by Peter Tonkin
*
‘Lord Antony,’ shouted Artemidorus at the top of his voice. But his words were drowned out by a scream from inside the curia. Another scream followed immediately by more cries. Shouts. Pandemonium. And then by a wave of senators running out into the portico like an invading barbarian army. At first it was hard to make out what they were shouting. One horrified phrase tumbling over another. The senators flooded down the steps and spread across the gardens. Antony stood, amazed. Trebonius had vanished. Artemidorus, on the edge of the stampede at first, found himself almost swept into it as more and more senators ran out. Ran, it seemed, for their lives. Kyros, younger and slighter than the powerful soldier was carried bodily away, lucky not to lose his footing as he was swept helplessly down the steps.
But here, in the outer fringes of the crowd, what they were shouting began to make some sort of sense to Artemidorus.
‘Caesar!’ they cried.
‘Caesar is dead…’
Artemidorus began to fight his way across the portico towards Antony, who seemed to be frozen with shock. Pushing the hysterical senators away heedlessly. Using even more brute force than he had used to cross the Forum to Caesar’s litter. It was like crossing a river in full spate. Crossing the Rubicon had been very much easier. As he forced his way through the terrified senators, their shouts of horror made even more sense.
‘Caesar has been murdered…’
‘…stabbed to death…’
‘… on the floor of the curia…’
‘…at the foot of Pompey’s statue…’
Artemidorus’ mind was blank with shock. That what they had feared and fought against for so long should have come to pass so swiftly. Like one of the bolts of lightning from last night. By all the gods – was it only last night? As his mind still reeled, his body just took over. He fought his way through to Antony’s side as the last of the terrified men streamed out, still shouting. Caesar’s secretaries amongst them. With no one now to serve; no one’s words to write down. The Senate secretary and his men. The record keepers – as though what had happened was too terrible to record. The keepers of the water clocks. As though time itself had stopped.
‘Caesar is dead…’
‘Caesar is dead…’
Then, at the heels of the outpouring rush, came the murderers. Their cries echoed before them like the sounds of spirits lately released from Hades. Quiet and distant at first. Cavernous. Growing louder and louder.
‘Liberty!’
‘Freedom!’
‘Tyranny lies bleeding!’
‘Rejoice! Rejoice! The Republic is restored…’
They came out in a group. As tight-packed as a unit on the battlefield. Looking and sounding like Furies. Their hands and arms were red to the elbows, like augurs in mid-sacrifice. Most of them brandished their daggers above their heads. Some just clawed at the air as though they could rip entrails from the sky. But their togas had not been tied in the Gabine knot so the parts covering their arms were stained with blood. Sodden with it. So that the heavy cloth moulded to their skin as the blood still ran. Dripped. Sprayed in droplets each time they gestured. Blood that seemed shockingly red against the white of the chalked material. The fronts of their togas were red. Those sections covering their knees were red. Their boots were almost as red as Caesar’s regal caligae.
Artemidorus saw all this in a heartbeat. But then the wise eyes of the experienced battle commander saw other details. Red-lipped gashes. Wounded arms and hands. Caesar had been unarmed. So they must have stabbed each other in their eagerness to get at him. At least one was bloodied from head to foot – fallen into the lake that must stain the marble floor.
The shocked spy began to register other splinters of dialogue then. In among the clamouring shouts of, ‘Liberty!’ and, ‘Death to tyrants!’ Shards of conversation babbled one over the other. Perhaps a dozen heartbeats covering them all as the murderers fled past him and stumbled on down the steps.
He recognised the hysterical voices too.
Decimus Brutus Albinus: ‘He couldn’t believe it when I stabbed him. “You too, Brutus?” he said… I laughed in his face…’
Publius Casca: ‘When I stabbed over his shoulder he caught my hand. I never actually… But then he stabbed me! With his stylus…’
Marcus Junius Brutus: ‘He called me teknon. In Greek. My child, he said. Kai su teknon… You too my child. He owned me for his son at the last moment. Accused me of patricide. He knew the terrible penalty for that. Where is Cicero? I didn’t see him in the chamber. I may need him to defend me as he defended Sextus Roscius. Patricide… Cicero…’
Cassius: ‘No one heard him, Marcus. And if they did, they won’t believe it. Or they won’t care. Not in the face of what we’ve just done!’
Brutus again: ‘But wait I must address the people. I must make a speech. We planned…’
Cassius again: ‘Too late, brother. The people are all running away…’
And the conversations faded as the frenzied men also ran away towards the beautiful, deserted gardens. And the exits packed with fleeing people.
Artemidorus’ brain kicked into action then. As effectively as his body had earlier. With the ruthless logic of a soldier facing an unexpected reversal mid-battle. Caesar was dead and his killers running free. Antony would be next. It was a wonder they hadn’t noticed him standing stricken in the shadow of a column. Then Lepidus, who was likely in the Forum waiting to greet Caesar, with Enobarbus at his side. Then any other friend of Caesar’s who might stand against them.
He turned. Took the gaping Antony by his shoulders and pushed him ruthlessly back. His hand flew to the fastening of Narbo’s cloak. ‘Quick, General. Disguise yourself. Get away from here. Go to somewhere safe until we see how this plays out,’ he hissed.
Antony took the cloak and swung it over his shoulders. Artemidorus reached for the freedman’s leather hat that was still tucked into the back of his belt. He gave it to Antony, relieved to see that the general had shrugged off his incapacitating shock. The hat went over the distinctive, curly Herculean hair. The hood came up over it. The sole consul – no longer co-consul – became indistinguishable from any freedman and a good number of city slaves. He turned. Raced down the steps. Heading for the north exit as the murderers crowded into the south exit. Still shouting the terrible news to the shocked and terrified citizens.
*
Artemidorus turned on his heel. The portico was eerily empty. Strangely silent. One last record-keeper ran past, eyes wide. A strikingly beautiful, vaguely familiar boy. The voices were all distant, fading towards stillness. A little wind stirred. Warm for early spring. Bringing from Pompey’s massive gardens the scent of roses. He ran across the portico and in through the gaping vestibule door. The vestibule was vacant. There was a litter of writing boxes, bags of scrolls, scrolls themselves, like feathers restless in the breeze. Tablets. Many as trampled and splintered as Telos’ had been.
The spy looked through into the curia. The cavernous chamber was also deserted. Silent. His boots made almost no sound as he ran across the threshold. But what sound they made echoed. The benches and seats were all vacant. The areas around them littered with things left, forgotten in the panic. He had seen encampments like this. Deserted in fear of an enemy attack. The tribunal was empty too. Caesar’s work table and gilded chair lay on the marble floor a little way behind it. The table’s legs were broken.
At first Artemidorus could not see Caesar at all. Then he remembered some of the words he had heard amongst the jumble of half sentences shouted by the fleeing senators. ‘At the foot of Pompey’s statue…’
Pompey’s statue stood tall, on a square plinth bearing his name. A position to which it had been restored by Caesar’s order. After it had been pulled down on the news of Pompey’s defeat and death. The statue presented the dead general in the Greek style. Naked, but for a swathe of cloth like a cloak over his left shoulder, wrapped around his left arm and dangling almost to his knee. On the left sid
e of his chest hung a gladius, angled back into his armpit. On his marble head a victory wreath. His slim, muscled body almost that of Mars himself. His left hand holding a ball that stood for the world, much of which he had ruled. His right hand reaching out for further conquests.
The shadow of that reaching arm fell onto the floor at the foot of the marble plinth. Fell across a bundle of old rags discarded there. Like a pile of washing too soiled to bother with. Left on the stones beside some riverside laundry. Only a soldier as experienced as Artemidorus would have recognised it at once for what it really was. As he ran towards it, he saw the red boots protruding at one end of it. A hand reaching out at the other. The statue’s shadow seemed to spread. Becoming the shallow red lake that was the dead dictator’s lifeblood.
Artemidorus slowed. Ever practical. Congealing blood was slimy. The marble floor would be as slick as ice. With careful, steady steps he reached the side of the fallen man. Squatted. Reached out with a hand so steady that he observed it with mild disbelief. Took the corner of the toga Caesar had pulled over his face. Like the priest performing the sacrifice on the ram whose intestines had foretold this. Gently lifted it.
Caesar’s face regarded him. The eyes wide. Still. Fixed. The wreath he had worn was gone. The thinning hair and the skin of the skull beneath it were marked with more gashes than he could readily count. One reached down across the face from temple to chin. The nose was cut. The cheek gaped. The lips were split. The centurion had seen worse wounds. But this one was somehow more shocking. This is truly what death looks like, he thought. And more than one mere man had died here. The Republic itself may well have been murdered. By men who believed they were acting to preserve it. For he knew the friends of Caesar who had survived this outrage so far. And they would not forgive or forget. Caesar’s death, he knew in his bones, was only the first of many. If this terrible act meant anything, it meant war.
Then he noticed something else. Trapped under a sodden flap of material that must be about level with the top of Caesar’s thigh, there was a dagger. Without thinking, he reached down and slid it out from under the body. The handle was thick with blood but still he knew it. It was the dagger he took from Brutus’ house. Which he had left wedged in the doorkeeper’s throat. It had returned to him. Almost as though the dead man he had fought so hard to protect wished him to have it as a gift.
‘Thank you, Divine Caesar,’ he said. His words echoed hollowly.
And he thought, he really is divine now. Up on Olympus with Zeus, whom the Romans called Jove. Just like in his dream. And what is left down here is just like the Lady Calpurnia’s prophetic vision. He shivered.
‘Septem!’ Kyros’ voice came so suddenly that it almost made him jump. He replaced the flap of the toga over the dead man’s face and stood. Turned. The boy was hesitating in the doorway of the curia. The fact that he had returned revealed much about his bravery.
‘Yes?’
‘Is that… Is that… Caesar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are we to do?’
Artemidorus began to walk towards the boy, stepping carefully with his blood-slick boots. ‘That depends on what everyone else is doing,’ he said.
‘The senators are all gone. Everyone who was in the theatre has gone I think. The murderers finally got out of the south exit and then stopped for a while.’
As the boy was talking, Artemidorus stooped. Picked up a handful of papyrus leaves. Cleaned the dagger that was Caesar’s gift. Cut his finger doing it. Smiled. Such a blade. ‘Did they?’ He asked. ‘Why was that?’ He was at the doorway now, still walking. He tucked the naked dagger into his belt. Very, very carefully. Kyros walked at his side across the deserted vestibule out into the enormous, empty theatre.
‘They were waiting for something…’
‘Really? What?’
‘The gladiators. Decimus Albinus’ gladiators.’
Artemidorus stopped on the topmost step. Turned to the boy. How well this had been planned, he thought. A detailed plan worthy of Caesar himself. Though, the gods knew, that was the only type of plan that would ever have defeated him. ‘The gladiators. Of course. How long ago did they leave?’
‘They were still there when I came to find you, Septem. They may even still be there now.’
‘Might they? Good. Now what I want you to do is this. Go and find Spurinna. He must take Narbo, you and Puella to a safe place. His house will be safe enough. Cyanea is at Antony’s house. But she should be safe with the Lady Fulvia. Especially if Antony has done what I suggested and gone to hide somewhere else safe and secret. Enobarbus will alert Lepidus. Who will bring the Seventh off Tiber Island and into the city if he’s got any sense. So that takes care of the members of the spies in our contubernium. Except for the physician Antistius. We may need him later. But, as it was with Telos, not for his skill as a doctor.’
‘And except for you, Septem. What are you going to do?’
‘Me? Well, as I’m dressed as one now, I thought I’d become a gladiator once again.’
*
Artemidorus ran as fast as he could to catch up with the murderers and their escorts. He was no longer hampered by his cloak. And the roads across the Campus Martius were empty.
The only thing that made him pause was Caesar’s litter. It stood just outside the south entrance. Alone on the deserted roadway. Somehow it added to the shock and the sadness. There were only three of the four litter bearers left. Clearly one of them had run away. To break the terrible news to the Lady Calpurnia, perhaps.
‘Caesar is in the curia,’ said Artemidorus. ‘At the foot of Pompey’s statue. I want the three of you to get him in the litter as best you can. And take him home.’
The three litter bearers nodded. Glad to have someone tell them what to do.
The spy turned and ran on down the road after the gladiators and the men they were protecting. He caught up with them just outside the Gate of Fontus as the murderers rearranged themselves. Brutus had been wounded in the hand, apparently by one of the others. Rubris Ruga had been stabbed in the thigh. The gashed toga the spy had noticed must have been his. Publius Casca still had Caesar’s stylus wedged in the flesh of his forearm. Though this Artemidorus had not seen. Because Casca, like many of the others, had wrapped part of his toga round his arm like a shield. But now, wounds needed bandaging. The next stage of the revolution needed confirming. Further plans needed to be put into action.
Most of the conspirators were swapping their bloodied daggers for the gladiators’ swords, which were larger and more impressive. Easier for a mass of citizens to see. For, wherever else they were heading, they were certainly bound for the Forum. And the People of Rome whom they represented. In this as in all things. Or so they believed. The spy saw all this from the rear fringe of the mass of gladiators. He also saw Syrus and the band of men who had slaughtered Telos still close to the heart of the conspiracy. Crowded round Cassius, Brutus, Albinus and Basilus, swords out and eyes busy. The lead conspirators’ counterparts. A moment or two later, the murderers and their men were in motion once again.
Artemidorus moved forward slowly at the very back of the crowd. If he was going to pass as part of this group without risking detection, he was going to have to find a better disguise. He started looking round the gladiators nearest to him. A helmet would be a good start. One with cheek flaps and maybe a nose guard. Or even a face mask.
The Fates, which had frowned unrelentingly on his enterprise so far gave a brief smile now. The nearest gladiator was a Samnite. He was wearing the helmet typical of his type, with a crest, a rim and a full face mask. On his left arm he carried a shield the shape of a teardrop, thick at the top and pointed at the bottom. In his right hand was a spear that he was using as a crutch. For, in spite of the greaves protecting his thighs and knees, he appeared to have been hurt in the mock combat Decimus Albinus had been staging. He was also, it seemed, an unpopular man. For none of the others nearby
were offering to help him at all.
Artemidorus approached him with easy familiarity. ‘Hey, Samnite. I see you’re limping. Let me help…’
The grateful gladiator let the spy relieve him of the shield which felt surprisingly light compared with the army-issue scutum Artemidorus was used to. But then a scutum’s edge was bound in thick, sharp iron. The wounded man’s left arm came over his shoulders and the pair of them limped on a little faster. The spy apparently thoughtlessly keeping the broad top of the shield up over his lower face and beard. Behind the shield and the mask of his bearded face, his mind was icy cold. The shock of Caesar’s murder seemed to him like a declaration of war. A personal war – rather than the wider war he saw all too clearly in the not-too-distant future. But then, he realised, he had been at war with Cassius, Basilus and their associates since he found the body of Telos crucified outside Spurinna’s house. Therefore he began to look for a place he could conveniently despatch the wounded gladiator and assume his full disguise. Although the pair of them were moving more quickly than the Samnite had been moving on his own, they were still some way behind the others as the murderers pushed through the Gate of Fontus, still shouting about the death of tyranny, the restoration of both peace and the Republic.
Immediately within the gate, where the rocky cliff slope mounted to the Arx Citadel and the Temple of Juno Moneta at the northern crest of the Capitoline, there was a colonnaded parade of shops. Those that had opened this morning were rapidly closing now. As the news of Caesar’s death spread. One or two others had not opened yet at all. And a couple gaped emptily, untenanted. As the pair of gladiators came level with the first vacant opening, Artemidorus drove right with all his force. The Samnite stumbled sideways into the brick-walled cavern and crashed to the ground with Artemidorus on top of him. The spy threw the shield aside and pulled the dagger free of his belt. In a heartbeat, the long slim blade was sliding unstoppably into the Samnite’s left side, just behind the edge of his breastplate. Level with the nipple on its moulded metal front. That beat was the last the Samnite’s heart took. Artemidorus rolled the corpse onto its back, his hands busy with the laces tied under the chin to hold the helmet in place. He tore it off, exposing the face of a dark-skinned boy, eyes and mouth wide with surprise. Then he rolled the corpse onto its front and undid the laces holding the breastplate and the greaves in place.