by Peter Tonkin
‘But settling a couple of legions on new farms and townships will take a fortune. One way or another…’
‘From a man who is famous for the massive debts he owes rather than the limitless riches he can call on. I almost pity General Antony. He’s been offered the chance of a lifetime. At the moment when all the Fates seem to be in league against him…’
‘Still, back to the matter in hand,’ shrugged the tribune. ‘Do we come back and tear down the altar later? Has the general told you?’
‘It stays. And there’s talk of erecting a column in Caesar’s memory too. That’s to go ahead as well. We have more important work than hanging around here keeping the peace like vigiles policemen. So, in fact, have Lepidus and the Seventh Legion. Not to mention Antony himself, as I say. But our hands are tied until the city’s under some kind of control and the streets are safe. We’d better report back to him and see what the next set of orders are.’ He glanced back at the last few men hovering uncertainly around the corpse beside the altar. Looking up at the gently weeping spring sky as they shrugged and walked away. He could understand their confusion. They’d be lucky even to see the dagger-wound beneath all that hair. They probably thought Gaius Amiatus had been struck down by jealous Jove. For singing so loudly the praises of another, lesser, god. ‘The general thinks that if they start worshipping Caesar, they’ll be less worried about avenging him,’ he concluded.
The tribune nodded. ‘We can pray that that at least is true. What is it our Jewish friends say when they address their one and only god?’
‘Amen,’ answered Septem the centurion and carnifex executioner. ‘Amen to that.’
I
i
The three men ran through the darkening streets. Two were hunters. The third was their quarry. Around them, the city snarled and howled like a wild beast. Dusk was gathering swiftly. The dangerous air of lawlessness intensified as the light thickened. Mobs of men and women charged madly from place to place around them. Armed with kitchen knives and cleavers. Sharp-pointed spits torn from the cooking-fires. Clubs. The sprinkling of ex-legionaries amongst them with gladius swords and pugio daggers. Even a few ex-gladiators with the bizarre weapons from the arena. Appearing and disappearing like wolves in a forest. As the shadows deepened, they lit flaming torches, which only served to add to the feral threat they gave off. The atmosphere was one of utter lawlessness.
The man hurrying home alone glanced increasingly nervously from side to side. All too well aware that he had made several serious miscalculations. Any one of which might prove fatal. Which, taken all together, he would be lucky to survive. To start with, he should never have agreed to visit the villa he had just left. Certainly not in secret and unattended by the guards and servants which were his right. Next, he should have been much more acutely aware of the passage of time. For the gathering darkness had come as a complete surprise. But the conference he and the villa’s owner had just concluded – in itself another dangerous mistake – had seemed to both men to be vital and secret enough to warrant a little danger. So he had not asked for an escort from his host’s personal squad of gladiators to see him safely home. Which now appeared as another grave miscalculation. For the danger was not so ‘little’ after all.
The route home he had chosen to follow, carefully avoiding the Forum, had seemed a safe one. But now, he deduced, he had overlooked a simple probability. That the soldiers whose duty was to keep the peace during the night would assemble there at sunset. Making the Forum itself safe. While driving the murderous mobs out into the suburban streets and minor forums east and north of it. Through which he was now fleeing so desperately. The local aediles magistrates should have vigiles watch patrols out, too. But probably not yet – for night had not quite fallen. And in this dangerously darkening half-light, it seemed that the law was asleep. While its exact opposite ran riot.
The white of the fleeing man’s toga glimmered for an instant in the distance. As he ran from one shadow to another at the far end of an angustum alleyway. Too narrow to admit a cart. But not too narrow to admit ruffians, thieves and murderers. ‘Do you see him, Septem?’ one of the hunters asked.
Septem nodded. ‘I see him, Tribune,’ he answered.
Both hunters were in full military uniform once again but without the hooded cloaks. Septem was now wearing a helmet bearing a centurion’s brightly coloured lateral crest. His companion wore the armour and trappings of a tribune on the general’s staff. His helmet was crested with a black plume that fell almost to his shoulders at the back. Both men were seconded from military duties to serve as spy and spymaster. The man code-named Septem, Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus, was the leader of a group of secret agents, undercover operatives, agents provocateurs, carnifex torturers or executioners and interfectores assassins. He himself being a master of all the skills involved in his work. As the unfortunate Gaius Amiatus had recently discovered. The Tribune Domitus Enobarbus his direct link to the Co-consul and General Mark Antony who had assumed command of them on Caesar’s death. Had in fact employed them to keep his friend and mentor safe on the Ides of Mars.
Artemidorus and Enobarbus stood at the centre of a new concept in military organisation. A covert cadre dedicated to the gathering of military intelligence. Or, as in more recent times, political intelligence. A secret service. Something that had grown in strength and importance during the latest decades. First conceived, perhaps, by Scipio Africanus in the Punic wars against Hannibal and Carthage. Organised by Caesar more recently. Working, now, for Antony.
‘He’s beginning to slow, Tribune,’ grated Septem. ‘We’ll catch up to him soon.’ But even as he spoke, the pale gleam of the toga vanished into the dangerous darkness once more. He redoubled his speed. The iron nails on the soles of his caligae boots struck sparks off the cobbles in the stygian alley. The walls of which seemed to brush both of his shoulders at once. Their bricks striking against the tip of the gladius sword on his right hip and the lethal pugio dagger on his left, which they were only able to wear legally within the pomerium city limit because they were soldiers in uniform and on duty.
The lone man could hear the hobnailed footsteps echoing out of the black throat of the alley. He too redoubled his speed, his nervousness blooming suddenly into full-blown fear. He had no idea why he was being followed. Or by whom. But he was certain that his pursuers had no good intentions. He was, in fact, increasingly convinced that anyone he was liable to meet tonight was likely to cut his throat first and ask questions later. Despite his fame, wealth, social standing and political importance. All evidenced by the senatorial stripes on his formal clothing.
A minor forum opened before him. A lake of grey shadows into whose depths he plunged. The beat of his own sandaled footsteps echoed in his ears almost as fast as the drumming of his heart. Those of his pursuers joined in, making a strange, confusing rhythm. Which was somehow more threatening still. Almost as threatening as the smell of burning that hung in the grey air all around him. He glanced right. A vicus street leading south towards the Forum Romanum seemed full of flickering light. He wondered whether he should run towards it. Hoping for vigiles watch patrols. Or legionary peacekeepers. But then, over that unsettling rhythm of footsteps and heartbeat, he heard a baying. More animal than human. As though Cerberus the multi-headed hound of Hades had joined forces with Harpies hunting blood.
But straight ahead opened a friendlier thoroughfare. A proper via, wide and familiar. And, with a stab of relief that was almost agonising, he realised he was nearly home. He tried to put on a final spurt, spurred by the promise of safety. But he was at the end of his strength. He was by no means a young man. And the toga he wore was designed for stately, dignified progress. Not wild dashes through benighted streets. Which was one of the reasons he normally travelled in a litter borne by slaves. Preceded by torchbearers and lictors guards.
A kind of helpless incredulity swept over him. As he realised that his legs were going to let him down. Even though he was in sight of salvatio
n. He slowed, desperately willing his limbs to stay sturdy. But within a step or two they turned from reliable tree trunks. Strong – if gnarled and knotty nowadays. To unsteady candle flames. Burning – wavering – guttering helplessly as he stumbled. Unable to bear his weight for one more heartbeat. One more step.
ii
He felt himself toppling forward. As though he had been cut off at the knees. He put out his hands and was just able to break his fall. So that his face at least was saved from striking the cobble stones. Even so, he was winded. And lay, gasping helplessly, as he waited for his strength to return. Something that did not promise to happen at all quickly. In the meantime, he rolled over and levered himself into a sitting position. Only to observe that the flames filling the southern roadway belonged to torches carried by a mob of men and women. Who were rushing towards him in a manner he could only compare to wolves in the wild. Or ferocious animals in the arena.
Because he was shocked and disorientated, they appeared to approach and surround him with superhuman speed. His ears were ringing so he found it hard to understand what they were saying at first. They seemed simply to be howling and roaring. The yellow brightness shone in their wild eyes. Gleamed on their spittle, their drool. And their teeth. Turned their horrific, inhuman expressions into an array of terrible masks. It was disturbingly like being trapped in the middle of one of Sophocles’ most appalling dramatic tragedies. Orpheus surrounded by Thracian Bacchantes ready to tear him apart.
The largest rioter strode forward. A monster of a man carrying a bloodied club in one hand and a flaming torch in the other. He leaned down closer. Lowered his torch. And spoke more clearly. In a deep plebeian voice. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I know you. I know who you are.’ He straightened. Looked back at his cohorts with something like triumph. ‘He’s with them.’ He shouted. ‘He’s with the treacherous scum who murdered Caesar!’
But before any of the mob could react, two new characters arrived on the stage. One dressed in the armour of a centurion of the VIIth. The other in that of a tribune. Only two of them. But carrying enough authority to stop the mob in its tracks. The ex-legionaries amongst it came to attention automatically. The rest, sensing their respect, also fell silent.
‘No!’ said the centurion, his voice ringing with command. ‘He’s with us.’
‘He is if you can take him,’ sneered the leader. Straightening. Striding forward to confront the centurion, chin to chin. ‘You might be soldiers, but there’s only two of you. And there’s twenty of us. You might have your pretty swords but we’ve got knives and clubs and…’
His threats stopped suddenly. For the centurion had drawn his dagger so swiftly that the gesture seemed too quick for human eyes to follow. His left hand simply flashed down to his hip and struck back upwards like a snake. The blade gleamed for an instant in the torchlight and then was gone. As he drove it straight into his opponent’s throat. The sharp steel went through the pit of the man’s gullet. It punctured the tubes of the throat, stabbed the root of his tongue and separated the bones of the neck immediately behind. Without even touching the massive blood vessels on either side. Slicing the spinal cord as it went. For the briefest instant as the hilt rested against the skin below his voice box, a finger’s length of the point stood out above the collar of his tunic at the back of his neck.
The centurion slid the dagger free and sheathed it. All as part of that one swift, flowing movement. Stepped smartly back. Stood shoulder to shoulder with the tribune. Protecting their seated quarry. The corpse stood still for an instant longer. His death had come upon him so swiftly and absolutely that his body had no time to react. His lungs emptied as his rib-cage collapsed. A soft, flute-like note sounded briefly as the expelled air went out through the hole in his windpipe as well as through his gaping mouth. Then the torch tumbled from the numb fingers at the end of his falling arm. Skittered away across the ground, making those nearest dance back. His club dropped. His knees gave. He toppled backwards, smacking his head on the cobbles. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet, above the restless roaring of the flambeaus. His eyes continued to move for a moment. Met those of the man in the toga seated beside him. Then they froze. Wide. Shocked. Dead. As with Gaius Amiatus, there was no blood. Hardly any wound. Just a black slit as wide as a thumb, as narrow as a thumbnail, on the front of his throat. And another, invisible now, on the back of his neck. But he might as well have been beheaded. And the execution had been completed in half a dozen heartbeats. To the man sitting on the ground, it was all still a part of the strange play going on around him.
‘He’s with us,’ repeated Septem the centurion. His tone like iron. His eyes like steel. ‘Does anyone else wish to discuss the matter?’
As the mob backed away then turned and ran, the soldiers stooped and lifted their quarry to his feet. The moment they did so, his ears began to clear. As did his eyes. Reality jumped back into place like the slamming of a door. ‘I know you!’ he said. It apparently did not occur to him that he should thank them for saving his life. ‘I know you both. You work for Mark Antony.’
‘We work for General Antony, yes,’ said Septem. ‘And he wants to see you.’
‘There’s a couple of legal points he wishes to discuss. So he sent us to invite you to visit him, Senator Cicero,’ added the tribune.
iii
Marcus Tullius Cicero leaned forward. Flickering lamplight gleamed on his high, balding brow and the scalp beneath his thinning hair. Sparked in his deep-set eyes. As his hooded gaze flicked from face to face across the room. He was approaching his sixty-fourth year and had supposed he had only retirement and academic study to look forward to. But Caesar’s death changed all that. It thrust him back into the deadly arena of Roman politics. To fight or die like a gladiator.
Secret Agent and Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus had never seen him look so nervous. Even sitting on the cobbles in the minor forum surrounded by the mob, he had simply looked confused. The spy glanced across to his superior, the Tribune Domitus Enobarbus. They exchanged cold gazes. Then returned their icy glares towards the nervous jurist.
Cicero had many reasons to be apprehensive.
First, there was the fact that the two soldiers, who had escorted him here after rescuing him from the mob, were still in full armour. In spite of his evident distress they had half-carried him home. Organised his litter so swiftly he had no time to change his battered clothing. Grudgingly allowed him to summon his secretary, Tiro. And escorted them both here, Cicero in the litter and Tiro running beside it. Their swords still sat now on their right hips. Daggers on their left. Helmets on the floor beside their caligae boots. And his host, General and Co-consul Mark Antony and his brothers Gaius and Lucius were equally warlike in their attire. They looked as though they had just left a battle. Or were just about to start one.
Cicero’s anxious gaze returned to the centurion’s almost magical dagger. Which brought the vision of the dead rioter with that tiny, bloodless cut on his throat to linger distractingly in the famous jurist’s memory. The flute-like note as he breathed his last. There were rumours that the murderous centurion himself had simply thrown his beautiful young lover to the mob. In spite of the vital information she had discovered while undercover in Cassius’ household, working as one of the team tasked with preventing Caesar’s murder. But the centurion discovered she had betrayed him to the conspirators Gaius Trebonius and Minucius Basilus. Blamed her, in the final analysis, for the failure of his mission to keep Caesar safe. It was said he had acted coldly and without a second thought. And for all Cicero knew, the mob had torn her limb from limb with their bare hands. As they had ripped apart the innocent Tribune Plebis and poet Helvius Cinna, mistaking him for the guilty Cornelius Cinna a hanger-on of the conspirators. As the wild Thracian women tore Orpheus to pieces.
Secondly, there was the panel of interrogators the two soldiers had brought him to face. Who they were as much as what they wore. Co-consul and General Mark Antony. His wife, the icy Lady Fulvia, at his side. Ant
ony’s fully armed brothers Gaius and Lucius scowling at their shoulders and the consuls-elect Aulus Hirtius and Gaius Vibius Pansa at theirs. The latter pair in togas so white that they emphasised the sorry state of Cicero’s. In spite of the fact that Hirtius was a life-long friend, all of their expressions were set alike. As though they were modelling for a bust of Nemesis. Deity of implacable Justice. And inescapable Revenge.
Only Co-consul Publius Cornelius Dolabella and Master of the Horse Marcus Aemilius Lepidus were missing from this roll-call of the men currently ruling Rome. Dolabella was out, apparently making sure that every aedile magistrate in the city had mounted vigile watch patrols. Lepidus had no real legal authority or constitutional power, the battered legislator knew. For he was merely deputy to a dead dictator. His power and position terminated with Caesar’s last heartbeat. But he was also on the streets. Or in the Forum Romanum, at least. With the Seventh Legion. Nominally searching for the ringleaders of the riots that erupted after Caesar’s funeral and continued nightly since. Like Gaius Amiatus, General Marius’ grandson. Like the leader of the mob who had nearly killed him earlier. Though Cicero himself was privately certain that the people truly responsible for at least sparking the murderous anarchy sweeping through the city were sitting in this room. Watching him sweat.
Thirdly, most importantly, there was the deadly dangerous subject of the legal discussion he had been brought here to join. For they were clearly trying to circumvent the express will of the Senate and People of Rome. To twist Cicero’s legal knowledge to their own devices.