by Peter Tonkin
‘I’ll maybe go and watch that after I’ve finished with the Senate,’ said Antony.
‘Will you have time?’ asked Decimus. ‘I understand there’s a full agenda. It may take all day. Divine Caesar has a great deal of business he wants taken care of before he leaves for Parthia. Cicero may put in an appearance…’
‘That’ll slow things down with a vengeance,’ laughed Antony. The edge in his voice betraying his lingering hatred. Or it did so to Enobarbus if to no one else. ‘Once the pompous blowhard opens his mouth, we’re doomed to be stuck here well into the night watches!’
‘And,’ continued Decimus, good-humouredly shaking his head at Antony’s gratuitous insult. ‘Divine Caesar’s uncle Lucius Aurelius Cotta also wishes to share with us more predictions from the Sibylline Texts. Which should be interesting. Especially as his last pronouncement was a scarcely disguised suggestion that Caesar should be crowned king.’
‘Don’t talk to me about crowning Caesar!’ laughed Antony, apparently cheerfully. But with that edge still in his voice. ‘Not after the mess I made at Lupercalia!’
‘Oh. That was all your own idea, was it? I wondered…’
‘You should have asked Caesar if you really wanted to know! I understand you were at dinner with him yesterday evening up at Lepidus’ villa.’
Decimus laughed easily. ‘Oddly enough, the question of kings and crowns did not arise. Just much less important questions of life and death. On the rare occasions we could raise his attention from the work he carried with him. He must have signed the better part of fifty documents while the rest of us were eating, drinking and conversing.’
‘Well, whatever Lucius Cotta wants to say will have to wait,’ announced Antony. ‘Caesar’s not coming. He’s sent me to dismiss the Senate. So I’ll have plenty of time to appreciate the prowess of your gladiators. Are they fighting to the death?’
‘No,’ answered Decimus distractedly. ‘It’s just an exhibition. But I’ve hired almost a hundred…’ He turned away, suddenly preoccupied.
‘A hundred gladiators. That must have cost a small fortune,’ observed Antony to Enobarbus. Quietly. As they went on up the wide marble steps towards the vast colonnaded front of the curia. ‘I wonder what he’s up to. Have you seen Caesar’s list of appointees to all the major posts here and across the empire for the next couple of years? Is Decimus happy with his place on it I wonder? Or is the exhibition an attempt to attract Caesar’s notice at the last minute?’
‘What! Do you think the post of praetor peregrinus this year and Governor of Cisalpine Gaul next year won’t be enough for him?’ wondered the tribune.
‘That depends on how big his debts are,’ answered Antony knowledgeably. ‘And, now I come to think of it, if your list of conspirators is correct, the parallel posts don’t seem to be enough for Marcus Junius Brutus, do they?’
‘But Decimus isn’t on my list of conspirators. Any more than you are. Or Lepidus is. There have to be some trustworthy men in Rome after all!’
‘Then the gladiatorial exhibition must be exactly what it seems,’ concluded Antony. ‘A show to amuse the plebs. And those of us with plebeian tastes.’
*
Enobarbus stopped at the door into the inner curia where the Senate was assembling, ready for the meeting that Caesar had called for today. Antony strode forward, his wise eyes assessing the number of senatorial backsides sitting on the benches and chairs. Senate meetings normally began at dawn, but today was a festival and so the senators might be expected to arrive later. Whether or not they had already attended the toga virilis ceremony at Cassius’ villa and paraded round the Forum with the senator and his son afterwards.
It seemed to the tribune that the Senate’s sacrifice revealing the auspices for today had not yet been taken, either. No matter how many senators were present, the session could not begin until yet another animal had been slaughtered and the messages from the gods hidden in its entrails had been read. So things were getting off to a slow start.
If the general wanted to delay things even further he could cry numera. And cause the number of senators to be counted. By the chief of the senatorial secretaries already bustling in and out of the huge chamber like a swarm of bees. The numera count establishing whether or not there was a quorum present. But, thought the tribune suddenly, a cry of numera might serve Antony as something more than a delaying tactic. If he was able to establish that a quorum was present, in fact, then he could dismiss the Senate as Caesar had requested without worrying whether or not all of the conspirators had turned up. The only problem, of course, was that late-coming conspirators would have to be told over and over that their last chance of killing the Dictator in Perpetuam was gone. Something that was likely to ignite an even hotter flame of murderous resentment.
The tribune could remember precious few times he had been glad that the need to make a decision was not down to him. And this was certainly one of them.
But then, suddenly, it was down to him after all.
‘What do you think, Enobarbus?’ demanded Antony. ‘Shall I call numera now? Or wait for the auspices to be taken? I don’t see Cassius or Brutus yet. Cicero is remarkable by his absence. Casca is in his place already. Keen in more ways than one if your list is accurate. And I see ten or more of the others named.’
‘If you call numera now, we will at least spare a boar from being sacrificed…’ suggested Enobarbus.
‘And rob the Senate’s augur of his breakfast. Not such a wise move, perhaps…’
‘If Spurinna’s auguries are anything to go by, the auspices will not be good.’
‘But that won’t stop the porcine vessel of bad news from being butchered and cooked,’ Antony observed. ‘Not all the augurs or haruspices are as punctilious as Spurinna. Or as lean.’ He laughed. ‘Caesar says he prefers fat men around him…’
Even as Antony spoke, Casca stood up and began to move across the auditorium, his toga failing to conceal his lean build. He exchanged a word or two with the skeletal Minucius Basilus. ‘And I think I agree with him,’ decided Antony. ‘I wouldn’t want those two standing behind me if things became dangerous.’
‘So, General,’ said Enobarbus, passing the responsibility back to his commander. ‘Is it the augury or the numera?’
‘At this stage, the augury,’ Antony decided. ‘I’m not sure there is a quorum present and I can’t dismiss the Senate until there is. Casca is here – with a good number of Cassius’ friends. But there’s no sign of Brutus as far as I can see. Or Cassius himself. Maybe he’s taken Cassius junior home for breakfast and a lecture about the social and moral responsibilities of a grown-up Roman citizen of senatorial rank.’
‘No, General,’ said Enobarbus. ‘They’re both here. Outside. Hearing cases on the colonnade.’
‘Are they?’ asked Antony. ‘I didn’t see them. Must be losing my touch. Or my eyesight.’
As Antony was speaking, the attendants completed several important functions. The water clocks were turned. The records brought in and the amanuensis who would record the proceedings, using shorthand created by Cicero’s secretary, prepared his tablets and his stylus. This, observed Enobarbus, was a strikingly beautiful youth. A slave, he seemed to remember, in Trebonius’ household. The dictator’s gilded wood and ivory curule chair was brought in and placed on the raised platform at the front. Facing the assembled benches. And the work table that Caesar always liked to have to hand was placed in readiness to take the official scrolls and tablets he habitually carried around with him.
‘That’s a waste of time and effort,’ said Antony. ‘If only they knew it. Now, where’s the augur and his altar?’
‘Not far,’ answered Enobarbus, though he knew the general’s question was rhetorical. ‘At the Ara Martis over by the Villa Publica.’
Tellingly, thought Enobarbus some time later, the Senate’s augur had neither the standing or the reputation of Caesar’s augur Spurinna. Nor the insight, it seemed. Certainly the messages he sent to the Senate m
ade it clear that he saw nothing sinister in the entrails of the boar that was sacrificed in order to start the process of that day’s Senate meeting. He seemingly saw nothing in the slaughtered animal, in fact, other than a good solid meal. As far as the hungry haruspex was concerned, Mars and all the other gods and goddesses were smiling upon the entire undertaking. Which, all things considered, seemed highly unlikely.
And the ill fortune that seemed to be hanging somewhere in the clear blue sky made its presence known almost at once. As a slave came panting up to them, red-faced and perspiring. ‘Masters,’ he gasped. ‘Have you seen the Lord Brutus?’
‘Yes, answered Enobarbus. He’s at the far end of the colonnade. Why?’
‘It is the Lady Porcia,’ gabbled the slave, his eyes wide. ‘I must find Lord Brutus and tell him. The Lady Porcia is dead!’
*
The sundial in the Garden of the Vestals behind the Domus had registered less than an hour having passed since Antony left before Decimus Albinus’ litter appeared. The curtains around it were tightly shut so Artemidorus was uncertain who Caesar’s unexpected visitor was at first. But the curtains parted and the occupant emerged. He recognised the high, broad forehead and receding hairline of Caesar’s close friend and distant relative and breathed a sigh of relief.
Decimus Albinus’ arrival by coincidence came at the same time as Puella’s absence in search of a public toilet. Those in the Regia and the Domus Publica being closed to her. The spy was standing in the courtyard near the altar, deep in conversation with Spurinna, Kyros and Narbo. The augur at least being deemed worthy of a nod of recognition from Caesar’s friend and relative. Then Caesar’s doorkeeper was ushering the senator into the shady atrium of the Domus and the door closed behind them.
‘I wonder what he’s doing here,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Surely he should be at the Senate meeting or on his way to it. Unless the general has dismissed them all already.’
Spurinna shook his head. ‘There hasn’t been time,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’s just on his way. Passing by. Here to see if Caesar’s left yet. Wanting to keep him company. Talk some business maybe…’
Artemidorus shrugged. His eyes narrowed. He heard the tone in Spurinna’s voice that told him the augur didn’t fully believe what he was saying. Was on the edge of being concerned by the unexpected visit. After the auguries, dreams and wonders of the last few hours, anything out of the ordinary seemed sinister, thought the spy.
But the augur shrugged again. ‘If it had been anyone else I might be worried…’ he concluded. In a voice that sounded worried to the spy.
But he had hardly finished speaking when the door opened once again and Caesar’s ostiarius came towards the little group. ‘My master wishes his augur to come in,’ he said.
Spurinna threw Artemidorus a look. ‘You come too, Septem,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’ The spy nodded his agreement and handed the writing box containing Cyanea’s list to Kayros.
As Artemidorus followed the augur into the Domus once again, patting the tile with Janus’ face in the hope of some good luck, he could see all too clearly the basis of Spurinna’s concern. The only reason for Caesar to be asking for Spurinna was because he wished to test the augur’s predictions once again. His interpretations of the Lady Calpurnia’s dreams. And he would only question those if Decimus Albinus was making him question the original interpretations and the decisions arising from them. Which in turn meant that Caesar was thinking of going to the Senate meeting after all.
The doorkeeper led them through the atrium. Past the busts and statues there. The spy’s broad shoulder brushed a marble plinth that was as tall as he was. The marble bust of Caesar on top of it rocked. Then the spy and the augur were led into the large room dedicated to the god Mars. Mars’ shields hung on the walls. Massive, colourful scutum shields as tall as a man; fit for a god to carry. His spears stood below them, also super-humanly massive. A statue of the god stood in one corner and a shrine in his honour stood in another. The attendant Fabius stood beside the shrine, seemingly ready to make some sort of sacrifice. The only thing missing was the head of the October horse which was nailed to the wall in the main shrine of the Regia. There had been a chariot race in praise of Mars in the Campus Martius only yesterday. But the winning horse was not sacrificed on that occasion. As it was in October.
Caesar and his cousin were standing by the statue deep in conversation when the augur and his bodyguard were shown in. The atmosphere in the room was, if anything, relaxed and cheerful. As might be expected in the baths, where two old friends were sitting side by side in the caldarium swapping ancient memories and the latest jokes.
‘… if Calpurnia is asleep, poor thing,’ Decimus Albinus was saying, ‘then that’s all to the good. I’m sure there’ll be no repetition of whatever disturbed her last night. As you say, it was probably more to do with the storm than anything else. Like the way the doors and windows burst open. And the so-called trembling of the spears.’ As he spoke, he went over and touched the nearest one. And they all crashed together to the floor. ‘See?’ he laughed, shaking his head. The slave Fabius rushed over and began to pick the sacred objects up. At a nod from Spurinna, Artemidorus went to help. As he lifted the first of the massive weapons back into place, the spy could have sworn he felt the spear haft trembling.
‘Ah, Spurinna,’ said Caesar, noticing his augur’s presence. ‘Decimus here has interpreted poor Calpurnia’s dream in a much more positive way than the way you did.’
‘Has he?’ asked Spurinna carefully. Challenging Caesar’s favourites was a risky business. Especially when they were relatives. And they were telling him what he clearly wanted to hear into the bargain. ‘And how is that, Divine Caesar?’
‘Why, it’s obvious,’ answered Decimus Albinus cheerfully. ‘Calpurnia dreamed she was holding Julius’ head because he is the head of the state. A head, I might add, that may well be wearing a crown before nightfall. If the rumours I have heard in the Senate house are true…’
‘But I have refused a crown…’ Caesar began, surprised by this sudden turn of events. Artemidorus, his hand still on Mars’ massive spear met Spurinna’s gaze. The augur’s lips were thin. He wore a frown. But his eyes seemed calm in the face of impending disaster. The spy and centurion had seen that look in the eyes of soldiers approaching the battlefield.
‘A coronet offered by that buffoon Antony,’ laughed Decimus. ‘Not quite the same as a crown offered by the Senate. On the advice of the Sibylline Texts. As interpreted by the Fifteen and explained by dear old uncle Lucius Cotta…’
‘A crown…’ repeated Caesar. And there was longing in his voice. ‘King…’
‘King outside Italy certainly,’ said Decimus. ‘The king we apparently need to ensure the Parthians’ defeat. Perhaps even king outside Rome – outside the Servian wall and the pomerium. King of the world…’
‘King of the world,’ echoed Caesar, his voice like that of a man in the grip of a vision. ‘King of the world…’
*
‘But in the Lady Calpurnia’s dream,’ persisted Spurinna. ‘The wounds spouting blood…’
‘Caesar has poured his life’s blood into making the city and the empire a better, vaster, richer place,’ countered Decimus Albinus easily. ‘Of course, as king, he will continue to pour golden benefits on Rome and all the lands she controls. It is a clear analogy. And, besides…’
‘Besides?’ asked Caesar, a dangerous tone in his voice suddenly.
‘Consider, dear cousin,’ explained Decimus, treading more softly now. ‘Consider. The Senate met to honour you. Possibly with a crown as I say. Uncle Lucius ready to present the Sibylline predictions. Everyone tense with excitement and anticipation. Only to be informed you’re staying at home because your wife has had bad dreams. Really. What would they make of such a thing? A joke? What would Cicero make of such a thing?’
‘A speech,’ admitted Caesar, his mood lightening again.
‘A very long speech!�
� chuckled Decimus.
‘And the gable?’ demanded Spurinna, fighting to keep his voice level. To keep his tone respectful of Caesar’s closest friend and associate. Did the man not realise what he was doing? ‘The gable. Falling and shattering on the Via Sacra?’
‘A gable erected by the Senate to honour the Perpetual Dictator! Of course it must come down. They will have to put up another one. Suitable to honour a king!’
‘This all seems a much sounder interpretation of Calpurnia’s dreams than yours, Spurinna!’ said Caesar. And there was that dreamy timbre back in his voice again.
‘Divine Caesar…’ began Spurinna, his tone nakedly desperate now.
‘I feel a little foolish that I allowed myself to be talked out of attending the Senate meeting.’ Caesar said, with a shake of his head and a gathering frown. His mind returning from Albinus’ tempting vision. The man of action kicking in.
‘And such an important meeting,’ added Decimus. Gratuitously. For he knew he had changed Caesar’s mind.
Artemidorus felt a chill of impending disaster clutching at his belly. As though he was a sacrifice himself, with his guts torn out and spread.
Perhaps this was the will of the gods.
‘The Lady Calpurnia…’ the augur began. One last desperate move.
‘Is sound asleep,’ Decimus observed smoothly. ‘If we do not disturb her, Divine Caesar will be back from the meeting before she wakes. And with such good news…’
‘But Caesar,’ Spurinna interrupted desperately, trying one last frantic roll of the dice. ‘The auguries. They were as bad as the dream. Worse! You may be going into terrible danger!’
‘Oh,’ laughed Decimus Albinus. ‘As to that, if Caesar was actually afraid of a bunch of fat old senators, I have a hundred gladiators on the stage at the far end of the theatre. Fully armed and close at hand. And happy to protect us both!’