by Peter Tonkin
The big ex-legionary of the also disbanded VIth snapped to attention. ‘That’ll do, Septem,’ he said with a gap-toothed grin. Then he lowered his voice, ‘Though if anyone asks, it’s Hercules. Again.’
Ferrata turned and thundered on the door. Which swung open just wide enough to admit the spy.
Artemidorus walked towards the atrium, frowning. The whole area was bustling. But not with soldiers as in Caesar Octavius’ camp. With partygoers. Men and women in varying states of inebriation and undress stood and staggered all around the space. Slaves were dashing to and fro, filling plates with sweetmeats and savouries, filling goblets to overflowing. And not with icy spring water. At the entrance to the lively chamber, the soldier paused, looking round. Confused by the contrast with his recent experiences. He could see neither Antony or Fulvia – host and hostess.
As the secret agent hesitated, bewildered by the comparative waste of time, energy and money that the party represented, Antony’s mistress Volumnia Cytheris whirled past. Dressed as Cleopatra. But Cleopatra in one of Antony’s dreams: wearing only a gown of Egyptian cotton so sheer as to be transparent. Which was secured by a snake made of woven gold. That circled her ribs rather than her waist. Immediately beneath the pale fullness of her naked breasts. Their nipples gilded. Reminding him disorientatingly of Cyanea even so. Cyanea in a disturbingly similar costume.
Then, over to one side he saw Enobarbus. He pushed his way ruthlessly through the cheery throng until he reached his commander’s side. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Cicero’s back,’ said Enobarbus shortly. ‘The general is celebrating the success of his clever stratagem. He proposes to party tonight and confront the old man at the Senate meeting tomorrow. Get him to rule in public right there and then about the Divine Julius’ dying words and the patricide matter.’
‘Does he? Why now?’
‘Because he’s run out of patience. Because the old man tried to run for it and might actually manage to escape next time. Not be fooled by the rumours we started that the People of Rome thought him a coward and a runaway – like Price Paris of Troy. An abject failure like Crassus. He might even get beyond Antony’s immediate grasp next time. Because now that the Italian legions are settled, Antony wants the legal matter settled as well so he can get out and about. He can’t stay here forever, not if he wants to boot Decimus Albinus out of Cisalpine Gaul any time soon. And to cap it all, the Macedonian legions are due to start arriving in Brundisium any day now.’
iv
‘Sick!’ snarled Antony just after dawn next day. ‘I’m sick. And I’m still here!’
He had proved the truth of the latter statement by vomiting in the Senate House a few minutes earlier. In front of the entire Senate. The Senate – apart from those in exile or in hiding. And except for the one senator still in Rome whom he needed to be present for his plan to reach fruition.
Artemidorus, standing outside the still-gaping Senate House door, wondered whether Cicero’s sickness was the real thing – or a clever ploy on the lawyer’s part. And, if it was genuine, whether it really was comparable to Antony’s self-inflicted nausea. About which there could be no question. The general had been far too drunk to hear his report yesterday afternoon – and had been either paralytic or deeply asleep ever since. He hadn’t even bathed or shaved in the interim.
Now he was in the worst of all possible conditions. In the grip of a crippling hangover – and yet still so drunk that he was well beyond self-control or reason. He paced the rostrum like a wild beast in the Circus Maximus. ‘It’s a trick!’ he continued, his voice a throaty, phlegm-thickened roar. ‘The old pēdĕre fart is trying to outsmart me! I want him here! And I want him here now! If I have to, I’ll get a builder and go myself to rip off his front door. The whole front of his fornicates villa!’ But then he suddenly seemed to have a better idea. He swung round to address Enobarbus who, as tribune, was permitted inside the Senate. ‘Tribune!’ he growled. ‘Get as many of my Praetorians as it takes. Bring Marcus Tullius Cicero here. And if he continues to refuse my invitations, then burn the old nothus bastard out!’
There was a hiss of horror throughout the entire Senate. Co-consul Publius Dolabella, preparing to take up the governorship of Macedonia and by no means worried even about the fate of his ex-father-in-law, simply shrugged. Made a pantomime of washing his hands – the legal gesture demonstrating that he gave up any responsibility in the matter.
Enobarbus turned on his heel and marched out of the Senate House door. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered Artemidorus. ‘Bring Ferrata and some men we can trust.’
‘Trust to burn Cicero out?’ asked Artemidorus, his voice betraying his shock.
‘Men we can trust not to burn the old fool out!’ snapped Enobarbus. ‘But men who will put on a good show of trying to do so, if it comes to it.’
As the squad Artemidorus assembled for Enobarbus marched across the Forum in the direction of Cicero’s house on the lower slopes of the Palatine, Ferrata fell in at the spy’s shoulder. ‘Have you seen Quintus recently, Septem?’
‘Not since we got back from our mission to Antium and Pompeii, while the legions were being disbanded and the Praetorian Cohorts set up, why?’
‘He wants to see you. He has a surprise. After this is over – whatever it is that this is – I’ll take you to him.’
‘What’s this about?’ The spy abruptly realised that Quintus might well be in trouble. He had lived for the VIIth and they had never discussed what he might do if the legion was disbanded. Artemidorus suddenly realised that the old man might be down there in the mud of Castilium, trying to get some sort of shelter erected. Some sort of subsistence crop planted. But then he thought, No… Ferrata wouldn’t be proposing a three-day journey in the midst of all this. Wherever the old Triarius actually was, he must be somewhere in the city. Perhaps with Spurinna, like Puella, Hercules, Venus and Adonis… But then he realised with a start that he really had no idea where any of his little contubernium of spies actually were at all.
He quick-marched up to Enobarbus’ shoulder. ‘Tribune…’ he began.
‘Right,’ snapped the tribune. ‘Here we are. Let’s see what’s going on shall we?’ And he hammered on Cicero’s door with the pommel of his gladius.
After a few moments, Cicero’s secretary Tiro answered. One glance was enough. His face flooded with recognition and suspicion. ‘The master is unwell,’ he snapped. ‘You cannot drag him to Antony, whether he wants to go or not, this time. He is in his bed and too feverish to leave it.’
‘Right,’ said Ferrata unhelpfully. ‘Then we have the general’s permission to burn him out. The general’s direct order to do so in fact. After he decided against getting a builder and smashing his way in personally. And he was speaking as consul into the bargain…’
‘That will do, Legionary!’ snapped Enobarbus. ‘Tiro. Would your master be well enough to see Septem and myself? For a moment or two only. So we may assess the situation…’
‘Well, Tribune, I’m not sure…’
‘The general and consul did issue the order as reported by the legionary, Tiro,’ warned Artemidorus. ‘But, remember, we are the men who rescued Marcus Tullius from a murderous mob. He is only still alive because of us. We don’t want him dead any more than you do. We only wish to make sure we can honestly tell General Antony that the senator is so unwell that setting fire to the house would simply roast him to death – not frighten him into obedience.’
‘Very well,’ said Tiro. ‘But only you two. And only for a moment. The master is exhausted. And he is asleep at the moment, so tread softly.’
Artemidorus was shocked by the change he saw in Cicero. Even though the senator had not been at his best during their last meeting, nothing could have prepared the spy for the deterioration in the old man’s appearance since. What little flesh there had been on his face seemed to have melted away. There was nothing more than skull beneath the ivory skin. The high forehead, framed with white, woolly
hair, was beaded with sweat. The eyeballs behind the closed lids jerked feverishly from side to side above big black bags. The body on the bed, outlined beneath the covers, seemed bloated. While the arms and legs had grown more spindly still.
‘Do you know where Antistius the physician lives?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Yes,’ answered Tiro.
‘Send someone to fetch him,’ commanded the centurion.
‘We’ll explain matters to Antony,’ added Enobarbus. ‘There’ll be no more summonses to the Senate today…’
‘… or talk of builders and burning.’ Artemidorus added.
v
Side by side, Artemidorus and Enobarbus led their little command back across the Forum to the Senate House. ‘Antony’s not going to like this,’ said Artemidorus uneasily, all too well aware that he was still in the general’s bad books – even though he had yet to present him with even more unpalatable news. News about Caesar Octavius and his plans; the sluggish progress of mud-bound Castilium and the recurrent restlessness of the legions Antony supposed were happily settled. Not to mention the fact that Caesar Octavius appeared to have surrounded himself with more than one legion. Perhaps two or three thousand men, all old soldiers. Who seemed to be almost on a war-footing in the heart of Italy just three miles north of Capua. And of course there was the fact that the young man was in Rome now, watching this farce with his two bosom companions and a great deal of cynical amusement.
But then the goddess Fortuna, perhaps at the prompting of his own personal deity the demigod Achilleus, hero of Troy, smiled on him. A military messenger came riding into the Forum and, seeing a squad of soldiers, reined to a halt beside them. ‘Ave, Tribune,’ he saluted from horseback. ‘I have news for General Antony. Do you know where I can find him?’
‘We are going to him now,’ answered Enobarbus. ‘You may accompany us.’
The messenger slid to the ground and led his horse alongside him as he marched with stiff legs towards the Senate.
‘Good news?’ asked Ferrata, who was walking beside him. ‘The general could do with some…’
‘The first of the Macedonian legions, the Martia, has started disembarking in Brundisium,’ gasped the messenger.
‘Now that,’ said Artemidorus quietly to Enobarbus, ‘just has to brighten up his day.’
‘And, perhaps, his mood.’ Enobarbus added.
*
The tribune was right. He called Antony to the door of the Senate so the legionary could deliver his message. No sooner had Antony heard what the young soldier had to say than he peremptorily handed the chairmanship of the meeting over to Dolabella and hurried home. Apparently having forgotten all about Cicero. Paying no heed at all to the mutterings of the senators who felt insulted by his rapid exit.
In the now-vacant atrium of his villa – and in his changing room, office and bath – he listened to Artemidorus’ report with half an ear as he changed out of his senatorial toga, packed away his badges of office, bathed, was shaved and put his armour on. Fulvia appeared in the midst of this process. And no sooner had she heard the news than she too was off to change.
The unsuspecting officers and men of the Martia legion were going to get quite a welcome, thought Artemidorus. But his wry amusement was undermined by the strong suspicion that, although his report had been delivered, it had by no means been received or understood.
‘If Octavian is in Rome then you stay here too, Septem,’ Antony decided. ‘Keep an eye on the little rat. Stick to him like his shadow but stay unobserved yourself. Tell me where he goes and who he sees. A complete list, mind, when I get back. Tribune, you’re coming to Brundisium with Fulvia and me. We’re going to welcome the boys home. It’ll be the start of a long party.’
Artemidorus left Antony’s villa wondering how best to go about his assignment. Caesar Octavius knew him by sight. Better, perhaps than anyone except for Enobarbus. Cyanea. And Antony himself. It seemed to him that if he was going to have a realistic chance of fulfilling his orders without alerting the subject of the surveillance that he was being watched, then he had better find someone who could stand in for him. Someone Caesar did not know – who might reasonably be expected to be hanging around the city streets.
‘Ah, Septem,’ said a familiar voice, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Is now a good time to show you Quintus’ surprise? It’s an excellent one, I promise…’
He turned, and there was Ferrata. The answer to his problem. In several ways, as things turned out.
‘Yes,’ he said at once. ‘It’s a very good time.’
‘Right,’ said Ferrata. ‘Let’s go.’
Ferrata led Artemidorus across the Forum and into the maze of streets leading past the subura up towards the Esquiline Hill. As they walked, the legionary of the VIth Ironclads talked incessantly, bringing Artemidorus up to date with the changes set off by the dissolution of the VIIth. ‘It went far beyond simply reassigning us soldiers to Antony’s Praetorian Cohorts,’ the old soldier explained. ‘That was only the start of it. Once we were at liberty, so to speak, then a whole raft of other changes seem to have followed on. Quintus, for instance, was too old for the Praetorians. So he was forcibly retired. Which he did not take lying down, I can tell you!
‘In the meantime Spurinna ran into a bit of a problem. Not the sort of problem that need trouble men like you and me, Septem, but a problem nevertheless. It appears that augurs and haruspices are a bit like vestals. The gods talk most clearly to those who do not indulge in the delights of the flesh. And there was poor old Spurinna, surrounded by carefully selected slaves – both male and female – who would give the Gorgons a run for their money. Suddenly giving house room to Puella, Venus and Adonis. All of whom are at the far end of the spectrum, so to speak. He went from being Perseus confronted by Medusa to being Paris choosing between the loveliest goddesses. And it seems to have confused the poor old baro guy.’
‘I can see that it might,’ said Artemidorus, remembering the warm looks Puella had given him the last time they were together. Rather than the cold, calculating comments of Venus. Though, now that he thought of Venus, there were one or two questions he might well address to her when the time was right. ‘So what was the solution to all of this?’
‘Wait and see,’ answered Ferrata. ‘You won’t believe it, I swear…’
vi
The pair of them marched past Spurinna’s villa, then Trebonius’. On up the hill into the pine grove where the would-be assassin’s bolts had thumped into solid tree trunks rather than their softer, fleshy targets. Artemidorus remembered the stirring of surprise he had felt that Quintus, leading the retreat, had seemed to know where he was going. As did Ferrata now. He led Artemidorus confidently and unerringly through the pine grove that had saved their lives. Until, completely unexpectedly, the thick coppice of trees stopped. In a clearly cultivated line. That must have been laid down many years since, for all the trees along it were fully grown and tall. With no sign of any having been cut down or chopped back. There, on the far side of a considerable open space, stood a villa. That, for all its ancient design, seemed perfectly well maintained. Surrounded by carefully tended gardens full of fruit and vegetables as well as herbs and flowers. Lemon groves and orange groves. Fig trees and olive bushes. All in full flower or laden with fruit. Concealed behind walls of pine trees that stood guard on every side. Keeping the massive villa secret. Undetected. Unsuspected.
‘What is this place?’ asked Artemidorus, simply awestruck.
‘This,’ answered Ferrata ebulliently, ‘this is Quintus’ surprise. Though you haven’t seen a tenth of it yet!’
The legionary led Artemidorus across the cultivated grounds until the pair of them reached the big front door. He hammered on the wood. Three hard knocks. Three softer ones. Two hard ones. Then he stopped and they waited. For a couple of heartbeats. Before a grille at eye level snapped open and closed. The door was opened. By an elderly man whose lean and muscular body seemed to give the lie to his white-haired, deeply
lined face. Whose bright blue eyes gleamed with lively intelligence.
‘This is Drusus the doorkeeper,’ said Ferrata, leading Artemidorus inwards. ‘Drusus, this is Septem. Second only to the tribune…’
‘Welcome Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus,’ said Drusus, bowing.
Ferrata led the astonished Artemidorus deeper into the house. And into the presence of the doorkeeper’s female double. Whose white hair was longer. Whose body was slightly softer-looking and perhaps less muscular. Whose eyes were every bit as bright. ‘And this is Drusilla, sister to the doorkeeper and focaria housekeeper of the villa.’
‘Welcome Centurion,’ she said. Her voice deeper and softer than her brother’s.
‘What is this place?’ demanded Artemidorus, thoroughly awestruck.
‘This is Colchis, land of wonders,’ explained Ferrata obscurely. ‘This is where the Amazons reside, where Aeetes is king, though there is no Queen Idiya. Where there are wonders belonging to the groves of the war god Ares, Greek brother to our Roman Mars. Wonders that make Jason’s Golden Fleece seem like a breech-clout in comparison!’
‘Don’t listen to him, Septem,’ said Quintus, striding into the atrium from the tablinum office area deeper in the building. ‘He’s just running off at the mouth.’
‘What is this place, Quintus?’
‘It’s my home, lad. Haven’t you worked that out yet? And, as the Fates would have it, my home is the very place in which we can keep our contubernium of secret agents housed, supplied, briefed and active.’
‘Does the tribune know about this?’
‘He knows about it, yes. And approves of the use I propose we make of it. But no – he hasn’t been here or actually seen it.’
‘Seen it?’ Artemidorus was still reeling from Ferrata’s description of the place as Colchis, home of the Amazons and location of the Golden Fleece, reborn. ‘What is there to see?’
‘More than you can imagine, Septem,’ chuckled the old triarius. ‘More than you can imagine…’
*