by Peter Tonkin
‘Right,’ said Caesar. ‘That’s it. My mind is made up. We go. And we go now. Fabius, tell them to prepare my litter. And tell my secretary I will want this morning’s work brought along with me. Go on, boy. Hurry!’
Fabius rushed out to obey the sudden list of orders. Like a soldier finding himself the target of a volley of slingshots. He rushed out of the room calling, ‘Lucius? Lucius?’
‘Fabius!’ snapped Caesar, calling the young man back.
‘Caesar?’ He hovered in the doorway. ‘Summon Lucius quietly! We do not want to disturb my wife!’
‘Yes Caesar!’ Fabius vanished again, whispering, ‘Lucius? Lucius Balbus?’ with hissing intensity as he called for Caesar’s secretary. Balbus was already a rich and powerful man. He had houses of his own and was only attending Caesar in his post as private secretary today because of the enormous amount of business they needed to complete before the dictator left in four days’ time.
The middle-aged Spanish Jew appeared at the doorway almost immediately, therefore. And was subjected to his own volley of orders.
Spurinna and Artemidorus exchanged despairing glances, trapped here until Caesar noticed them again and gave them either more orders or his regal permission to leave.
‘Right,’ said Caesar, turning to his beaming cousin Decimus. ‘Let us go. My litter will be beside yours by the time we get the Via. And Lucius will follow with my work and his minions. Oh Spurinna. That will be all, I think. You and Septem here may go.’
Caesar and Decimus Albinus left the room then. Processing through the atrium, shoulder to shoulder. The ostiarius held the door open for them and they exited with hardly a nod to the Janus tile. Artemidorus and Spurinna followed. The spy’s mind was racing. The augur seemed simply dazed. Lucius Balbus bustled past them. Fabius, still rushing to fulfil his master’s orders vanished back into the temporary Temple of Mars. As he did so, his shoulder brushed the plinth that Artemidorus had touched earlier. The bust of Caesar rocked as the plinth reeled. Toppled and tumbled, shattering on the floor. The ball of the skull burst. The face remained almost whole. Except for a long crack running from his right temple to the left side of his chin. The noise of its destruction loud enough to cause Calpurnia to come half awake and cry out in her sleep.
By the time Artemidorus and Spurinna arrived outside, Caesar’s litter was beside Decimus Albinus’. The cousins were exchanging a few last words before climbing aboard and heading for Pompey’s Theatre. Kyros was watching them, his youthful face a mask of horror.
But his expression was as nothing compared to Puella’s as she approached the little group. Returning from her visit to the public toilet in the Forum.
‘Septem. You have to get to the tribune and the general as fast as you can!’ Spurinna was saying. ‘If Antony hasn’t dismissed the Senate, you must stop him. And warn him…’
Puella arrived then. And something she had seen so horrified her that she interrupted the equestrian augur without hesitation. ‘Who is that man?’ she demanded.
‘The man with Caesar? His cousin Decimus Albinus. They are close friends and intimates. Why?’
‘He is one of them! One of the conspirators! I have seen him! Only once or twice, but I am certain. I have seen him coming in secret to meet with my master Lord Brutus and Cassius.’
‘This changes everything!’ cried Spurinna. ‘And explains the last few minutes into the bargain. Septem! You must find a way to stop Caesar altogether!’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘Then get to the Senate house before him! Warn the tribune. Warn the general!’
‘Right!’ The spy was in motion at once. ‘Puella,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Stay here with Spurinna. Narbo, I think I may need you. Kyros. Come with me too. And bring the writing box. Bring Cyanea’s list!’
IX
Artemidorus ran into the Forum with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The cloak he had borrowed from Narbo flapped behind him, but a fold kept the weapon concealed. If stopped by the local aedile magistrate or his officious vigiles police he could still pretend to be a gladiator. But he would prefer not to be stopped. Anything that kept him from his mission would be little short of a disaster. And his disguise as a gladiator would not stand up to much scrutiny. Especially as he was running to catch up with Decimus Albinus’ litter – and Caesar’s which preceded it. And it was Albinus’ gladiators with which he was pretending to be associated.
Kyros and Narbo were running at his shoulder. Kyros’ hood was down, cloak also flapping. Like Artemidorus’. He was clutching the writing case that contained the deadly list. Which, thought the spy with burning bitterness, was at least one treacherous name short. He looked around, wondering if he dared stop for long enough to scrawl Decimus Albinus at the head of the fatal register.
They were well through the second hour now and the sun was high enough to be filling the square with light and heat. The heaving mass of humanity fighting its way through the heart of the city simply added to the temperature. And, once again, to the stench. But, thought the desperate spy, at least a couple of men could move faster than a couple of litters. They should find it possible – if not exactly easy – to get ahead of Caesar’s litter. Pause for long enough to add Albinus’ name to the list. And still be in a position to hand it to Caesar as the dictator caught up with them.
Caesar’s litter was first of the two that Artemidorus, Narbo and Kyros were chasing. The dictator had dispensed with the services not only of his guards but also of the twenty-four lictors he was entitled to. As praetor peregrinatus, Albinus was entitled to six, but only two within Sulla’s expanded pomerium, which reached well beyond the original boundary and the Servian walls to include the Campus. He had brought them, apparently more defensive of his dignitas than his mighty cousin, only to find that they were a solid, fleshy barrier between his litter and Caesar’s litter just ahead.
At the left hand of Caesar’s litter, Lucius Balbus and his men held several bags of scrolls and tablets – Caesar’s work for the morning. Which he would scan and sign while he listened to the senatorial debates. He could get through a whole bag-full, thought the spy with a wry mental smile, once Marcus Tullius Cicero got under way. But the crowd of secretaries effectively made Caesar’s litter even wider. And, although Balbus would call out now and then that the dictator was approaching, that information did not always have the desired effect of clearing the way.
Progress through the Forum, therefore, was slow for the litters they were chasing. As well as for the other senatorial litters heading out through the Gate of Fontus, north of the Capitoline Hill, the Arx Capitolinus fort and the Temple of Juno on top of the northern spur. It would almost have been worthwhile, thought the spy, to have missed the Forum altogether and gone south of the Tarpean Rock and out through the Carmenta Gate beneath the Temple of Jupiter on the southern crest of the Capitoline. But the Fontus was the most direct way, if the slower one.
The litters’ progress was slowed still further by Caesar’s notorious approachability. He might be hoping to be king of the world before nightfall, but Caesar saw himself as a man of the people. And therefore, as his litter moved through the thronging, perspiring Forum, one supplicant after another pushed towards the open side of his litter, asking for favours, passing messages, begging for charity. Caesar accepted them all. Answering the spoken ones with a word, a smile or a nod. Passing the written ones to Balbus after giving them the most cursory of glances. Putting one or two more pressing or private into the fold of his toga that served him as a pocket.
And it was this that finally helped the desperate spy make up his mind. His plan was good. They should go for it. ‘Quickly, Kyros,’ he called. ‘We have to get ahead of Caesar at all costs.’
‘As you say, Septem,’ puffed the young slave. Narbo was stronger, fitter. Like Artemidorus, he was not yet short of breath. But all of them were running with sweat now.
In the face of immediate action, Artemidorus somehow stopped being a disguised gladia
tor. He transformed almost magically into the senior centurion of the VIIth Legion. The crowd ahead of him might just as well have been enemy soldiers. Dodging this way and that, ignoring the startled cries of pain and anger he left behind him, he shouldered his way ruthlessly forward. Bouncing off men and women alike. Lifting or shoving children out of his way. Careless of whether anyone saw his gladius and tried to stop him because of it. Content that most of the citizens, servants and slaves who saw the sword at his right hip drew back automatically, fearing violence. His face folded into the frown it wore in battle. An expression that also helped to clear the way.
He barged his way past Decimus Albinus’ litter. Then his lictors. He began to close with Caesar’s litter as the open space of the Comitium came into view on his right, still a little way ahead. By the time they reached the tribunal on which Brutus had been delivering his praetorial judgements more than an hour ago, he was ahead of Caesar’s litter too. Narbo and Kyros were still close behind.
Up ahead, the throng was being squeezed into the Clivus Argentius roadway. That led past the Tullianum prison on the left with the steep, rocky slope of the Capitoline behind it. And the Curia Hostilis on the right behind the Comitium. As the ancient roadway curved round towards the Gate of Fontus. Caesar’s litter slowed still further. But the open area of the Comitium gave Artemidorus the space he needed. ‘Kyros,’ he snapped. ‘I want the list, the stylus and, Narbo, your back to lean against!’
As quickly as he was able, the young slave offered the stylus and the papyrus. Narbo offered a shoulder as firm as the olive wood it resembled. Artemidorus spread the precious papyrus across the big slave’s shoulder as he clutched the slick metal of the stylus, praying to Achilleus that there would still be some ink in the nib. The stylus was made of bronze. It was about the same length as his pugio dagger, though slim and sharp-pointed. And once again the immortal hero of Troy answered the spy’s prayers. There was still ink in the stylus’ sharp nib. In spite of the jostling crowds at his back, he managed to add Decimus Albinus’ name to the top of the list. Then, for good measure, he added Trebonius’ at the bottom.
He handed the stylus back to Kyros and swung round, straining to see over the heads of the crowd. Yes! There came Caesar now! His heartbeat raced from canter to full gallop. With the precious scroll firmly in his hand he began to push his way towards the litter.
*
‘Caesar! Caesar! Hear me!’
‘No, hear me Caesar. It is only a small request…’
‘… a scroll for your attention, great Caesar. A matter of some importance…’
As Artemidorus pushed his way through the crowd, the clamour grew relentlessly louder and louder. Men and women seemingly of every sort and station clustered round the litter like swarming bees. For a wild moment, Artemidorus considered taking out his gladius and hacking his way through. As though the Romans in front of him were long-haired Gauls. As though they were Spartacus’ rebel gladiators. As though they were ruthless Cilician pirates.
‘Clear the way!’ he bellowed, still in character as primus pilus senior centurion, in full command of a cohort of six centuries; a mere eight ranks down from full command of the legion. And the citizens between him and the litter began to obey. He tucked the precious papyrus into his belt and freed both of his hands. Those who still hesitated he simply pulled aside, taking men and women by their shoulders and tossing them out of his way.
Until, at last, he was at the litter, looking down on a frowning Caesar. He pulled the scroll of names from his belt as Caesar glared up at him. ‘Septem? What…’
‘This scroll, Caesar. You must read it. It is of vital importance…’ Artemidorus found it hard to talk for any length of time. The litter had not stopped – it was moving relentlessly forward and he was forced to walk along beside it. As the crowds of litigants closed in around them once again.
‘Is this a message from Spurinna? Tell him…’
‘Caesar. Do you not recognise me?’ he cried desperately. ‘Septem is an alias. A disguise. I am Centurion Artemidorus, primus pilus of the VIIth. I have been working with General Mark Antony and his tribune Enobarbus. What we have discovered is on that paper, Caesar. It is of vital importance to you. You must read it…’ Even as he spoke, however, he was already being pushed back by the press of people. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he realised that although he could outpace the litter by running through the outer fringes of the crowd, he stood little chance of keeping up with it here at the full-packed heaving heart of the multitude.
Caesar took the scroll and half opened it. Glanced uncomprehendingly down at it. Glanced across at Lucius Balbus, clearly wondering whether to pass the scroll to him.
‘It is of vital importance, Caesar,’ shouted Artemidorus. ‘To you. To you alone!’
The unrelenting river of humanity overcame him at last and began to sweep him back.
The last he saw of Caesar, the dictator was pushing the vital scroll into the fold of his toga. As more and more of the people he lived to serve and hoped to rule closed around him with their interminable demands.
*
‘Did he take it, Septem?’ wheezed Kyros.
‘He took it,’ gasped Artemidorus. Breathless himself now. ‘But he didn’t read it. At least he didn’t hand it to his secretary. He still has it on him. So there’s a chance he might glance at it on his way. And arrive at the Senate forewarned. If not forearmed. Now we have to get to Enobarbus and the general.’
Even as he spoke, he was in relentless motion once again. But then he paused. Turned. ‘Narbo. Go back to the Domus Publicus. Tell them what has happened. Warn them of the danger. Tell Spurinna. Perhaps he can think of something…’ He had no need to add more. The solid Iberian was gone. He and Kyros turned back and ran on towards Pompey’s curia, the general and his tribune.
As Artemidorus had calculated, the outer fringes of the crowds were much less of an obstacle than the close-packed press of bodies around the litters. The spy and the slave made better progress, therefore. The roadway they were following curved beneath the rocky side of the northern Capitoline spur with the Temple of Juno and the ancient fort of the Arx at its peak, which rose on their left. On their right stood the equally ancient Basilica Porcia. Ahead of them lay the square-legged arch of the Gate of Fontus which opened in the Servian wall and led out onto the Campus Martius. They ran through the gate, shouldering the populace brutally aside. Turned away from the portico which led up to the Temple of Mars where the Via Flaminia sped away northward, as straight as an arrow. Heading over the Appenines to the distant port of Arminium on the Adriatic coast.
Turning left at the junction and hurling themselves into the roadway that led westward along the southern side of the enormous Theatre of Pompey, they pounded along the cobbles with the huge marble wall rearing on their right. Until they came to the first of the southern entrances. Here they joined the throng seeking entry.
There were senators – some still in their litters, some on foot. Citizens and freedmen of all sorts. Some here for the meeting in the curia. Some here to enjoy the art and statuary collected from all over the empire. Much of it displayed in the colonnades that edged the ornamental gardens, which many of the others had come to enjoy. And, finally, there was a great press of people who had come to see the gladiatorial display that Decimus Albinus had arranged. Which included, thought Artemidorus with a shiver of revelation, the murderous Syrus and the men who had been at Minucius Basilus’ villa.
They pushed through into the vast space. Artemidorus looked right and left, his gaze seeming to stretch away westwards to the theatre itself. Its massive frontage crested with the temple to Venus Victrix. Like Mars, one of Caesar’s favourite deities. Beneath which the gladiators must already be going through the first of their exhibition matches. And away to his right, the wide marble stairway that led up to the colonnaded front of the curia. Like the Temple of Venus, and the other curias in which the Senate met all over the city, a sacred space. His
eyes narrowed. The steps were busy with senators, their slaves and servants. But he was only concerned to find the general or his tribune.
He and Kyros had hesitated only a few heartbeats. Then Artemidorus was off again, running along the edge of the ornamental garden, outside the crowded colonnade, towards the steps. Neither Enobarbus nor Antony were there. They must be inside the curia itself, calculated the desperate spy. And if they were inside, that could only mean that Antony, as consul, had dismissed the Senate. Or was just about to do so. A gesture that was useless now. That was just about to be undone by the imminent arrival of Caesar.
Weaving in and out of the senators and their attendants, he took the steps two at a time until he reached the wide porch outside the big double doors of the place. Here he paused again. As an apparent plebeian – freedman or gladiator – he was forbidden entry. And he was armed with a gladius – so he was doubly forbidden. He peered into the relative gloom of the curia’s atrium. All he could see was senators. In groups. In twos and threes. It was difficult to estimate whether they were going in to begin the session or coming out because they had been dismissed.
‘Out of the way, pleb! What are you gaping at?’ Came a haughty voice, shrill with irritation. Artemidorus turned to see Gaius Servilius, one of the Casca clan. Quintus Labeo was with him. Quintus Ligarius and Lucius Cinna were close behind. The vultures are gathering, he thought.
*
Deeper inside the building, lost in the shadows so that Artemidorus could not see him, Enobarbus watched as Antony marched forward. During the last turn of the water clocks, the Senate had continued to gather. There must be a quorum now. But before Antony could send them all home, he would have to be sure. As soon as he spoke the words of dismissal, someone would be bound to cry numera and slow the process down as the precise number present was established.
As ever, once Antony had tired of trying to find a way round the obstacle, he would simply smash right through it. He crossed to the raised platform containing Caesar’s chair and work table. He signalled the attendants there to remove the furniture, then crossed to the chief secretary. His movements and gestures made it clear he was asking for a count to be made quietly. Informally. But accurately enough to allow him to dismiss a numera call with his own count. The attendants hesitated, confused. The table and chair remained in place for the moment. The chief secretary nodded. Antony’s count was under way.