by Peter Tonkin
In a trickle at first, and then in a gathering flood, his senatorial friends arrived, summoned by the slaves of the men who brought him the amazing news of the defection of Caesar’s most trusted legions. And it was Cicero’s friends who made up the bulk of the arrivals. Neither Quintus Pedius nor any of the Caesarian faction had been summoned. Those of Caesar’s friends who arrived had found out about the meeting by chance. And, as they pushed past Cicero, who was personally holding the door open, they paused, hesitated, scanning the number of hostile faces revealed by the flickering lamp-light.
Cicero, with Tiro at his shoulder, counted the arrivals, desperate to arrive at a quorum and begin tonight’s business. His sleep-befuddled head was clearing now and he began to see the possibility that this might turn out to be some sort of a trick. Had he had time or inclination, he might have cursed himself for rushing headlong into action without testing the truth of Quintus Labeo’s rumour. But he pushed such worries to the back of his mind. As more and yet more senators came past him; friend after friend - almost all of them exultant that Fortuna had apparently handed back to them the power they had so lately surrendered to young Caesar.
It was certainly too late to worry about second thoughts now. In this situation, as in a battle, he imagined, to hesitate was to die. So he continued counting as one figure after another – all dressed in Senatorial togatus barberini robes, with or without their heads covered – pressed past him. In the old days he only needed two hundred present to declare a quorum and get down to business. But Sulla - and more lately Divus Julius - had added so many more senators to the tally that he had to go far beyond that number.
At last Minucius Basilus and Quintus Labeo arrived, stepping out of the restless shadows into the hardly-brighter cavern of the Temple. They took their places on the benches and Cicero relinquished the door, satisfied that there were sufficient numbers present for him to get down to business.
Immediately in front of the senatorial benches was a dais with the curule chair of the serving Consul on top of it. Without further hesitation, Cicero strode across to this. Stepped up onto the dais and raised his hand for silence. Looking around as the hum of speculation died, making sure that the time-keepers with their water clocks were in position and that Tiro, acting as record keeper for this crucial meeting, were all in place.
***
Marcus Tullius Cicero drew his breath and began to speak the last great speech of his life. ‘Conscript fathers, we find ourselves in an unprecedented position. During the last days and hours we have been held – I should almost say held captive – by the presence of eleven legions immediately outside the Servian Wall. Eleven legions until this very night commanded by the heir of Gaius Julius Caesar – the Dictator who wished to become Tyrant – perhaps even King. Until he was struck down by the lovers of liberty – many of whom are here present – on the Ides of March last year. The young man in question, it seems, has ambitions to rival those of his adoptive father. Against the express will of the Senate and People of Rome he has – through the threat inherent in the existence and positioning of those very legions – forced from us concessions that under normal circumstances we would never have dreamed of granting. Concessions and privileges, indeed, that we have already debated in this august assembly on earlier, less dangerous occasions, and refused outright! But now, it seems the scales have turned in our favour. I have it on reliable authority that at least four and possibly more of the legions camped outside our gates have come over to our side. There is no longer a gladius held to our throats. We are, once more, free to vote with our conscience for the good of the Senate and People of Rome. And in consequence I ask you to reconsider the following motions passed by you mere days ago. Namely that Gaius Julius Caesar Divus Filii and his relative Quintus Pedius be recognised as Suffet Consuls for the remainder of this year. Namely that the will of Gaius Julius Caesar, the late Dictator, be ratified in favour of his adopted heir lately called Octavius, who currently styles himself Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filii. It is my strongest possible recommendation that, although we passed these submissions mere days ago, we refuse them now! All those in favour of refusing the two submissions mentioned, raise their hands...’
Cicero looked up as his final words rang around the temple and his heart swelled with simple pride. From the topmost tier of seats downwards, the hands of his friends were raised in agreement with his proposal. That what they had passed into law mere days ago be rescinded at once. Row after row of raised hands.
He was still by far the most powerful man in Rome – perhaps in the world - and those raised hands showed it with unmistakable clarity!
Until his gaze fell on the front row; the lowest of all and nearest to the dais. The hands of the men sitting there remained resolutely unraised.
Even as Cicero registered the disturbingly unexpected fact, the figure at the outer end rose, and began to walk towards the dais and the curule chair. As he did so, he pulled back the section of his togatus barberini covering his head like a hood. To reveal the golden curls, the pale young face and the burning, outraged eyes of the young Caesar himself.
Caesar stepped onto the dais, rearranging his formal clothing to reveal the badges marking him as Consul. He did not need to hold up his hand for silence. The moment they recognised him, the Senators were struck dumb with shock. Even Cicero was lost for words.
Caesar, however, was not. ‘Conscript fathers,’ he said, his quiet voice somehow carrying to the furthest reaches of the place. ‘I fear you have been labouring under several misapprehensions. The first is with regard to my legions. Not one man has turned against me. They all remain almost embarrassingly loyal. All–too willing, I’m afraid, to use the violence in which they are so fully trained to protect me, my position and my interests. The second regards this assembly. My old friend Marcus Tullius seems to have forgotten that, while there were no serving consuls, he, as senior ex-consul had the right to summon the senate. However, that right vanished when you appointed myself and Quintus Pedius to the posts. This meeting, therefore, is illegitimate, and any present motions proposed or past motions quashed are null and void. Quintus Pedius and I will be formally summoning a meeting of the Senate within the next few days and I hope you will all be able to attend and help us pass into law a lengthy list of proposals which we are even now preparing for your kind attention. However, your selfless work on behalf of the Senate and People of Rome tonight is fully appreciated by myself, my co-consul and my men. To such an extent that, as you leave, we will be making a list of of every man in attendance here tonight. Starting, of course, with my dear old friend Marcus Tullius.’
vi
‘You didn’t make any friends with that performance in the senate, Caesar,’ said Maecenas a couple of days later.
‘It wasn’t supposed to make me friends. It was supposed to test their reliability and send a message,’ Caesar answered as he took his seat in the Forum, ready to accept submissions in his new position as Consul. ‘Septem did a good job putting the whole thing together. Certainly, there has been no trouble in passing the legislation that I and Quintus Pedius have proposed.’
‘Agreed. Especially as Cicero seems to be so unwell. I hear he may be going back to his villa in Puetoli. But I think we’d better take extra care for a while.’ Maecenas scanned the faces of the men jostling to get to the Consul first with their legal cases, requests and complaints. It was early morning three days after Caesar confronted the Senate and the day threatened to be the hottest yet. ‘Make sure you’re well protected at all times. Especially as any day now you’ll be sending Septem back to Antony with an update of your position and some suggestions of a way forward.’
‘Granted. Though if you look at the crowd of supplicants, you’ll see Septem, Ferrata and Quintus mingling with them and keeping an eye out for any trouble. And of course I have the consular guard at my back.’
‘Good. I have also found some men I think will do the job of guarding your back even better than the consular guard. They�
�ll soon be here.’
‘Right. When they arrive I’ll send Septem and his command back to Antony. Laden with messages as you say. But I don’t propose to stay in Rome any longer than I have to. I’ll get the most important business done as quickly as I can then leave the rest to Quintus Pedius as co-Consul while I head back up to Bononia. It’s safer. I can control the whole of Italy from there. And I’m still within easy reach of Antony no matter how he reacts to my messages. No matter what action he decides to take. If I’m in Bononia I can join with him or stop him equally easily.’
‘Easily is not a word I’d apply to the idea of stopping Antony,’ warned Maecenas. ‘As Hirtius and Pansa – and poor old Decimus Albinus, come to that – have already discovered!’ And the pair of them chuckled companionably.
The first of the litigants mounted the steps, carrying a scroll. ‘Caesar,’ he said, going down on one knee, ‘my name is Lucius Popilius Samnius, and I have come to petition you...’
***
And so the morning passed. The queue of men seeking an audience with Caesar slowly dwindled as he either ruled on their case or application or passed them to a more appropriate authority. The weight of a stultifying noon approached. Maecenas went off to find some water and arrange some shade for the young Consul who refused to leave his curule chair while there were still men wishing to approach him. Even the guards at his back began to wilt. It seemed that the only men there immune to the heat and humidity were Caesar and Septem. The one sitting at ease up on the dais high above the Forum Romanum and the other passing through and through the crowd of appellants, eyes everywhere and all his senses alert. Going through in his memory the day last March when he had failed to save the young Consul’s adoptive father.
What it was that tricked off his subconscious alarm he would never know. But just before noon, when he, Quintus and Ferrata only had half a dozen men left to watch, the short hairs on his neck began to prickle. He scanned the waiting suppliants and saw nothing untoward. Togas, scrolls. The sweat of heat and nervousness. Most of them rehearsing under their breath the speeches they had prepared for the moment they were alone with Caesar. No suspicious movements or bulges in their clothing. None of the stylus boxes that many of Divus Julius’ murderers had carried on the Ides to hide their daggers in. But something...
The current applicant rose from one knee onto his feet, turned and came stiffly down the steps. The next one pushed past him with unnecessary rudeness. Clearly too fiercely focused on his upcoming application to be worried about the here and now. But the jarring of one shoulder against another shook the scroll which the new applicant was holding. Something gleamed. Catching the light just for an instant. Then it was gone.
Artemidorus went cold. He swung round, looking for Ferrata and Quintus. But they were both at the far end of the line. Too distant to be of any use in an immediate crisis. Artemidorus went into action. He too pushed past the unfortunate man descending the steps. Moving as fast as he could without running, Artemidorus took the steps two at a time.
The new supplicant did not pause, bow or kneel. Instead he approached Caesar, staying erect, the scroll held level between his clenched fists. ‘My name is Quintus Gallius,’ he said, speaking loudly and confidently. ‘And this is my application, Caesar, for the post of Governor of the African Provinces...’
Caesar himself knew something was amiss now. Gallius towered over him, the scroll thrust out. He released the end held closed by his left fist and raised the scroll to shoulder height. Turning it so that its rolled length pointed at Caesar.
Caesar began to pull himself to his feet. The curule chair skittered back across the wooden boards of the dais towards the somnolent consular guards.
Gallius tensed himself to strike. The end of his scroll opening to reveal the point of a dagger.
Caesar raised his hand in a helpless gesture, as though preparing to cover his head with the hem of his toga. Just as Divus Julius had done in the same situation.
The assassin struck with all his force.
Artemidorus hit Gallius in a full-body tackle like a wrestler in the arena. His shoulder smashed into the would-be murderer’s ribs just below that raised right arm. The two men flew sideways. Their bodies crashed onto the boards and rolled over the edge, tumbling the height of a man onto the stones of the Forum Romanum. Gallius on the bottom, his attacker on the top. Artemidorus rolled free, fighting to regain his breath. He pulled himself to his knees, looking down.
Gallius was unconscious. A little worm of blood trickled from his nostril but he seemed to be breathing. A shadow fell across him. Artemidorus looked up to see Quintus and Ferrata standing side by side, little more that black shapes against the glare of the noonday sun. But then a third figure stepped in front of them.
Caesar reached down and, straightening, lifted Gallius’ battered scroll. Out of which slipped a long, needle-bladed dagger to bounce against the flagstones beside Artemidorus and ring like a tiny funeral bell.
vii
The Tullianum prison beneath the Comitium building on the lower slopes of the Palatine Hill overlooking the Forum Romanum was the grimmest place in Rome. Little more than a series of caves and chambers and originally designed as part of the city’s water system, its lower levels were accessible only by a chute. It was easy enough to get in but almost impossible to get out. This was where Cicero had briefly held those patricians accused of being part of Catiline’s conspiracy. Including Antony’s step father. Then executed them without benefit of trial. The upper levels were dank and chilly – even in the humid heat of late summer. But at least they were easy to get out of as well as into.
For some people at least, thought Artemidorus. He would find it easy enough to escape the place. Quintus Gallius would not.
It was four days since Caesar’s would-be assassin had been dragged away by the Consular guards, made brutal by shock at how close they had come to failing in their one, crucial duty. Artemidorus had not had the opportunity to check on him until now. The experience of coming so close to death seemed to have energised Caesar in some strange way. Had he been working hard before, now he was getting through task after task even more quickly than his adopted father Divus Julius had done. Consequently Artemidorus had been hard at work as well. Meetings with Caesar, Agrippa, Rufus – and sometimes Maecenas – had resulted in messages for Antony. For Plancus should he still be encamped on the undercover contubernium’s route back. Even for Decimus Albinus, should he still be there.
The secret agent suddenly found himself at once further elevated in Caesar’s favour – a giddy height, considering Caesar’s gratitude for his protection of Atia and Octavia from Cicero. But at the same time under greater pressure to get ready to leave. He reassembled the full contubernium for the first time in a while. Reclaimed Puella from the reluctant Glyco. Personally and exhaustively tested her memories and reactions in a wide range of exercises and situations both public and private. Put Quintus in charge of ensuring they were all battle-fit and fully equipped once more. With the frustrated and jealous Mercury at his right hand working off some of his ill-contained rage on all of them – except for the woman he loved but could never possess. Put Ferrata in charge of the flatbeds – though the old soldier relied on Hercules in the matter of accounting for the gold which still lay concealed in them. Meanwhile all enquiries about Quintus Gallius were referred to Maecenas, who met them with courteous evasion.
Until this morning. When, as part of a final briefing from Agrippa, Artemidorus was informed that Quintus Gallius had a brother in the legions. In the Fifth Legion in fact. Gallius’ brother was a tribune in the Alaude Larks, currently in Antony’s camp. Caesar had decided that Artemidorus was to take the assassin to the soldier and allow the siblings to become reacquainted. However, neither one would ever come within a military mile of Caesar again.
Artemidorus was still mulling the order over in his mind as he crossed the Forum, heading for the Comitium building. On the one hand, such leniency was dangerous - invi
ting other attempts on Caesar’s life when the cost of failure seemed so slight. But adding to Caesar’s reputation for level-headed generosity. Divus Julius, in particular, was noted for forgiving his enemies. And the young man never missed an opportunity to be identified with the god who was his adoptive father. Furthermore, executing the man – traditionally by throwing him off the Tarpean Rock as had been done to Myrtillus who tried to assassinate Antony – closed the door on any information as to possible associates. There was simply no perfect way of dealing with matters like this, but Caesar at first glance seemed to have chosen the best option available.
Artemidorus’ thoughts on the matter changed radically mere moments after Maecenas met him at the prison door.
***
‘We have Quintus Gallius stored safely in one of the upper chambers,’ Maecenas explained, as though they were discussing the best place to keep amphorae of oil or wine.
‘What have you discovered about him and his plans? Other than about his brother in Antony’s Alaude Larks?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Oh, all there is to know I think,’ answered Maecenas blandly. ‘Certainly he seems willing enough to tell us everything. From his first memory right up to the present. It’s quite pathetic, really, how keen he is to tell us everything.’
‘Was he part of a conspiracy, then?’
‘Oh I think not. Of course if we wanted him to confess to that as well, he would. But overall I think he was acting alone. Out of a misguided sense of loyalty to the old Republic. A kind of smaller scale Brutus. The only question that really exercised us was whether he was colluding with his brother under Antony’s orders. Both Antony and Caesar himself have been accused of trying to assassinate each other in the past, of course. But in the end, I think not. So does Caesar – a politic decision in any case, for we are hoping to come to some kind of arrangement with Antony are we not?’
In the middle distance there came a kind of choking scream which died to the whimper of a dying dog. The hairs of the back of Artemidorus’ neck began to prickle. A number of heartbeats later he found out why.