by Peter Tonkin
Hercules, like Adonis and his sister, was given a slave name from antiquity, following the current fashion. And as Adonis was beautiful – and his sister, no doubt, all but a goddess – so Hercules was huge. And enormously powerful. Even more so than Antony himself, who claimed Hercules as a direct ancestor. And, as tutor to Lepidus junior, he was an expert not only in logic, rhetoric, philosophy, morals and mathematics. But also in wrestling, horsemanship and the use of weapons. He also had a cool head. Obeyed orders without question. And was nobody’s fool. Furthermore, like Artemidorus himself, and Kyros, he was Greek. Albeit an Athenian rather than a Spartan. Best of all in Septem’s mind, Quintus seemed to like him. There were potential areas of conflict as the two men’s skills overlapped. But the older triarius seemed to take his huge associate cheerfully under his wing – and into his confidence.
x
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus, falling into full centurion mode as he crossed the dining room towards them. ‘Finish up. Antistius, Puella is guarding a very nervous boy in one of the storerooms. Check him over, please. I want to be sure he is hale and hearty. We will have a long session of question and answer when I return. He apparently has an astonishingly accurate memory and I propose to test it to its limits. The rest of you. We have a mission…’
*
Artemidorus led his little band out of Spurinna’s villa. As Kyros shut and locked the door behind them. His face a mask of disappointment at being left behind. Shoulder to shoulder, they followed the broad vicus north-east round the foot of the Viminal Hill. With the centurion in front, the legionary Quintus at his side. With Hercules and Ferrata close behind. Skirting the subura and marching towards the southern slopes of the Quirinial Hill. The subura particularly was heaving with activity. But the sight of two fully armed soldiers – accompanied by a muscular legionary and a giant – ensured everyone kept a respectful space around them. Though it attracted a good deal of attention. As nervous citizenry of all types and statuses gave the four of them a wide berth. But kept a watchful eye on them as they marched away. In this circle of nervous silence, the spy explained the mission they were on. And his simple plan to make it succeed.
When they reached Trebonius’ villa on the pine-fragrant slopes of the exclusive neighbourhood, Artemidorus knocked on the door. With the pommel of his gladius sword. He made sure his blows sounded businesslike. Slightly impatient. And loud. For there was a decided bustle of activity going on at the far side of the portal. Not too surprisingly. The wood of the solid entrance showed signs of damage by axes, spears, cleavers and fire. The mob out to avenge Caesar’s death had clearly come knocking recently. The ostiarius doorkeeper opened almost immediately. Peering out nervously. Only a little relieved to see the murderous mob replaced by an officious-looking squad of soldiers. The centurion with his bodyguard strode past. Reaching out to tap the tile on the doorpost bearing the face of Janus, god of entrances and exits.
Artemidorus stopped in the middle of the atrium. The others crashed to attention behind him. ‘I wish to see whoever is in charge,’ he snapped, getting more deeply into his character as the impatient soldier. On an important mission.
‘The mistress left this morning, following the master…’ the ostiarius explained nervously. ‘So there’s just…’
‘I am Colus the proconsul’s atriensis steward,’ announced a round-bodied, frog-faced, loose-lipped man with dark bags beneath greedy, gimlet eyes. And a suspiciously dark profusion of oily curls. Entering the atrium with all the pomp and dignity of the master here. ‘How may the house of Trebonius be of service, Centurion?’
‘I come from Co-consul and General Mark Antony. I speak with his authority.’ Artemidorus’ tone matched that of the pompous steward. With a telling edge of military impatience. ‘As you are no doubt aware, the proconsul’s slave Adonis is in the co-consul’s custody as a witness to the murder of Dictator for Life, Pontifex Maximus, General, Pater Patriae, the Divine Gaius Julius Caesar.’
‘Ah…’ huffed Colus, clearly unaware of anything of the sort. ‘I see…’
‘The co-consul has sent us with express orders to find and bring his sister Venus, who, we understand, may have further information. And in any case will be of use to our carnefaxes.’
‘Venus has not left the house since the Kalends. Fifteen days before the Ides! She can know nothing…’ Colus wrung his hands, clearly unhappy at the thought of losing control of the young woman.
‘You obviously do not understand the methods used by carnifexes in sessions of close questioning,’ snapped Centurion Artemidorus, a thunderous frown gathering. That the personal emissary of Rome’s current ruler should have to explain things to a mere steward… ‘There comes a time when even the acutest discomfort fades. And a subject will only answer further questions in order to protect a loved one. A sister, let us say. From suffering even greater agonies in his place…’
The pudgy face flushed unhealthily. Spittle gathered at the corner of those slack lips. The gimlet eyes lost focus for a moment. Turned inward rather than outward. The steward’s mind was suddenly filled with pictures of what soldiers such as these might do to Venus. To loosen Adonis’ tongue.
‘Will you send for her? Or must we tear this place apart?’ snapped the angry, impatient centurion. ‘Make your mind up. Our time is short.’ His fists rested on the hilt of his gladius and the pommel of his pugio.
‘I will send! I will send!’ Colus assured him. His voice reaching the upper ranges normally only attained by Queen Cleopatra’s eunuchs. ‘You there! Ostiarius! Make yourself useful. Go and get the girl.’
As the doorkeeper hurried to obey, the steward suddenly had a second thought. ‘Oh! And make sure she is suitably dressed to accompany the centurion and his men!’
And, as a further afterthought: ‘You may need to get one of the women to wash her…’
The doorkeeper vanished at last.
An icy silence descended. Under which stirred the bustle of a household preparing for departure. With only a skeleton staff likely to remain until the master and all his family and servants returned to Rome again. Sometime, thought Artemidorus, far in the future. If the treacherous Trebonius ever returned. A homecoming which it was now in his remit to stop. By perimere slaughtering the man in question whenever an opportunity arose.
Artemidorus’ lips narrowed as time passed and his thoughts returned to the present. Adonis’ fears for his sister were obviously well founded. Trebonius’ punishment was still being lustily re-enacted. Venus was probably tied to a bed somewhere. Readily available. The spy began to wonder whether Trebonius shared his friend and co-conspirator Minucius Basilus’ predilection for enjoying the pain and humiliation of others.
But then the doorkeeper returned. Followed by a young woman who had obviously just been washed. Her golden ringlets jewelled with drops of water. Her tall, slim body dressed in a tunic that was far too large for her. Which nevertheless contrived to cling to the outlines of her still-damp body. Her dark blue eyes wide. With speculation rather than fear. The three men behind Septem gave a concerted sigh. Mixed of every emotion between spiritual wonder and naked lust. For in spite of the signs of trepidation and discomfort in her expression, her face was simply the loveliest Artemidorus had ever seen. ‘Venus,’ he said, fighting to keep his voice harsh. ‘We have come to take you to your brother. Have you any personal possessions you might need to bring?’
‘No, my Lord,’ she answered, in a low, musical voice. Her tone bitter. Her perfectly dimpled chin square. Her spirit clearly unbroken by whatever had been happening to her recently. ‘As you see, I cannot even call my clothes my own.’
‘Very well,’ he grated, his cold eyes sweeping over Colus and his cohorts. ‘Let’s go.’
As they stepped out of the doorway and into the street, the four men fell in around Venus as though they were her bodyguard. Trebonius’ ostiarius lingered with the door half open, watching the woman departing with a wistful expression. Clearly, thought Artemidorus, glancing bac
k, the doorkeeper had missed out on his chance to bed her like the rest.
xi
As the spy turned, something flew past his shoulder with a fierce buzzing sound. There was a strange sensation of air stirring against his ear and the section of his cheek not protected by the side-piece of his helmet. The solid slap of some kind of impact. The doorkeeper, so close behind him, staggered back. All of a sudden he had something sticking out of his shoulder. Something short, black, brutal. The man screamed, half-turned and slammed the door shut. Artemidorus blinked. Turned to Quintus. Another projectile buzzed viciously by. And a dart slightly shorter than his forearm slammed into the wood of the already damaged door. Where his head had been an instant before he turned. His mind was suddenly filled with pictures of exploding melons. But this was a bow of some kind, not a sling. Firing powerful metal-tipped darts, not leaden bullets.
‘RUN!’ he yelled.
The five of them took off in a tight unit, keeping low. Artemidorus had little idea of where they could run to. Trebonius’ villa was clearly closed to them, and he knew no one living close by. But at least the Quirinial Hill was covered with pines as well as with ancient and excusive villas. And no matter how accurate they were, bows were of limited effectiveness in woods. Especially when they were being fired from some distance. As this one must be. For there was no sign of an archer as yet. Simply the telltale whirr of his incoming darts.
Artemidorus let Quintus take the lead. Then he gathered the others in front of himself, bringing up the rear. He was the largest of them protected by armour. Even if he was the target, he stood a better chance than any of the others should he be hit. His equipment wasn’t up with Quintus’ but it should be proof against arrows fired from any great distance. With Quintus in the lead, Ferrata and Hercules on either side of Venus and Artemidorus protecting their rear, they charged into the nearest stand of pines. No sooner had they done so than the next arrow whizzed over Artemidorus’ head, sped past the three ahead of him and lodged in a tree just in front of Quintus. Without pausing, the legionary reached up to tear it free and then plunged on decisively. As though he knew where he was going, thought Artemidorus. With a feeling somewhere between surprise and shock. For he had never seen Quintus outside the camp lines of the Seventh Legion. So how in Jupiter’s name did he know his way along the forest paths between the ancient villas of the Quirinial Hill?
‘Get down!’ ordered Artemidorus, dismissing all speculation from his mind. He did not pause to see his order obeyed. Instead he turned and slammed the full length of his body against the nearest tree trunk. Shielding himself with the solid wood as he looked back across the wide road. There, in the black alley between two lofty patrician villas opposite, a shape flickered and was gone. Half body. Half shadow. But there for just long enough.
Artemidorus saw a tall figure dressed in a long, hooded cloak. Just like the one he had worn when executing Gaius Amiatus. As the attacker moved, there was the gleam of weapons at belt level. But Artemidorus hardly noticed these. For he was focused on what the stranger was holding. In the heartbeat before he slid it under the cloak and vanished. It was a small, heavily reticulated, powerful-looking bow. Like a strange variation of the Parthian equipment he had seen earlier. Of a design the spy had never come across before. Halfway along its length, reaching back past the string and a little forward of the bow’s grip itself, was a long lateral guide-piece. In the flash of movement it was impossible for Artemidorus to be certain of its composition or design. It might be wood or metal. It might be a tube or an open groove. There was no doubting its function, however. It was designed to give the short darts the weapon fired more range, more power and much more accuracy.
‘Did you see that?’ asked Quintus, appearing silently at his shoulder. ‘That was a sôlênarion. Byzantine design, I’d say.’ He held up the dart he had pulled from the tree. It was short but heavy. It looked dangerous. Powerful. The solid arrowhead was made of sharpened steel. ‘Armour-piercing,’ he added grimly. ‘Nasty!’
Artemidorus nodded. Trying not to imagine what the first of these had done to the doorkeeper’s shoulder.
Quintus continued, ‘I have several coming in the supply I told you about. We’ll see how effective they really are, eh? In the hands of a proper soldier rather than some fly-by-night sicarius dagger-man.’
‘We picked him up in the subura,’ added Ferrata, appearing at Artemidorus’ other shoulder. ‘Must have been following us since. Friend of yours?’
‘Not that I recognised.’
‘Well,’ said Ferrata grimly. ‘The list of your enemies is a long one. It’d take one of Caesar’s new weeks to go through it all.’
‘If word of our mission has slipped out, there are twenty-three names pretty high up,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Starting with Brutus, Cassius, the Casca brothers, Decimus Albinus, Trebonius…’ His voice tailed off. ‘Though this feels more like the work of someone particularly underhanded and treacherous. And rich. Able to hire professional killers at a whim. Someone like Minucius Basilus.’
‘Basilus and twenty-two others there, then,’ allowed Ferrata as the three of them turned and walked back to Venus. And Hercules. Who was lying protectively on top of her. ‘And there’s also the gang leader of the man you killed yesterday. Don’t know the corpse’s name but he was apparently right-hand man to a nasty piece of work they call The Gaul. Thinks of himself as king of the streets. Used to run with Titus Annius Milo. Took over the gang when Milo was banished for killing Clodius Pulcher on the Appian Way then died at Compsa, what, four years back?’
‘I thought Milo and Cicero were friends. Why would his replacement want to kill Cicero?’ Artemidorus thought of the raging mob from which he had rescued the senator.
Ferrata shrugged. ‘Allegiances shift. Caesar was popular. With the gangs as well as the plebs. Cicero sided with his murderers. And Cicero promised to defend Milo in front of the Senate. Said he would get him forgiven and recalled. Pardoned. Reinstated, even. But he never did. And, talking of shifting allegiances, there’s that treacherous green-eyed demon of yours. That Cyanea.’
‘Cyanea!’ the name hit Artemidorus with an impact like a bolt from the Sicarius’ Byzantine bow. He actually staggered back a step. ‘But Cyanea is dead.’
‘Dead? No such luck. She was too much for me and my men. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But no. She walked away. Left one or two bleeding in her wake. Killed both of the poor bastards who untied her, hoping to take first turn. Slit their throats from ear to ear. And set fire to Basilus’ house as she went. Never seen anything like it. Hope I never see anything like it again, either. Nemesis – and then some. She could be one of the Friendly Ones reborn, that one. She’s still out there somewhere. And she won’t rest quiet ’til you are well and truly lying cold and stiff on your funeral pyre. And she’s standing beside it with a flaming torch and a great big happy smile.’
III
i
‘Shouldn’t the general be here for this?’ wondered Enobarbus.
The tribune was not really expecting an answer. He was simply thinking aloud. But Artemidorus spoke up anyway. ‘He wasn’t present for the original interview, when the boy told us what he had heard. Confirming what I overheard Brutus admit to Cassius as they ran out of the Curia. Before we realised what he must also have seen. Let’s hear what the boy says now. He can note down what he tells us as he speaks. He knows the shorthand invented by Cicero’s secretary Tiro. And he’s a secretary to the Senate after all. He should be able to think, talk and write at the same time. Then we can take him or his notes to the general when we know exactly what went on.’ He emphasised the point by holding up the bundle of wax tablets he was carrying. On which Adonis was going to write down all the details he promised to reveal to them. Now that they had rescued his sister and restored her to him. After a lengthy and extremely careful return journey from the life-saving pine grove on the Quirinial. The rest of the contubernium were in the triclinium dining room or in the simple bathhouse that
Spurinna had added to the rear of his Equestrian villa.
‘Will the details matter, though?’ mused Enobarbus.
‘I think they will. And I think we’ll see that even more clearly when we discuss what we learn with the others. At the very least we can get some sort of a sequence established. Maybe start roughing out a plan of campaign. We know General Antony wants every one of the murderers killed in the fullness of time. But what the boy tells us could well give us some kind of list. In order.’
‘Who dies quickest. Who lingers longest. That sort of thing?’
Artemidorus nodded. ‘We certainly need some kind of strategy beyond the general’s decision that he wants Gaius Trebonius and Decimus Albinus to die first. But despite what the Lady Fulvia says, we can’t just go rushing all over the empire randomly slaughtering any murderers we happen to meet, trusting in Tyche or Fortuna to guide us. But, on the other hand, if we take the boy straight to Antony and he gives a full, detailed, report…’
‘…as we’re hoping he will. To us, at least…’
‘…there’s a good chance the general will simply explode. You know what his temper’s like. Especially at the moment when he’s being pulled every way at once. Everyone trying to second guess him. Even though he’s the only man in Rome who can stop us going straight into another civil war, Libertores against Caesarians. Stabbing him in the back in the meantime. Dividing the Senate, not that that takes much effort. Cicero being… well, Cicero. And, as you observed when we had just dispatched that rabble-rouser Gaius Amiatus, he needs peace and quiet to be established as quickly and securely as possible. So he can go out and spread some harmony and goodwill. Not to mention farms, smallholdings and sestertii. Here in Italy first. And then further afield. Perhaps as far afield as Egypt. Which is also a major part of the problem.’
‘Cleopatra?’