by Peter Tonkin
After almost no time at all, Lepidus had shrugged his sagum from his shoulders and was waving it. A signal instantly understood by each of the leader and the ten legions attending them. The noise of gladii being beaten against shields in approbation was a thunder that could be heard in Mutina and Bononia alike.
Antony and Caesar both moved forward at the signal and the sound. Each striding confidently across one or the other of Agrippa’s bridges until they came face to face in the centre of the island. Antony paused here so it was Caesar who reached out to take him by the hand. The moment he did so, both banks exploded in even greater approbation. The beating of swords on shields augmented – drowned – by the cheering of fifty thousand throats.
As the cheering echoed into relative quiet, Antony said, ‘Right. Let’s get down to business.’ He released Caesar’s hand and strode across to the table, stood by the nearest chair and reached for the nearest amphora. ‘What’s in this?’ he asked no-one in particular.
‘Faustian Falernian,’ answered Agrippa. ‘Caesar has ordered only the best.’
Artemidorus would later wonder whether Caesar had hidden a secret message in his choice of that particular wine. Or whether it was just another of the Gods little jokes. For it was named after the man whose vines it came from. Faustus Cornelius. Son of the late dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Who, almost forty years ago in 672 ab urbe condita, had introduced a terrified Rome to the concept of mass proscription.
‘Water in the other one I suppose?’ demanded Antony, apparently unaware of the irony in Caesar’s choice of wine.
‘Yes,’ answered Agrippa. ‘Though the river water surrounding us seems quite acceptable.’
Lepidus also stood beside a chair, but did not reach for the second amphora. Instead, like Antony, he was watching Caesar. The young Consul dismissed his advisors with a glance and sat. Only when the Consul was seated did the other two sit down.
As Agrippa led Rufus and Maecenas off the island, Antony gestured for Adonis to take his place at the recorder’s table. And, finally, at Maecenas’ signal, two more guards from Caesar’s camp crossed the bridge to balance the numbers. A Tribune and a Centurion to match Enobarbus and Artemidorus standing guard over the negotiators.
Tribune Popilius Lenas and Centurion Hirtius.
X
NOVEMBER
i
Mark Antony strolled to the end of the island, wet his finger and tested the wind direction, checked the current by glancing down at the river weed, then hoisted out his penis and began to urinate into the water. Oblivious to the fact that 100,000 eyes were watching him. ‘Look,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘it’s only going to work if you give up the post of Consul.’
‘In whose favour?’ asked Caesar, wearily. Although it was early next morning, they had already gone over and over this question.
‘It has to be Ventidius Bassus. One of mine to balance Quintus Pedius – one of yours.’
‘That does seem fair,’ said Lepidus, hoping to push things forward now that some kind of agreement seemed possible. ‘Equitable.’ He glanced at Adonis who was recording their words.
He’s doing it again, thought Artemidorus. Trying to make himself sound wiser. More decisive. As though he thinks anyone is actually ever going to see what Adonis is recording – except for either Antony or Caesar – depending on who comes out on top in the end. And they’ll probably rewrite it all in any case. History belongs to the victors.
‘Remember,’ continued Antony, ‘once we have this triumvirate properly established and our authority confirmed for the next five years by order of the Senate, the Consuls will be effectively toothless in any case. We’ll hold all the real power. The three of us together ruling Rome. And on top of that, each of us individually responsible for one third of the world. Me in the East, once we have dealt with Brutus, Cassius and their friends. Lepidus in Italy, Hispania and Gaul but stationed in Rome with three legions to back him up. Especially as he’ll also be Consul next year. And you, Caesar, in Africa Province and the islands in Mare Nostrum. Once you get rid of Sextus Pompey in Sicily, who seems to have taken in almost as many of Cicero’s friends as Brutus and Cassius combined.’
Antony adjusted his clothing and returned to the negotiating table. ‘So,’ he said, stretching and easing his back rather than sitting down. Dominating the proceedings physically. ‘That’s the plan. And it’s a good one. But there are still a couple of problems.’
‘How can we possibly leave Rome in order to oversee these vast new responsibilities when the Senate is packed with the murderers’ friends – our enemies?’ said Caesar, squinting upward. ‘We have seen how quickly and ruthlessly they change sides when they think they can get away with it. Spreading the rumour that the Martia and the Fourth had mutinied proved that. They even met at midnight to undo all the laws they’d passed at my request the day before. And Cicero held the door open for them!’
‘Cicero will stop being a problem about one heartbeat after I get my hands on him!’ promised Antony, his face darkening. His massive hands closed to fists as though he was strangling the Senator there and then.
‘But,’ said Lepidus, his voice soft, gentling the angry General as though he were a fractious horse. ‘Even if we stuff the Senate with our friends, as Divus Julius tried to do and Sulla did before him - one huge problem still stands in the way of what we plan...’
‘How do we pay for it?’ said Caesar. A man, thought Artemidorus, who truly knew the power of an Attic drachma and a sestertius. As he had proved on many occasions. And was proving now, come to that.
‘Precisely,’ agreed Lepidus.
‘Verum! Right!’ Antony sat down as he spoke and a short silence fell, broken only by the sound of running water, the wind in the trees – just strong enough to make the awning flap. The sound of fifty thousand men waiting with baited breath to know what their fate and the fate of their world might be.
Artemidorus looked across to the far side of the table where the men Maecenas had detailed for the duty were still standing behind the Consul. His eyes met those of Popilius Lenas. The tribune gave a faint sneer. They all knew what the answer to Caesar’s question was. The three men in the curule chairs just had to talk themselves round.
***
‘Of course the problem is the east,’ said Lepidus. ‘The eastern provinces generate an enormous amount of revenue. Just in taxes. Let alone the extra Divus Julius was hoping to earn with his Parthian campaign.’
‘All of which Brutus and Cassius have cut off,’ snarled Antony, his mood refusing to lighten. ‘By murdering Divus Julius they put an end to the campaign - for the time-being at least. And by usurping everywhere from Macedonia to the Egyptian border, they have cut off all the tax. Not only currently but retrospectively – because the first thing they did on arrival was confiscate last year’s taxes which were on their way to Rome.’
‘A wise move from their point of view,’ argued Caesar reasonably. Who was rumoured to have done the same soon after he arrived in Italy, mused Artemidorus – for there was a wagon full of gold missing. Which had vanished within days of his arrival. ‘They couldn’t just rely on persuading the legions of the justice of their cause. Or on the fact that most of the men out there had either been Pompey’s men with no love for Divus Julius or were from the legions that Cassius led out of the defeat at Carrhae. No they, like we, needed to pay their troops.’
‘That’s it, then,’ said Lepidus. ‘The two jaws of the trap that we are caught in. We can’t go east to defeat Cassius and Brutus because we can’t pay our troops. Because we need the eastern taxes to do so. Money they’ve already stolen to pay their legions. And in any case, we couldn’t risk it even if we had all the sestertii we needed because the minute our back is turned, the Senate will stab us in it. Just like they stabbed Divus Julius.’
‘Men who had tried to destroy him before, come to that. Men who had fought on Pompey’s side. Men he had personally forgiven.’ Antony’s expression was thunderous at the
thought of their treachery.
‘There has to be a way round the problem...’ growled Caesar.
Both men looked at Antony and a brief silence settled once again. Then Antony smashed his fists down on the table. ‘Oh, there’s a way out of it alright!’ he spat. ‘You both know it but you’re too bloody mealy-mouthed to say it! We proscribe! Just like Sulla did. We make a list of all the men we can’t trust – starting with the richest, and we offer a reward for their heads knowing we will confiscate their property whether they die or whether they run. Then once the heads are in or the cowards have fled, we sell the lot. Get rid of our enemies. Pay our troops. Go east to rip the living hearts out of Cassius, Brutus and the other treacherous scum hiding behind them!’
ii
‘So,’ said Antony a little later. After the other two, with every sign of reluctance, had slowly brought themselves to agree with him. ‘Who dies first?’ He glanced over at Adonis. ‘You want us to speak more slowly, boy? I wouldn’t want you to make any mistakes with this list.’
‘You mean put the wrong name on it?’ purred Caesar.
‘I mean miss anyone we name off it!’ snapped Antony.
‘It’s all right, General,’ said the ex-secretary to the Senate. ‘You talk. I’ll keep up. I use a method taught to me by Tiro, Cicero’s amanuensis.’
‘Cicero...’ said Antony. ‘Now there’s a very good place to start...’
‘Indeed,’ said Caesar quietly. ‘I never supposed you would start anywhere else. But let’s leave Cicero aside for the moment. There are far more important men to put at the top of the list. There must be some reason here. Some sense of order...’
‘Propriety...’ suggested Lepidus.
Caesar didn’t even pause. ‘Not just a settling of old scores. If we are to move ahead with this then I suggest we look at the process as a darker sort of marriage – to knit us more firmly together by taking lives instead of taking wives. Antony, who is there in your family? Someone close to you, who you can offer as a sacrifice and put down on the list? I will think of someone in my family. Lepidus, you must do so too. That way anyone reading the list will know we are desperately serious. That we think of the good of Rome, not of our gens blood or relatives. That this is part of a wider plan – not just some bestial savagery.’
‘Don’t fool yourself, boy. If we’re going down Sulla’s route it will get pretty bloody savage faster than you ever dreamed...’
Artemidorus wondered then whether he should have given Antony more details about Quintus Gallius the would-be assassin’s fate. If that was anything to go by, Caesar would hardly turn a hair at collecting the heads of his enemies. His gaze met Enobarbus’ but the Tribune’s expression was impossible to read. He wondered whether he should test Antony’s and Caesar’s rule and put in some comment. But in the end he thought better of it, for this was not the sort of meeting that would welcome input from anyone other than the principals. And the moment passed in any case.
‘Well,’ said Lepidus, ‘my brother Lucius Paullus voted that I be declared hostis...’
‘Good for you pater,’ said Antony, brightening. That’s the way to go. That backstabbing bastard my uncle Lucius Julius Caesar had me declared hostis, so he goes on the list as well. Oct... Caesar? Anyone in mind?’
‘I have had much less time or opportunity to make enemies than you two, Antony. But give me time. I’ll think of someone.’
‘A tutor, perhaps,’ said Antony. ‘Too ready with the rod? A bully from your schooldays?’
‘Most amusing,’ said the young Caesar icily. But something in his tone made Artemidorus wonder whether Antony had hit the mark. ’And I suppose your list will soon be full of cuckolded husbands or husbands you wish to cuckold. And tavern-keepers to whom you still owe fortunes...’
‘No!’ rapped Lepidus. ‘This matter is deathly serious. Let us take it seriously! Now, who among the so-called Libertores or their supporters is the richest?’
***
Later, when he tried to describe things to his friend and colleague Artemidorus, Spurinna the soothsayer found it frustrating that he could never quite catch the power of the atmosphere that swept across the city during the days Antony, Caesar and Lepidus were debating the fate of the world – and then marching on Rome to see their plans enacted. It was the nightmare terror of something unknown. Something dreadful, looming. Imminent and horrific, but as yet without form. And Spurinna was by no means the only man in Rome to feel it. As the sinister signs and portents mounted, the nervous, thinly-attended Senate requested Consul Quintus Pedius to summon the most famous of Spurinna’s colleagues from Etruria to make a series of sacrifices. To define the evil and predict its outcome.
The ancient prophet Pedius summoned arrived within two days and spoke of dreadful portents even before he made the sacrifice and prophesied doom for so many. It seemed to the man who had predicted the date and time of Divus Julius’ death – and warned him as he was on the way to meet his fate - that the whole strange atmosphere coalesced around him and his mentor the great Etruscan haruspex and soothsayer Plecu Apatrui as they went together to make that fateful first sacrifice.
‘So, Spurinna my boy,’ said the soothsayer as the pair of them walked slowly through the city towards the first sacrificial altar, ‘tell me about the signs you have heard about so far.’ He had to raise his thin, quavering voice in order that Spurinna could hear him clearly because of the almost constant howling of the dogs. The city seemed to be full of wolves, thought Spurinna. Had been for days. A notoriously bad sign. He glanced upward, hoping that the gods would send some hopeful message in a flight of birds. But there were none. The sky was low and dark. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The air in the city was so still and humid that many of the walls and statues the pair of them were passing seemed to be running with sweat. Occasionally the sun peeped through the roiling overcast. Its beams so red that some of the statues appeared to be running with blood. Side by side they led their assistants – who in turn were leading the purest white bull in the city and carrying the means of sacrificing it and displaying its entrails – out into the Forum Romanum.
‘Well,’ answered Spurinna, as he led Plecu Apatrui through the nervous bustle towards the Porta Fontinalis gate out onto the Campus Martius where the first sacrifice would take place. Thinking that his master had aged badly since they had last met. He was well into the final stage of the Riddle of the Sphinx now. Able to walk only with the aid of a third leg – a tall staff on which he rested his weight while his feet shuffled forward. ‘There have been a good number of portents, magister. Each one worse than the last...’
Depending on how things went at the altar on the Campus Martius, more sacrifices would follow – outside the Temple of Tellus where the Senate was currently housed, though not actually in session. And then outside the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus. And finally on the stone altar of the Auguraculum, outside the Temple of Juno Moneta, atop the Arx or fort on the second spur of the Capitoline. The holiest site in the city. Spurinna looked up at the towering temples which crowned the great steep-sided double-peaked hill at the thought.
The instant he did so, a bolt of lightning lanced out of the black-bellied cloud as though Jupiter himself had thrown a thunderbolt at the building sacred to him. The crash of thunder that followed immediately was deafening. People all around were shouting and screaming in terror but Spurinna could hear nothing except for the thunder echoing inside his head. A huge grey wolf burst out of the undergrowth that still clothed the flank of the Capitoline and ran wildly across the Forum to vanish into the crowds fleeing up the Argelitum towards their homes in the Subura. As terrified, no doubt, as the humans it disappeared among. But spreading even more terror as it did so.
Spurinna looked up at the hunched, skeletal figure beside him. He could see the old man’s lips moving but could still hear nothing. He understood the words that the lips were forming, though.
‘Pessimun est,’ said Plecu Apatrui the prophet. ‘Th
is is very bad...’
iii
Spurinna’s ears cleared as he and Plecu Apatrui led the procession on towards the Porta Fontinalis which opened onto the Campus Martius. ‘So,’ said the augur once more, ‘tell me about the signs and portents.’
‘Down in the Forum Baorum meat market,’ said Spurinna, ‘it has been reported by several witnesses that a bull brought for slaughter spoke with a human voice and begged to live. Several women have come to me saying that at the moment one of their friends gave birth the baby started to speak at once. With his first breath. The most beautiful Latin. Worthy of Cicero himself.’
Plecu Apatrui stopped, leaning on his staff as he looked down at his ex-pupil. ‘And you believe these women?’ he asked.
‘I do. They seem to be sensible matrons. And besides, you have not spent the night in the city recently. All through the hours of darkness there are strange disturbances – more than just the endless storms. It sounds as though there are great battles being fought in the streets and forums. And yet the armies we can hear so clearly are invisible to our eyes.’
Plecu Apatrui shook his head again and began to move forward towards the gate which was now scant yards ahead. The moment he moved, the clouds above them burst again. This time they vomited ice instead of fire. Hailstones the size of slingshots thundered onto the reeling city; followed at once by a second deluge of stones the size of balls from expulsim ludere handball. Then yet more, the size of a large man’s clenched fists. And they hit as hard as fists as well. Spurinna and his master staggered forward into the relative shelter beneath the gate in front of them. The rest of their retinue crowded in behind. While the bull, startled out of its drug-induced lethargy by the onslaught, gave a series of bellows that did in fact sound very much like a man pleading for help and shelter.