted over the end opposite the golden bowl. Its throat open to the celebrant’s knife. Artemidorus tried not to think of poor Telos.
The garland, so similar to Caesar’s, fell to the ground unnoticed.
Attendants spread the ram’s legs, front and back. The celebrant took his knife. Covered his face with the end of his toga as the ritual of sacrifice demanded. Spoke some sacred words so quietly that no one could hear. Except for Spurinna standing at his shoulder. The augur guided the priest’s knife and with a single slash the taut barrel of the belly was opened. The priest who cut the creature’s belly put down the knife and pulled the sides of the wound wide. Pushed his hands into the red-walled cavern, fingers clawed like the talons of a hunting owl. Tore the steaming entrails free. Lifted them into the golden bowl. Took up the knife again in hands that were crimson to the elbow. Moved to the far end of the altar and proceeded to cut the dying creature’s throat. The faint sounds of pain and protest that the drugged animal had been making stopped at once. An acolyte caught the pulsing fountain of blood in another bowl with practised ease.
As haruspex, Spurinna stepped forward then to inspect the entrails in the golden bowl. He spread them across the gleaming surface, peering down. Frowning with concentration. But almost immediately, he straightened with a hiss of horror. ‘See,’ he intoned, his voice carrying like an actor’s. ‘The liver is terribly malformed! An entire lobe is missing! This is an omen that is even worse than the heart of the bull at the Lupercal. This is a warning of terrible danger. We must make another sacrifice!’
He lifted the entire dripping mess of viscera and threw it into the blazing brazier. There was a loud hissing. The smell of scent and charcoal was preplaced by that of roasting meat. He crossed to the attendant with the bowl of water and plunged his arms into the liquid up to the elbow. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder at the frowning dictator.
‘Divine Caesar,’ he said formally. ‘You must not stir from here until the ritual has been repeated and a better outcome achieved.’
‘This means nothing, Spurinna! The auguries were terrible on the morning of the battle of Munda two days less than a year ago. And I survived that all right! In fact I destroyed the armies of Pompey’s sons and their supporters. It was a very lucky day! I really don’t have time for a repetition…’
‘You may have survived the battle of Munda, great Caesar, but you were in terrible danger that day – and you know it!’
Caesar, sighed angrily. Frowned thunderously. Capitulated under the steady, unrelenting gaze of his augur. ‘Oh very well!’
‘And, in the meantime, with your permission, I would like to talk to the Lady Calpurnia about her dream,’ the victorious Spurinna said.
Caesar said nothing. He turned on his heel and stalked away into the Domus. Spurinna dried his hands and arms. As soon as he had done so, he crossed to Artemidorus. ‘This is going very well indeed,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going in to talk to Caesar’s wife now,’ he added more loudly. Then he dropped his voice again. ‘The dream she’s had sounds promising. Wait here.’ He turned and walked away, then stopped. Returned. ‘No. I’ve a better idea,’ he said so quietly that not even Puella could hear clearly. ‘You’re dressed and armed like a gladiator. You’re my gladiator. My bodyguard. Come with me.’
‘You need guarding against Caesar and his wife?’ said Artemidorus. ‘Won’t they consider that strange?’
‘If they do, I’ll think of something. Just stand in the background. Use your eyes and ears. Not your mouth unless I ask you to.’ He raised his voice. ‘Puella, I might need you. Wait close by. No one’s going anywhere until the next ram is readied and sacrificed in any case.’
He turned on his heel almost as abruptly as Caesar and done and followed him into the Domus.
After an instant more, Artemidorus followed them both.
*
The interior of the Domus Publica was spacious rather than palatial, thought Artemidorus as he followed Spurinna on the dictator’s heels. It contained several rooms that were larger than those in the villas the spy had visited since helping Puella escape from Brutus’. It was designed at the front very much like the villas of Basilus and Cassius. But instead of a peristyle, it opened at the rear onto the Garden of the Vestals. There was an atrium of the Tuscan design, however, with an impluvium pool, off which most of the rooms opened. There was a balnae private bath, he knew. With a cold frigidarium, a cool tepidarium and a hot caldarium. But no laconium sweat room for massage. It was of an old-fashioned design, like the rest of the place.
And that was by no means all he knew. Cae
sar had lived here for sixteen years. Since his appointment as pontifex maximus. When he had moved out of his smaller residence in the Subura. Before he had amassed a fortune large enough to purchase, amongst others, the villa on the Janiculum Hill currently occupied by Cleopatra. Even though he was more often out of Rome than in it, he had managed to make the Domus his own. His office was here, manned by his secretaries. The official records of the city and the Senate were shared between here and the Regia. Deeper in the Domus were kitchens and rooms for his cooks, servants and slaves. His library and personal records room, where he did most of his own writing and dictation. His private rooms, where, like any other aristocratic citizen, he dressed, washed, ate, entertained, worked and slept. First with Pompeia, his second wife. Then with Calpurnia, his third, and current wife. The largest public room had been set aside to contain the shields and spears that he had moved here from the Temple of Mars in the Regia. Effectively a personal shrine to the god of virility and conquest. Caesar’s new deity, standing beside Venus in his affections. There to protect him from the enmity of other gods, of lesser men, of simple ill fortune. Like Antony’s demigod Hercules. Like Artemidorus’ Achilleus.
Caesar stopped by the impluvium. He looked down into the silvery surface as it reflected the clear blue morning sky. Then he turned, frowning. And he spoke not to Spurinna but to Artemidorus who had been standing silently, taking it all in. Struck by a sense of awe at the sight of the sacred objects standing in the room dedicated to Mars. For he had heard tell of them without ever seeing them. They were weapons that everyone truly believed the god of war himself had wielded in the legendary past.