by Peter Tonkin
‘Yes. A good idea.’ He turned to the last few slaves in the doorway. ‘Some one of you help this woman tidy these splinters away. You know the Lady Fulvia cannot abide a mess. Then take her to the kitchen. Get her food and drink. She can wait here until we decide what is to be done with her.’
He turned and vanished into the atrium, shouting orders as he went as though he was back in command of the outnumbered legions on Caesar’s right flank at the battle of Pharsalus.
One of the slaves came in and started to help Cyanea with the splintered tablets. Another hovered, waiting to guide her to the kitchens. Fulvia’s secretary stood, uncertain of what to do next. Enobarbus came further into the room and held out his hand. ‘Did you add Trebonius to the list in the end?’ he asked.
‘No, Tribune,’ the secretary answered. ‘No decision was ever reached.’
‘Cyanea?’
‘Septem thought perhaps he was just there as a guest. Not a conspirator. I’d never seen him at Cassius’ before.’
‘Leave him off, then,’ decided the tribune. ‘But I’ll take it anyway.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently.
The secretary handed the pale sheet of parchment over.
‘And I’ll take that too,’ he said, gesturing at the secretary’s document case. The slave obediently placed his stylus and his samian pot of ink in the receptacles. Ensured the ink was tightly closed and handed it all over.
The tribune took it. Folded the papyrus into it. Shut it. Turned on his heel and strode out into the bustle the rejuvenated Antony was causing.
*
Antony’s litter was large. As it had to be. The four litter bearers were all built like Hannibal’s elephants. As they needed to be. Antony offered Enobarbus a lift but the tribune took pity on all concerned and walked beside the litter instead. And so, within a very short time, they were out in the narrow Clivus Pullius, heading down the hill towards the Forum.
Antony – like Caesar – habitually rode with the curtains wide so that passers-by could see him. And, every now and then, shout or pass messages to him. Again like Caesar, he preferred his lictors to precede him. Rather than surrounding the litter and keeping the plebs at bay. The consul knew he had enemies, but he refused to be intimidated by them. Yet again, like his friend and mentor Caesar.
But even with the lictors walking immediately ahead and the four elephantine slaves walking shoulder to shoulder on the inner sides of the carrying poles, Antony made slow progress towards the Forum. The streets were not wide. They were busy. There was simply no way even for the co-consul of the city to push past the throngs. But the sluggish progress at least gave the general and the head of his secret service time to talk.
‘So…’ said Antony.
His head was at the tribune’s left hip, level with the military pugio dagger he was wearing there. As part of the relentlessly martial uniform he preferred. Though he was not, of course, permitted to wear his gladius on his right hip. Only gladiators could do that within the Servian walls. And the pomerium limits of the city. First defined by a furrow ploughed by Romulus himself. Later expanded by Sulla. In his right hand, however, he carried the secretary’s writing case with the list of conspirators carefully folded within it. ‘So,’ said Antony again. ‘You think this conspiracy is more dangerous than the others?’
‘Yes, General. Cassius is an experienced soldier and an able commander. If anyone could organise such a thing it will be him. And the name of Brutus adds the weight of history to the project. As well as the height of social leadership. And, of course, the reputation of the man himself. Were we not going to the Domus with the intention of discussing with Caesar how best to explain that he will not attend today. And dismiss the Senate until a later time. Then I would be very concerned for the safety of the dictator. Very concerned indeed.’
‘I take your point,’ said Antony. ‘I may have placed your contubernium of spies without much thought. But in that I did, and they have uncovered so much, perhaps I should keep what they have found in mind. Even if Caesar gets safely through today, there will still be plenty of opportunities to kill him before he sets out for Parthia. Or even when he’s on the road. Look what happened to Lucius Julius Caesar and his brother Gaius in the year 678 since the founding. Both dead in the streets. Stabbed. Butchered. Not to mention Gracchus. Beaten to death with planks and staves. And, much more recently, my old friend Clodius Pulcher, hacked to death by Titus Annius Milo’s gladiators on the Appian Way. Such an act of butchery that not even that viper-tongued windbag Cicero could defend him. Which is surprising given that the turgid turd started his career defending Sextus Roscius for the far greater crime of patricide. Saved him from Poena Cullei. From being sewn in a bag and chucked in the Tiber. That’s the statutory punishment for such a crime after all.’
‘Caesar says that cowards die every day,’ Enobarbus observed after a moment’s silence. ‘But men who don’t fear death only meet it once.’
‘Once is enough, my friend. We just have to keep control of the place and the time.’
‘Perhaps that’s true for those we seek to protect, General. But I believe we can do little to control our own meeting with Pluto and Prosperine. Our entry into the Fields of Elysium. Or our ferry ride with Charon across the river Styx.’
‘You speak like a soldier, Enobarbus. You expect to meet the gods of death in some battle that is yet to be fought. In some country that is yet to be conquered. Or in some war that has yet to be declared. But remember, a man is always in control of his own destiny, even in this. As long as I have a sword I can choose the moment that I fall on it.’
*
Artemidorus was standing between Puella and Spurinna when Kyros returned. The second sacrifice had gone no better than the first. Even though Spurinna had whispered his intention to find something positive in the entrails now that Caesar had agreed to remain at home. But, thought the spy grimly, maybe the gods were taking a more active part in this than even the augur estimated. For instead of straightening above the golden bowl with the news that all was well, Spurinna had taken a step or two back as though the great coils of sheep’s intestines were a nest of venomous snakes.
Caesar was no longer interested in the proceedings now that his decision was made. So he did not see the concern – almost horror – on the face of his haruspex. Spurinna gathered up the offending viscera and hurled it into the brazier almost as though he was ridding himself of some dreadful plague. ‘Take this creature and destroy it,’ he ordered. ‘Take them both. Burn them. Bury the ashes some place you wish never to flourish!’
He washed his hands and came across to Artemidorus. ‘Never in all my years have I seen anything like it,’ he whispered, his voice trembling.
‘Do the auguries suggest Caesar could even be at risk here in the Domus?’ wondered the spy, with unaccustomed superstition. ‘The Lady Calpurnia’s vision of the gable falling and shattering. The gable of this building…’
‘I cannot tell,’ answered Spurinna, sounding ancient suddenly. Ancient and unspeakably weary.
‘Well, there is nothing we can do at the moment,’ soothed Artemidorus.
‘Except to wait,’ added Puella.
‘True,’ allowed the spy. ‘And to plan what we are going to do with you. We need a safe place for Puella to rest, Spurinna. Until we can settle the question of her being a runaway slave.’
‘And of you being a slave stealer and murderer into the bargain,’ added Spurinna. ‘It seems to me that only a major case of civil unrest will cover up your various misdemeanours.’
‘And of course that’s the last thing we actually want,’ said Artemidorus. ‘In fact it’s the main thing the general has put us into the field to prevent.’
‘I don’t follow…’ said Spurinna.
‘The only thing that could spark that level of unrest would be the murder of Caesar or something equivalent to it,’ said the spy.
‘Oh that’s wonderful,’ Puella chimed in. ‘The one thing that could keep us safe is th
e one thing we are fighting to prevent.’
‘Sort of like a suicide mission,’ said Narbo, suddenly inserting an unexpected opinion.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Puella. ‘Look on the bright side why don’t you!’
Which was the point their conversation had reached when Kyros returned. Breathless. Unable to speak at first. But clearly bursting with news.
At last he managed, ‘Antony is coming. He ordered me to tell you, Master, so you could warn Caesar. Antony’s coming here on his way to the Senate meeting.’
‘Good lad,’ said Spurinna. ‘I’ll go and warn Caesar. He may want to prepare…’ He walked off before Kyros could catch his breath and complete his message.
‘Lord Antony is concerned that the senators will laugh at him. And laugh at Caesar as well. If he has to tell them Caesar will stay at home because of the Lady Calpurnia’s dreams…’ gasped the boy.
Artemidorus was in action at once. Swinging round to follow the hasty augur. Caesar would be glad of the further details, he thought. At the least he would appreciate the time to think of an alternative explanation if Antony was concerned that the pair of them would be laughed at if they told the truth. His plan was to catch up with Spurinna and tell him the rest of the message. But the augur was too quick for that. So Artemidorus found himself following Spurinna into the Domus once more.
He discovered the two men in close conference, Caesar frowning, clearly displeased. The spy stopped just behind the augur’s shoulder waiting for one man or the other to recognise his presence and give him the opportunity to speak. Which happened almost at once. ‘Septem,’ said Caesar. ‘What do you want to tell us?’
Artemidorus relayed the second part of Kyros’ message.
‘So Antony is scared of being laughed at!’ said Caesar, shaking his head.
‘I think rather that he is worried that you would be laughed at, Caesar,’ said Spurinna.
That’s a dangerous thought, mused Artemidorus. But it had been suggested and there was no help for it now. Caesar frowned, his aristocratic Roman dignitas offended even by the notion.
‘I have not,’ grated Caesar, ‘become dictator for life and co-consul of this city. Ruler over an empire that reaches to the edges of the world. The most powerful man there has ever been with the possible exception of Alexander. Offered a crown and called a god. All so that I might give any thought at all to what a collection of fawning sycophants and useless windbags might think of me. Or whisper behind my back!’
*
Antony and Enobarbus arrived while Caesar’s angry words were still echoing in the atrium. The wily general sensed the tension in the air. And knew his old friend well enough to suspect that whatever had upset him was something he actually feared. Which was often the case with all men. So he put on his bluff soldier act. ‘Now, what’s this I hear about the lovely Calpurnia having terrifying visions?’ he boomed cheerfully.
‘She dreamed she held Divine Caesar in her arms as numberless wounds spouted blood,’ explained Spurinna.
‘How horrible,’ said Antony in a pantomime of shock. ‘I had no idea that she had such an imagination. The Lady Calpurnia has always struck me as the personification of matronly rectitude and Roman virtue.’
‘That’s what lends weight to Spurinna’s reasoning,’ said Caesar, beginning to calm down. ‘She could not have possibly imagined such horrors. Therefore what she saw must have been a vision sent to warn me…’
‘I can see the logic in that! It’s as clear as what little I remember of Pythagoras’ theorems. Or Aristotle’s arguments, come to that.’
Caesar gave a bark of laughter. ‘We don’t have time to discuss the failings of your education, Antony…’
‘Nor the excesses of my misspent youth! Yes, I know. I’ve been having this conversation all my life. First with Antony, my father. Then with the Lady Julia, my mother after he died. Then with my stepfather Lentulus until he was murdered by that venomous blowhard Cicero…’ Antony allowed just a shade of bitterness to creep into the cheerfully self-conscious confession.
But Caesar laughed again. And the atmosphere in the atrium eased.
‘So,’ continued Antony, ‘what do you want me to tell the senile ranks of our so highly respected senators? Divine Caesar can’t be bothered today so shut up and go home… Something like that?’
‘Tell them the truth!’
‘That Lady Calpurnia has had a vision that advises you to stay at home?’
‘No.’ Caesar paused for a moment. Then drew himself haughtily erect. Freezing into positions like one of the statues depicting him, that were going up all over the city. ‘That I have decided not to come. I, Caesar, have decided this. It is my will. And there’s an end to it!’
Now it was Antony’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh yes. I look forward to announcing that. The look on their self-important faces will be a memory to treasure. Oh I hope Cicero is there! He might even burst with indignation! Tribune Enobarbus, you will accompany me. And it might be worth your while to bring a bowl of water and some rags of cloth to clean the floor after Cicero goes BANG!’
On this cheerful note, Antony turned and strode out of the atrium towards his litter, his elephantine carriers and his brawny lictors.
As ordered, Enobarbus followed him. But as he passed Artemidorus, he handed over the writing case he had carried here from Antony’s house. ‘Cyanea’s list is in there,’ he whispered. ‘Just in case you need it…’
Artemidorus took the long, slim wooden box. ‘What do you want us to do, Tribune?’ he asked, equally quietly. Spurinna drew near so he could overhear the answer.
‘Wait here. Whatever the general ends up actually telling the senators, they are likely to react in other ways than simply going pop like the ball in a game of follis.’
‘I’ll keep a close eye on Puella too,’ said Artemidorus. ‘She’s not out of danger, even if Caesar is.’
‘Good. But I want all of you watching the Domus as closely as you can. You are the only person here who’s armed with anything more than a dagger Septem. And that might prove useful. Spurinna you stay close as well – and those two useful servants of his Kyros and Narbo. Septem won’t have direct access to Caesar unless there’s some kind of emergency. But his augur can come and go almost at will. Especially under the current circumstances…’
‘Hey, Tribune!’ came a distant bellow. ‘I was only joking about the water and the cloths. Hurry up or I’ll leave without you!’
Enobarbus’ lips narrowed. His frown deepened. ‘Keep good watch,’ he ordered as he hurried out towards Antony’s litter. Spurinna lingered as Caesar turned, heading into his office.
Artemidorus walked at the tribune’s shoulder until the pair of them were outside the Domus. Then they split up as one went onto the Senate meeting and the other stayed on guard.
*
Enobarbus’ VIIth Legion regularly marched fifteen Roman miles in an eight-hour day. That allowed time to break camp in the morning and erect tents (one per eight-man contubernium unit), raise defensive earthworks, dig latrines and prepare food at night. The distance from the Domus Publica to Pompey’s Theatre was hardly more than half a Roman mile as the crow flies or as a Roman road runs. Outside Rome itself at least. Crossing the Forum, marching through busy, winding city streets and out through the constriction of the Gate of Fontus onto the Campus Martius slowed their progress, however.
Even so, the Senate’s water clocks had hardly measured half an hour before Antony was leaping up the steps that led to the curia of Pompey’s enormous theatre complex with Enobarbus at his shoulder. The first stone theatre in the city, built immediately outside the Servian wall. And the pomerium within which such structures were forbidden. It had been started eleven years earlier at the height of Pompey’s wealth and power. Dedicated three years later when his slide to destruction and decapitation had already begun.
They had entered the vast complex of buildings, colonnades and gardens by one of the south entrances. The manicured lawns and
fragrant fountains stood behind them as they headed eastwards towards the impressive curia. The water, constantly heated so that the fountains would not freeze in the winter, steaming a little in the still-cool morning, the odour of roses coming from it. Antony’s lictors and litter bearers cleared out of the way as other senatorial litters jostled for space to deposit their important occupants. The colonnades around the gardens busy with senators and other visitors moving amongst the artworks and statuary there. The original curia Senate House near the Forum had been damaged by fire and was currently one of Caesar’s building and refurbishing projects. The dictator had ruled that today’s Senate meeting would take place in Pompey’s curia, therefore.
The broad front of the curia was also colonnaded and knots of men gathered all along its length. The tribune paused as Antony went on up the steps. At the far end, he could just make out Marcus Junius Brutus, who, by the look of things, was still hearing cases as he waited for the Senate meeting to begin. And there, not far away from him was Gaius Cassius Longinus, obviously doing the same. Both praetors. Senior judges.
The next familiar face Enobarbus saw belonged to Caesar’s old friend and close associate on and off the battlefield, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus. Quite apart from anything else, and in spite of his name, Decimus was a distant cousin of Caesar’s. And, therefore the one – admittedly remote – member of the Junii and Brutii clans in whom Caesar and his spy chief placed an absolute trust. His kinship to the dictator was evidenced by his lean features and broad forehead. Like Caesar’s, his hair was thinning and beginning to recede. Also like Caesar, however, he had a ready smile and an abundance of easy charm. Though, unlike his cousin the dictator, he was not reputed to have slept with many of the loveliest matrons in Rome. Or a good few other women – and the occasional potentate – out in the wider world. Or, of course, Cleopatra.
‘Hey, Decimus,’ called Antony cheerfully. ‘You’re here early!’
‘I’m here on double business,’ answered Decimus. ‘I have to attend the Senate meeting in the curia of course. But I’ve also got a group of gladiators putting on an exhibition in the theatre.’ He gestured to the monstrous erection at the far, western, end of the quadriportico of the gardens.