by Peter Tonkin
‘May I ask what your plans are, Caesar?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Certainly. I and my two companions are travelling to Rome. I believe the people there will welcome me, as they did in Brundisium, though I must admit I landed further down the coast and approached the town with some caution.’
‘And when you get to Rome, young man?’ enquired Nobilitor, officiously. ‘A little fun, I expect? Invest at least some of your wealth in tasting what the centre of the world has to offer. It is not for nothing that all roads lead there. The taverns. The fleshpots. The games. The races.’ He was blissfully unaware of the icy looks all three of the young men aimed at him, for his eyes were closed in almost ecstatic contemplation of the things he was listing.
‘When I get to Rome,’ said Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, his tone so formal and icy that he almost chilled the bath, ‘I will invest every denarius I can get my hands on in building an army to avenge my father Divus Julius!’
*
Sometime later, all of them were gathered round a large table in a private cubiculim room just off the hospitium’s main atrium. Caesar Octavius’ simply stated objective of avenging his adoptive father seemed to have robbed Nobilitor of much of his arrogant decisiveness. Though, thought Artemidorus, the sudden death of his companion must also have shaken him deeply. But in the final analysis, the soldier and spy simply saw his opponent’s weakness as a potential advantage. Whatever Basilus had in mind for Caesar Octavius and his friends, Antony’s needs seemed greater. Especially as the young man’s stated objectives chimed so perfectly with the general’s.
The only problems the spy could see were that Balbus had not yet contacted Antony – so their plans might turn out to be different. Especially as Antony had taken control of a great deal of Caesar’s personal fortune. Something Balbus, as the dead consul’s secretary, was likely to deplore. Also Antony’s plan of revenge against Caesar’s assassins was a long-term project dictated by more pressing political imperatives. Whereas Caesar Octavius’ aims seemed pure, uncomplicated and immediate.
And, most importantly, perhaps, Antony in every conversation so far, seemed to view Octavius much as Nobilitor did. As an unschooled youth who could easily be twisted to his mentor’s more important ends. An unschooled youth, as the insightful Fulvia had observed, who already had firm friends amongst the officers and men of the six legions in Dyrrhachium. He really began to wish that it had been Antony rather than Puella with whom he had enjoyed the conversation about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar.
iii
‘So, Centurion Artemidorus,’ said Caesar Octavius as the last of the cena was cleared away. ‘You said that Antony had sent gifts of friendship.’
‘I did, Caesar. If you will allow me, I will go and fetch them.’
‘And I,’ snapped Nobilitor, not to be outdone, ‘Will go and fetch the money Lucius Balbus has sent for your use…’
‘And I,’ announced Ferrata, who had consumed as much wine as all the others put together, ‘will go and fetch the bag of coin that General Antony sent to smooth your way home to Rome. And I bet it’s bigger than Balbus’!’
*
‘I will take the gifts and the coin, Ferrata,’ said Artemidorus as they left the private room together. ‘I want you to keep watch on Caesar’s door. I’m pretty sure that the assassin who fired the bolt which killed Flaccus was the same one as tried to kill me. But there is no guarantee that the same killer means it was the same target.’
‘But Quintus…’
‘You know very well that Quintus will be guarding my door. Now you go and guard Caesar’s.’
‘Very well, Septem,’ capitulated Ferrata with bad grace.
‘And I’ll send more food up. But no more wine. You’ll guard nothing well if you’re drunk or asleep.’
‘As you command, Centurion. Faciemus quod iubet… We will do what is ordered and at every command we will be ready. Sober or not.’
Artemidorus returned a little later to find that Nobilitor was already seated, a sizeable bag in front of him, made fat by the coin it contained. ‘You need only ask,’ the patrician was saying, ‘and I will disburse what you need. As Lucius Balbus has instructed.’
Artemidorus eased himself onto a seat and slid Antony’s bag of gold aureus coins, stamped with Caesar’s profile, onto the table. Saying nothing. Then he put the gladius beside them. And, beside the gladius, a pugio dagger. Which was almost a perfect match for the sword.
Caesar Octavius was too courteous to interrupt Nobilitor. But as soon as the self-important messenger had finished relaying Balbus’ further advice and strictures, he turned to the silent centurion. ‘So, Centurion Artemidorus,’ he said. ‘What have you brought from Antony?’
‘This bag of gold. Which is yours to do with as you see fit.’ The spy pushed the heavy bag across the table. Octavius glanced at Agrippa and Rufus. None of them moved or spoke. Nobilitor, misinterpreting their silence, allowed his lip to curl disdainfully. Antony’s bag was smaller than Balbus.’ But he had no way of knowing it was heavier – filled with generous Antony’s golden aureii rather than the silver denarii Balbus had sent. Rufus reached for it and hefted it in his hand, eyebrows arched in surprise at the weight. Agrippa reached for the ornately sheathed gladius. Slid the steely iron blade out of the gilded black leather. ‘A fine weapon,’ he said. ‘Numidian?’
‘Possibly Punic,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Not Egyptian, apparently. You may wish to discuss the fine detail with Quintus.’
Agrippa smiled. Nodded. ‘A worthy gift,’ he decided. ‘But the pugio? It almost matches. However…’
Artemidorus lifted the dagger, held it out to Octavian. ‘It is the pugio that is Antony’s gift,’ he said. Slowly and formally. ‘The gladius was sent because they almost make a matching pair. And because it is a fine weapon. But this pugio is something truly extraordinary.’
Octavius took it. Closed his fist round the sheath immediately below the cross guards. Slid the blade free. Sliced into the flesh between his index finger and thumb. Swore and started sucking the blood off his wounded skin.
‘Sharp,’ observed Agrippa, impressed.
‘That,’ said Artemidorus, looking Octavian straight in the eye, ‘is one of a pair bought by the Lady Servilia Caepionis for her son Marcus Junius Brutus. A pair that reputedly came from the farthest fringes of Alexander’s empire. The metal of the blades is unique, I am told. They hold an edge and a point better than any other I have ever seen. The blades are stronger and harder-wearing. Brutus had this one. Cassius had the other. This is one of the twenty two daggers that were used to kill Caesar. Its companion is another. Antony took it from your adoptive father’s corpse after Brutus himself had used it. And he sends it to you as a token. An assurance that he, too, will not rest until every man who wielded a blade that day is dead.’
iv
Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus rode into Rome one of Divus Julius’ new weeks later, as the sun was beginning to wester above a city still excited by the recent Ludi Megalenses holiday games. Artemidorus and his squad had accompanied Octavius and his friends on their journey north from Capua. At first to protect him from the possibility that the mysterious assassin would try to strike again. But later to try and keep some distance between the young Caesar and the ecstatic crowds who came to greet and cheer him as he passed. It was clear enough how word of his arrival had become current in Brundisium and then in Capua. Just how information about his progress and his imminent arrival in one town after another spread, was little short of magical. But spread it did. And crowds came out to see him pass as though every day was the feast day of a major deity and a holiday in consequence.
Artemidorus rode up the Via Appia beside Octavius, his mind preoccupied with several problematic matters. The first concerned the late Gaius Valerius Flaccus. Who had murdered him and whom had he murdered? The second concerned Antony. How would he react to the popularity and ability of a young man he dismissed as an easily manipulated boy and how woul
d he react to the news that he had sent gifts – and gifts of such momentous weight and promise – to the young Caesar?
But the greatest problem occupying his mind was the enormity of the error both Antony and Balbus had made in underestimating Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus and his friends. Even Fulvia’s streetwise insight had fallen far short of the mark. For this was not a nervous boy coming to kiss the hands of his elders and betters, accept their grudging charity and follow their sage advice. This was a general leading an army. The reputation of one and the sheer size of the other seemed both to be growing exponentially. And had been doing so, apparently, long before they all met in Capua.
*
Probably fortunately, Ferrata had fallen asleep on guard at Octavian’s door. For the young man and his two companions had no intention of sleeping in the hospitium on the night after Flaccus’ murder. They crept past him in the darkness and left the city altogether. Though the gatekeepers swore no one had entered or left after dark. Whatever the truth of that, the fact was that the three young men had somewhere far better to rest than the hospitium. As Artemidorus and the others discovered early next morning. For, on the plain immediately south of Capua, there was a modest army encamped. The better part of a thousand strong, it was the heart of the legion Caesar Octavius was building to avenge his divine father.
The people of Brundisium, it seemed, had more than welcomed him, as he had modestly suggested. After sacrificing in the Temple of Venus Genetrix – as the progenitor of his father’s family – Octavius had formally adopted his new name Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. The name, under the dictates of a smiling Fortuna, that Artemidorus had called him from the beginning. The loyal citizens of Brundisium – augmented by a great number of soldiers – had immediately turned over several million sestertii waiting in the town’s depository to finance Caesar’s planned invasion of Parthia. And then, again by the working of Fortuna, possibly at the prompting of Venus Genetrix, Caesar Octavius had met with a military detachment bringing the annual taxes to Rome from the Eastern Provinces. Which were immediately added to the wealth of Brundisium, as the soldiers added themselves to his burgeoning command. Making two treasure carts necessary. Not that the money was allowed to lie unused within them. As they passed through Campania south of Rome, every village along the way threw up more volunteers, mainly old soldiers. To whom the young Caesar promised a bounty of five hundred denarii each, with a down payment made at once.
There were several carts in the increasingly lengthy military train in fact. Those containing the treasure. Several others containing clothing, equipment and camp necessities. And one containing the mortal remains of Gaius Valerius Flaccus. On top of which lay his armour, his helmet and several other items from among his personal effects. All released along with the body by Aedile Lucius Claudius Siculus.
They made slow progress. Overnighting at Caesar Octavius’ insistence – and to Nobilitor’s disgust – in the tent beside his. Both of which stood at the heart of each evening’s camp. As though they were an invading army on enemy soil. So there was no need to change horses. But when they came to the mansio where, on the way down the Via Appia, Artemidorus discovered the matched brown geldings that had pulled the dead couple’s cart, he stopped and went to look for the stableman. The horses were still there. No one had come to claim them. He explained the situation to Octavius, and then he purchased them at once. And spread some of the load that had been carried by his little cohort’s’ three packhorses onto the backs of five.
So Caesar Octavius’ growing army moved ever onwards. Finally coming past Campoverde where Quintus had bought the gladius and the pugio that Artemidorus had swapped for the one he took from Caesar’s body. Giving the latter to Octavius. After Campoverde they arrived in the little town of Aprilia, some ten miles inland from Antium where Brutus and Cassius still lurked. And still two days’ march from Rome itself.
The day was coming to a close and the procession, as usual, had been halted by the overwhelming numbers of locals. Most of them come to catch a glimpse of Caesar Octavius. Some just to pass the time with some welcome strangers. And some, old soldiers, to join the growing army. Veterans who, on campaign in distant provinces, had dreamed of owning a little farm in Italy and settling with a wife. To keep some livestock, grow a few vegetables, grow fat and raise a family. Who were now bored with domestic and agrarian life and panting to get back in the action. For five hundred denarii a man.
But in Aprilia, another sort of visitor arrived. A tall, elderly man in black mourning robes. White haired, erect, distinguished. Artemidorus first noticed him looking not at Divus Julius Caesar’s adopted son and heir but the livestock. His interest piqued, Artemidorus crossed to the old man, his mind racing. There was something familiar about him. But the spy could not quite pin it down. ‘Can I be of service, dominus sir?’ he asked.
‘Those brown horses,’ said the stranger, his voice gentle but carrying. His tone patrician. His eyes chilly and his face bleak. ‘The matched pair…’
Artemidorus knew then. Not that the logic was difficult to follow. The black clothes. The matched pair. The lost carriage. The dead youngsters. But, just to be certain he said, ‘Would you follow me, sir?’ and he led the old man to the closed cart with Flaccus’ armour on top of it. With the bits and pieces found amongst his possessions piled beside it. Silently, the old man reached out and took a gold chain gently between his trembling fingers. Lifted it until the tiny gold figure of Juno, goddess of weddings, stood upright above the corpse of the man who had taken it from the murdered girl’s dead neck. ‘They were going to get married,’ he said. ‘He was taking her to Campoverde. To the market there. To buy gifts for the guests. As is traditional. They never came back.’ He turned his fierce gaze on the secret agent. ‘I have a son,’ he said, his voice bitter. ‘But he is away studying. And then he will join the army. She was the child of my heart. The promise of my old age.’
‘The man responsible lies dead in this carriage, if that is any consolation, dominus.’
The old man straightened, his face setting like stone. ‘It is none,’ he said. ‘But it is all I shall get, I suppose. Now, if you would be kind enough, take me to Octavius. I wish to talk to him and, perhaps to accompany him.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘There is nothing to keep me here. Now.’
‘Of course I will, sir. But may I know who you are so I may introduce you properly?’ A man like this, he thought, should be surrounded by guards and clients. Probably preceded by lictors, calling his name and demanding safe passage.
‘I am Quintus Pedius, the late Julius Caesar’s cousin and closest living relative,’ said the old man. ‘A relative therefore of Octavius’ himself. I wish to offer him everything left to me by Caesar in his will. And my help. And support in the Senate and on the streets of Rome.’
v
By the time they reached the city to which all roads in the empire led, the army behind them numbered nearly two thousand. And word had reached the city of Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus’ approach, so that thousands more flooded out of the Carmenta Gate. Along the Via Appia. The beggars, hucksters, farmers and stallholders were all pushed aside. Inundated by the tidal wave of citizens rushing out to see Caesar’s heir. They flowed like naphtha amongst the tombs and the tall pine trees. Climbing on top of anything that would give a good view. They shouted their welcome and cheered with joy as he approached.
Artemidorus rode just behind him, his place at Octavius’ side surrendered for the moment to Quintus Pedius. Who he knew now – though only by reputation. They had never met before their conversations beside the horse pen. And Flaccus’ bier. Pedius who wore, beneath his black toga, the armour in which he had led legions as general, praetor, and legate to Caesar. Which he had worn when Caesar awarded him a triumph for overcoming, at Compsa, Marcus Rufus and Titus Milo the rebels. For defeating Sextus, the last of Pompey’s sons. Appointing him Proconsul. Before he retired from public life to mourn his wife, educate his son, see his daughter marri
ed and raise his grandchildren.
The old man’s back was as straight as a pilum spear, thought the spy. A masterclass in how to handle heartbreak. He glanced around the cheering crowd suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He associated heartbreak with Cyanea. And he associated her with the assassin who had missed him twice now. Who might well be taking advantage of the current situation to try for a third time. The third, being the first odd number. The first lucky number therefore, to superstitious Romans. But there was no sign of anyone in a long, dun-coloured, hooded cloak. No one with a lethal barrelled bow. Just Quintus close behind. And Ferrata behind Quintus with Hercules at his side.
But then, just as they approached the gate itself, as Caesar Octavius himself was entering the city, there came a communal gasp of wonder from every throat there. For a thin skim of cloud swept across the face of the afternoon sun, framing the silver-gilt disk with a halo coloured like a rainbow.
‘It is a sign!’ called someone. ‘A sign! A sign! The gods themselves have blessed him! Long live Caesar! Long live Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus!’
And the crowd went wild.
V
i
‘See him now?’ snarled Antony. ‘No of course I won’t see him now!’
‘It would only add to his inflated opinion of himself if my Lord answered his demands the very instant that they were made,’ added Fulvia tartly. ‘I mean, who is he? Really?’
‘He’s a boy with no experience,’ answered Antony before Artemidorus could speak. ‘A sickly child, scarcely bearded. With ideas far above his station. Because he has inherited a name. A name and nothing more!’
‘I could call myself Alexander,’ emphasised Fulvia. ‘But it wouldn’t make me ruler of the world!’ She gave a short, ugly laugh.
The three of them were in the atrium of Antony’s villa. The atmosphere was unusually tense. Something of the excitement outside seemed to have seeped into the villa and then turned sour. The shouting and the cheering whispered on the restless breeze like the threat of distant thunder.