by Peter Tonkin
The bed looked extremely comfortable. Even the ascender beside it to help the sleeper step up into the thing was cushioned. The mattress thick and more than likely stuffed with down. Rather than the straw he was used to – on the rare occasions he slept in a bed. As opposed to a military cot. Or the ground. There were fat pillows. A pile of woollen blankets that promised warmth against the chill of the mid-Mars night. The counterpane was purple and covered with a pattern of gold thread. But, noted the spy regretfully, the bed looked big enough for two. Far too large for a man alone. Especially a man with a head full of rutting satyrs and infinitely willing nymphs. Perhaps he should have accepted the silken fingered masseuse’s offer after all. But it was too late now. And, if the truth be told, he was simply too exhausted.
Or so he thought as Promus left him to climb into a bed that felt as soft as a summer’s cloud. To discover that there were sheets of silk beneath the woollen blankets. And commit himself to sybaritic sleep. As he did so, the first downpour of rain rattled against the shutters. The first rumble of thunder snarled in the distance.
But then, some uncounted hours later, the sheets and blankets lifted. And, as he surfaced into half-wakefulness, a slim, cool body slid into the bed beside him. Soft breasts with nipples as hard as sling-shots pressed against his ribs and his left arm. The yielding length of belly, lightly furred at its base, eased along his side. Tickling the top of his thigh. He half opened his eyes. The room was filled with flickering brightness as fragile as the foil that gilded Cleopatra’s statue in the Forum. That and looming shadows in which the frescoed rivulets seemed to shimmer. Lakes to undulate. Spectral nymphs disported themselves as they serviced rampant satyrs. One of whose number he could abruptly count himself.
Cyanea’s lips closed down on his even as the lamplight glittered in her hair. She smelt and tasted of honey. Her eyes were wide and glistening but the shadows hid their true colour. Her tongue tip slid teasingly past his teeth and he began to respond even more fully. Her thigh slid across his belly and she eased herself on top of him. She sat up, cloaked with bedding. The swell of her breasts in the lamplight the same as those on Cleopatra’s golden statue in the Forum. Almost of their own volition, his hands closed on the familiar firmness of her hips. His index fingers found the dimples that topped the firm swell of her buttocks.
Their bodies worked together, positioning her so she could straddle him. She eased back, accepting the merest tip of him into her. Stopping statue-still. Holding her breath. Teasing. With her moisture and her heat. Still forbidding him deeper entry, she leaned forward until her tresses caged his face like silk. ‘Will you think of me as Cleopatra, queen of a thousand hearts?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ he answered, laughing, as he effortlessly flipped her over onto her back. ‘I’ll think of you as a Sabine maiden to be ravished time and time again!’
He drove fully home as her sensuous giggle became an almost breathless gasp. And outside, over the city, another thunderstorm roared like an angry beast.
*
They had hardly finished jentaculum breakfast before Antony arrived. Artemidorus chose to eat in the culina kitchen again. This time with Cyanea at his side. He chose the honey-flavoured puls, and dipped his emmer loaf in milk to soften it. The slaves ate in the servants hall so the lovers were alone apart from the cook who continued to spoil the handsome soldier. And was happy enough to do the same to his lovely, green-eyed companion. And to feed her helpers who carried laden trays out and brought empty ones back. Clearly, thought Artemidorus, there were worse fates than being a slave in Antony and Fulvia’s household.
Enobarbus and his general arrived early in the first hour of the new day. Shaking from their cloaks the last raindrops of the departing storm. But, just as Fulvia had predicted, Antony was like a whirlwind himself. As he and Enobarbus consumed their simple jentaculum, they started drawing up their plans. And putting into practice the ideas they had clearly discussed the night before – and on the way down here from Cleopatra’s household on the Janiculum. Artemidorus joined these deliberations as a matter of course. Especially when Fulvia brought her husband the box which the spy had carried here from Calpurnia. But at this stage, the most pressing need was for Antony to contact his friends and supporters while staying out of sight himself. Almost every slave in the household was tasked with taking messages to addresses all over the city. Starting with the ex-Magister Equitum Marcus Aemilius Lepidus.
At last Antony sat back with a hiss of impatience, his handsome face folded into a frown. ‘This is all very well,’ he said. ‘But the men I really need to make some kind of contact with are up in the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. If I only had a way of finding out their current position and immediate plans…’
‘You do, General,’ said Artemidorus at once. ‘I still have my Samnite armour. They know the Samnite. Brutus himself has entrusted him with vital messages. If I put on the armour, closed the face mask, loaded up with food and drink from your excellent kitchen, I would probably be welcomed with open arms.’
‘You’ll have to come up with a convincing story as to where you’ve been all night. What you were doing,’ mused the tribune.
‘A variant on the truth will probably suffice,’ answered the spy. And it was as well for him that Cyanea was out of earshot at the time.
The water clocks in the Senate would have measured a further half an hour. If they were still running. When the Samnite, helmet on and face mask down, appeared in the Forum carrying a sack over his shoulder. Full of emmer loaves. And an amphor under his arm. Full of wine. The rain from last night’s storm had washed the streets. But the clouds that gave birth to it were long gone. The day after Caesar’s death had dawned clear and fair. A fact that Artemidorus somehow found faintly disturbing.
As he crossed the open space, heading for the Capitoline, the disguised spy became aware of a strange, almost sinister atmosphere. He had once been on a Cilician pirate trireme that was old. Semi-derelict. Abandoned. Adrift. And, he discovered the hard way when he went down into the hold, overrun with rats. There was that same secretive scurrying about the Forum. By the time he reached the tabularium, he found himself at the centre of a little knot of similarly laden men. Clearly he was not the first to think of taking sustenance to the murders and their guards. But, he suspected, he was the only one using his generosity as a cover for espionage.
Up on the square outside the temple, there was quite a bustle. Plenty of food and drink was coming up and slaves or servants going back down. While one or two more patrician benefactors stayed. Keen to associate themselves with Cassius’ faction. Like Dolabella, Cinna and their ilk. It was easy enough for Artemidorus to dispose of the food and drink. The conspirators had organised drop-off points in a vaguely military style. They had almost all been senior officers at one time or another. But, thought the spy with a secret smile, they really needed some centurions and a senior decanus subaltern or two to get things absolutely right. The temple’s priests and their attendants were willing enough. But no real substitute for army know-how. Still, he took his time adding his burdens to the pile and having a good look round. As he did so, Brutus himself appeared briefly at the temple entrance. Then Cassius joined him and they both vanished again.
The conspirators were all in the temple, clearly. The gladiators formed an effective ring of swords around it. Only carefully selected men were allowed to pass in and out. And priests, of course. Organisation of supplies not very impressive, thought the soldier. Security tight as a fish’s anus. How could he get through the guards and into the temple? Let alone hear what the men inside were planning? He paused, deep in thought. Considered asking Achilleus once again for help. Or inspiration at the very least.
So that he did not react until his name was called out twice. ‘Samnite! Hey, Samnite!’
He looked up. And there was Syrus. Club at his left side. New gladius at his right hip. The same threatening scowl he wore when Minucius Basilus had forbidden him to rape and torture Cyanea.
‘What?’ he kept his voice gruff. His tone belligerent. Every inch the swaggering gladiator he once had been. In the days he was known as Scorpius in the arena.
‘Lord Brutus wants you. Come with me.’ He turned on his heel and marched away.
So Achilleus had answered Artemidorus’ prayer before it had even been uttered. He was being invited into the heart of Troy, like a warrior hidden in King Odysseus’ wooden horse. But this warrior was going alone. With no guarantee of a positive outcome. He closed his fist over the telltale haft of Brutus’ stolen dagger and swaggered after Syrus.
The interior of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus was a vast, shadowy, columned space. The men within it were dwarfed. Even in groups and crowds they looked insignificant. More than that, most of them looked dirty. Exhausted. Deflated if not defeated. He saw at once that they had not really planned beyond the murder yesterday. It had probably seemed so unlikely to so many of them that they would succeed so easily that they had no further plans at all. But, he thought, like Antony and Enobarbus, they would not be slow in adapting to the new circumstances they had created for themselves. He thought of the way Antony was sending messages all over the city, rallying support. Cassius would think of doing the same soon. If he hadn’t thought of it already. Controlling the Capitoline was one thing. Whoever could control Rome would win in the end.
*
‘Samnite,’ Brutus looked the most exhausted of the lot. His skin – but not his filthy toga – looked as though it had been chalked white. There were dark rings under his baggy eyes. His stubble simply looked like grime on his cheeks and chin.
‘My Lord?’
‘Raise your face mask, man. I can’t stand here talking to a metal countenance!’
The spy almost panicked then. Before he remembered Antony’s tonsor and the good work done yesterday. Brutus had hardly ever seen the freedman who mended his roof and window. And if he had seen him – and bothered to remember anything of him – it would have been a beard as red as a fox’s tail. Which had been the point of growing it, after all.
Artemidorus raised his face mask and met Brutus’ gaze. Not the faintest flicker of recognition there. ‘My Lord?’ he said again.
‘You did me good service yesterday. But you did not complete your task.’
‘Did the soldier not bring my message, Lord?’
‘He did. And it was very welcome as I am sure you can imagine. But why did you not bring it yourself.’
‘I got waylaid, my Lord.’
Brutus frowned. ‘Robbers?’ he asked.
‘Well, my Lord, it was almost robbery. The price was so high. But she earned every denarius in the end.’
For a moment the spy thought he had gone too far. Brutus was clearly offended at the ribald answer. But it had the ring of truth. So his face cleared after a moment. ‘You can do me service once again,’ he said. ‘If you can keep away from the brothels for long enough.’
‘My Lord?’
‘I have three letters I want you to deliver for me. As you seem to know the city well.’
‘Certainly, my Lord.’ Artemidorus accepted them as Brutus handed them over.
‘This first one is to my wife. This second is to Marcus Tullius Cicero. You know his house?’
‘Who does not know Cicero’s villa?’
‘And this last, even more vital than the other two is to the consul, Mark Antony. You know his house?’
‘I do…’ Artemidorus felt that the words sounded strange. For he was winded by surprise. What was going on?
A letter to Porcia he understood. One to Cicero as well. Had Brutus not called for the lawyer as he came out of the curia? He must still fear a possible charge of patricide. Besides, if the so-called Libertores needed a solidly Republican apologist, Cicero was without doubt their man.
But Antony… Could it be some sort of trick? Some sort of trap?
‘Well,’ Brutus broke into his reverie impatiently. ‘Don’t just stand there. This is a vital task, man!’
Artemidorus turned and retraced his steps towards the temple door. But just before he reached it, a man stepped out of the shadows and stopped him. He found himself face to face with Gaius Cassius Longinus. The plot’s ringleader looked tired. Strained. His high, broad forehead deeply lined. His eyes bloodshot. Like Brutus, he needed a shave. But there the resemblance ended. On Cassius’ strong, square chin, the stubble seemed almost virile. The man radiated energy. Power. Almost to compare with Antony. And, on this occasion, threat. ‘Two things,’ he said abruptly. Like the decisive commander he was. ‘First, we have not been able to seal those letters. That does not mean you can read them. To do so would mean death for you. Secondly, to Antony’s letter add this message. We will be in the Forum at noon. With our gladiators as guards. If he wishes to parley, we will listen. If he wishes to fight, we will fight. Even if he brings in the Seventh Legion, there will be war in the streets.’
‘I understand.’
Cassius frowned. ‘Do I know you, Samnite?’
Artemidorus’ mind raced. ‘I served with you in Alexandria,’ he answered. ‘Before I retired and went into the arena.’ A half-truth, but convincing.
Cassius nodded, satisfied. ‘Tell Antony my message.’
‘I will, my Lord.’
Cassius turned away and Artemidorus reached the door.
As he stepped out into the brisk morning air, he pulled the face mask down. Providentially. Just as he did so, Syrus fell in beside him. They marched out of the temple colonnade and down the steps into the square.
‘You seem to have the ear of both Brutus and Cassius,’ said Syrus. ‘I have two masters also. Decimus Brutus Albinus and Minucius Basilus. Neither of them likes you. Neither of them trusts you. I will therefore be keeping a close eye on you as you come and go. And remember. I carry a club. And it’s not for show. But I also have a gladius and a dagger and I know how to use them too. Whenever you’re here on the Capitoline, I’ll be just behind you at all times.’
Artemidorus said nothing. But he thought, Good. That means I won’t have to come looking for you.
*
The letter to the Lady Porcia contained love, assurances and the sort of advice he had already given to her housekeeper in his disguise as the freedman. Bolt your doors in case of unrest. Prepare to leave the city if things get really bad. He scanned it as he walked towards Cicero’s Roman villa. The letter to the lawyer was very much more interesting. He slowed as he began to read more carefully, glad that he was apparently alone as he strolled across the open grass behind the old shops of the Tabernae Veteris. And the building site that was Caesar’s new basilica. Which was being built on top of the old Basilica Sepronia. The letter mentioned Caesar’s last words and gave a little speculation on their legal implications if they became public knowledge. And if anyone in Antony’s faction wanted to make a legal case of patricide out of them. But mostly the letter begged Cicero to come to the Temple of Jupiter as soon as possible. In case he could not do so, the letter also included a brief outline of the Libertores’ plans.
They would negotiate with Antony, it said. As consul, he had charge of the city. And the city must be kept peaceful at all costs. They would hope that the Senate would be summoned soon. Brutus was certain – Cassius less so – that the Senate would back them. Publius Dolabella had already retrieved the badges of the office promised him by Caesar. It seemed to the Libertores that if Antony and the Senate would agree, all of the plans and appointments Caesar had made in preparation for his departure – and during the first year of his absence – should stand.
Decimus Brutus Albinus was the only obvious sticking point here and the great orator might like to prepare his most persuasive speech in support of Albinus. For, as one of Caesar’s most intimate friends, Albinus had been given control of Cisalpine Gaul. The section of northern Italy that effectively reached up from the Rubicon to the Po and the Alps. A position from which, with the legions stationed there, he could control Italy if he wished to do
so. Something Caesar’s friends might balk at, given his association with the Libertores.
The rest of the letter referred to a speech Brutus had made and another he was planning to make – but all the references were to conversations the men had had in private. It was impossible to understand the details unless one had been privy to those conversations. Which the spy had not been. He folded the letter closed again.
‘Syrus said you would read those letters, Samnite!’ Croaked a familiar strangulated voice.
Artemidorus spun round to see the bear-like form of the apparently indestructible gladiator Priscus with another of Syrus’ men close behind him. Somewhere along the line, Priscus had acquired a second sword. He advanced with one in each huge fist. In the arena he would have been called a dimachaerus two-sword. But it was his friend that took Artemidorus’ attention. For he was shrugging off his left shoulder something that at first glance looked like a cloak. But the ex-gladiator knew what it was. It was a net. This was a retiarius. Fortunately he was not carrying the trident that completed his costume as a fisherman. But he was wearing the armour that protected his right shoulder and arm. And he also had a nasty-looking gladius.
Artemidorus saw all this in the instant that he turned, tucking the letters into his belt. He threw himself forward at once. Going to his braccae-padded knees and toppling onto his side. Skidding along the slick dampness of the grass on his right hip. The gladius there guiding him almost like a ship’s rudder. By the time he reached the retiarius, a heartbeat after he started moving, he had Brutus’ knife out of his pugio sheath. Priscus’ companion was still swinging his net and wondering what his opponent was up to. He was clearly not very experienced. Or he would have known. The one real weakness of the retiarius was his legs. Which, as with most fishermen, were bare. Artemidorus had cut the hamstrings behind his right knee before the net-man realised what was happening. Then he rolled over and came up with his gladius out to join the lethal dagger and meet Priscus blade to blade. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the retiarius topple as his leg buckled helplessly. But then all his focus was forward.