by Peter Tonkin
‘Ave!’ cried Mercury in quiet approbation. The only other man there who had actually seen her naked and was happily reliving the experience. She ignored him entirely and marched off towards the icy cold bath. So they all stepped in together, crowding the pool, making the frigid water overflow – so many bodies that they actually began to heat it up – chilled to the marrow though they themselves were.
But, as it was designed to, the tepidarium in the next room began the process of warming them – which the scalding caldarium completed. There was only one slave on massage duty and the men made allowance for Puella’s gender – not entirely with her approval – by letting him exercise his talents on her. At least part of her very understandable reluctance, thought Artemidorus as he stayed beside her for the entire process, was the end effect. She rose from the massage bench, her skin gleaming with fragrant oil like polished carbo. The goddess Diana rather than Venus, perhaps. But rising naked from her ablutions as the dazzled hunter Actaeon might have seen her. Before she transformed him to a stag and had him hunted to death by his own hounds.
Fortunately the bath house also supplied drying sheets of sufficient size to be fashioned into rudimentary togas. So when the lovers joined the rest of the crypteia who sat similarly attired at their table in the warm and smoky atrium, they were decent. As they did so, however, the others fell silent, for they had clearly been discussing one or the other of them.
Artemidorus, as it turned out.
‘Look, Septem,’ said Quintus softly. ‘Even if it is that bitch Cyanea back there in Basilus’ villa at Formia, you’ll just have to forget about her. We have a mission to complete and neither Cyanea or Minucius Basilus is part of it. The Cicero brothers and young Cicero Minor are what we’ve been sent here to deal with. And we need to deal with them or we’re dead. And you know it. It’s them or us. All of us. No excuses. Dead.’
iv
Quintus Tullius Cicero Minor sat quietly in the tablinum office area of his uncle’s villa in Puteoli. Physically and emotionally the twenty-three-year-old was at the heart of a terrible storm. The wind howled and roared outside, coming straight off the sea. Laden with spray as well as rain. Water sheeted down into the impluvium pool at the centre of the atrium on one side of the office space and poured into the increasingly bedraggled peristyle garden on the other. The storm intensified, squall after squall bringing slates down to shatter on the statue of the bathing Diana in the middle of the fountain pond as the wind thundered inland overhead.
There was a cold meal left untasted in the triclinium. All the slaves huddled in their quarters, chilled to the marrow and terrified by the power of the tempest and the wrath of the gods. Both of which seemed set on bringing their master to destruction. And them along with him. Only the great lawyer’s amanuensis Tiro Tullius Cicero, who had adopted his master’s name when he was manumitted, remained in the formal rooms. Sitting in the corner silently, listening to the three men as they went over and over the same ground.
‘It’s unthinkable,’ uncle Marcus said again. ‘The weather is set against us. Even if we could bribe a captain to set sail in this, where would we go?’
‘That wouldn’t matter,’ said father. ‘Once you’re at sea you’re safe. Don’t you understand, Marcus? On land there are eyes everywhere. You can’t stir a foot without someone seeing you. Someone willing to hand you over to Antony or his men. Once you’re in a boat, no matter where you’re heading, you’re out of sight. No-one can track you across Mare Nostrum!’
‘Not only that, uncle,’ added the young man. ‘You have an unrivalled choice of vessels. From rowing boats and fishing smacks down in the harbour at Puteoli – to warships as large as quinquiremes in the docks at Misenum.’
‘We’ve been over this already,’ snapped Marcus Tullius Cicero. ‘I will only go to sea in the final extremity. And, now you mention bribing the commanders of naval warships, I should point out that in our hurry to get safely away from Rome, we have spectacularly failed to consider the costs of being fugitives. We don’t even have enough money to hire a smack to take us to Neapolis, let alone a quinquireme to take us to Athens!’
‘There was never any chance of hiring a quinquireme,’ said father, sadly shaking his head. ‘It was just a figure of speech. A hyperbole such as you yourself are so fond of. But you’re right, Marcus. We’re running out of money as well as options. My son and I will go and arrange some funds. You wait here for our return. But in the mean-time, we’ll leave as much as we can. If the weather eases, hire a boat. Get out to sea. It almost doesn’t matter where you head for. As we have discussed, over and over, no-one can track you once you’re afloat. Not even Antony’s head hunters.’
‘Yes that’s right,’ said Marcus wearily. ‘Once I’m in a boat I’m safe from beheading. Oh that I were equally safe from drowning!’
***
‘I’ll look after him as best as I can,’ said Tiro. ‘And I will help him onto a boat if the chance arises. Where will you go?’
The three of them stood at the main door of Cicero’s villa, while the man himself stayed in the tablinum – too distraught to consider any food waiting in the triclinium. Their conversation was hurried as Cicero’s stable slaves put a pair of horses into their traces and readied a small covered wagon to take Quintus Tullius and Quintus Tullius Minor out on their mission.
‘I had thought to go back to Rome. We have friends, clients and access to funds there,’ answered Cicero’s brother.
‘That is also where the greatest danger is,’ warned Tiro.
‘We know that. But there is no alternative that I can see. I suppose we could go south to Pompeii. Minucius Basilus is a good friend of mine particularly and he has his main residence there. As well as others in Tibur and Formia. His villa in Rome was burned down in the riots after Divus Julius’ death. He might lend us enough. The gods know, he could buy us a quinquireme and never notice the cost. But he will be on this proscription list everyone seems to be talking about as one of Divus Julius’ executioners – and he knows it. He’ll be getting ready to run if he hasn’t run already. And from what I hear there are too many people down in Pompeii with good reason to hand him in. Or hand in his head at least.’
‘If we’re going north along the Via Appia in any case,’ said his son, ‘perhaps we should check his villa at Formia. There might be someone there who could help us.’
‘A good thought if we get the time or the opportunity,’ nodded his father. ‘And if the gods smile on us we might not have to risk Rome at all.’
The pair of them climbed aboard the covered wagon – whose thick leather roof and sides gave them some protection from both wind and rain. The slave driving the vehicle snapped the reins against the horse’s rump and they were off.
‘How long until we reach Formia?’ wondered young Quintus.
‘At this speed? A good twelve hours. Maybe eighteen. We’ll have to keep going all night and all tomorrow into the bargain if necessary.’
‘Would that be safe, pater? Travelling by night?’
‘Fili mi, nothing we do by day or night will ever be safe again.’
v
The platform on the top of the tower beside the Sibylline Gate overlooking the harbour in Pescopagano gave Artemidorus the view across the bay and out to sea that Mercury had promised. Artemidorus and Puella stood there side by side soon after dawn next morning, watching the light spread westward through a low overcast that was just beginning to thin and break up on the far horizon. Buffeted by a wind which was beginning to lose its force as it came rumbling in, still from the south-west. Looking across a sea that was grey and unsettled, a wilderness of white-capped, sharp-toothed waves but lacking the fearsome confusion of the last couple of days.
‘I think it will settle,’ said Artemidorus, once again calling on his experiences at sea as a younger man. ‘But not soon and not for long. Can you see any shipping out?’
‘No.’ Puella shook her head.
‘Neither can I. But I’ll bet the
re will be some soon. The fishermen at least have a living to earn. Markets to supply. Families to feed. And merchants will be impatient to move their wares. It’s all very well for the Gaul to be sending his amphorae in wagons along the Via Latina – but only because he’s not in any particular hurry. A decent trireme can take a fair amount of punishment from the waves but still move far faster than a wagon. And in a straight line – the shortest possible route between one port and another. Not following a twisting road that also goes up-hill and down-dale. Oh there’ll be extra traffic on the Via Appia and the Via Latina today. But there will be ships and boats of all sorts out by tomorrow at the latest.’
‘You think we should take one?’ she asked. ‘Sail down to Misenum and go to Puteoli from there. In spite of what it might do to Quintus’ stomach.’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘First, I don’t know how long we’d have to wait for something to set sail. And secondly the wind is foul. It’s moderating but it’s still blowing from the south-west. If we caught a vessel from this harbour we’d probably end up back in Formia rather than down in Puteoli.’
‘So, it’s Caesar’s breakfast for us - and straight in the saddle?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘All I seem to be doing on this assignment,’ she said as they clattered down the steps. ‘Is spread my legs for one stallion or another...’
***
As Artemidorus predicted, the Via Appia was busy because only the most intrepid – or desperate - were venturing onto the water. But the road down to Puteoli was pretty straight and the weather blowing in off the sea moderated even more quickly than he had supposed. There was no rain now and the sea-spray settled as the wind died so it stopped beating against their right shoulders as they rode. Weaving in and out of the traffic coming and going along the road, they made it down to their objective in three hours. It was an unremarkable journey, for they passed nothing unusual and met nothing out of the ordinary. Other travellers on foot, on horseback, in carts and wagons – mostly covered. The weather was too inclement for anyone to risk an open chariot but every other kind of conveyance was abroad – even the occasional litter. Though these were obviously going from one nearby villa to another rather than from one more distant village to another.
All through the journey, Artemidorus found himself gripped by an impractical desire to stop and search every vehicle they met. Any of the laden wagons could have a false bottom – like the three that smuggled his crypteia out of Rome. Any of the covered carriages could contain Cicero, his brother and nephew. But with the sea still unsettled, the via was simply too busy to allow a search of any sort.
Something Artemidorus came to regret as soon as he arrived at Cicero’s Puteoli villa. The janitor was understandably hesitant to admit a squad of soldiers, but as Artemidorus and he discussed matters, Tiro came through the atrium. ‘Let them in,’ he ordered. Then, in the same breath, ‘I guessed they’d send you, Septem. You have dealt with Cicero in one way or another all through the last twenty months. Ever since you failed to stop Divus Julius’ execution. It’s logical that they would want you to finish the business.’
‘Where is he, Tiro?’ demanded Artemidorus, his stomach knotting with tension now that the prospect of executing the old man was suddenly so close. ‘I promise to make it quick and painless.’
‘Gone,’ answered Tiro with quiet satisfaction. ‘You’ve missed him. He went down to the docks at dawn when the weather began to moderate. I put him on a boat heading out to Procida and Ischia, though the captain said they might make it down to Sorrento. Jumping-off points for a voyage to Greece. Even if he has to hop from island to island and bay to bay all along the way. You’ll never catch him now.’
Artemidorus nodded. He had never known Tiro to lie. But dangerous times bred dangerous measures. ‘Quintus. You and the others search the house. Thoroughly but quickly. Then we’ll go down to the docks.’
By midday they were down at the docks which were starting to get busy. ‘Senator Cicero?’ answered the havenator harbourmaster, looking at Artemidorus in mild surprise. ‘Yes. He went out with capitaneus Plinius in Pescuitor at dawn as soon as the weather began to moderate. Took some slaves with him. His freedman Tiro paid for the passage. The wind was foul but they took all the sails down and went out on the falling tide.’
‘Passage to where?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘The islands. Anywhere south. Though I told them they’d be lucky to get far. The wind’s moderating, but it’s swinging past due south towards south-south-west.’
‘What sort of vessel?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Large fishing smack. Smaller than a Liburnian but not much. Relies on the sail, though. Nothing much in the way of oars.’ The harbourmaster gestured at the flock of square-rigged fishing smacks clustered against the jetty. Some with one bank of oars, some with two. Sails furled. Decking, such as it was, piled with nets. ‘Plinius calls himself capitaneus but he’s got ideas above his station. His boat can get out a good distance if the wind is fair or the tide’s behind it, but it’s just a net and line vessel really. The season’s been bad and he’s desperate for money. The fishing grounds won’t be accessible until the sea settles a good deal more than it is at the moment so I suppose Plinius saw the chance of some quick cash...’
‘Just Senator Cicero and some slaves?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘That’s all I saw.’
‘No younger brother Quintus Tullius Cicero or the nephew Quintus Tullius Minor?’
‘No. They went north in a wagon last night. Whole town’s been keeping an eye on them. They say there are proscription lists the same as things were under Sulla. No-one here would hand them over, you understand, but we all keep an eye on them just in case.’
***
‘That’s it,’ said Artemidorus, a few minutes later. ‘Back the way we came and as fast as we can.’
‘But why?’ asked Ferrata. Confused rather than challenging.
‘Two reasons,’ said Artemidorus. ‘First and most obvious, that Cicero’s brother and nephew must have been in one of the covered wagons we passed coming south this morning. Those things travel at walking pace. I’d bet anything you like that they will be passing tonight in Cicero’s villa at Formia. Secondly, am I the only person here who knows anything about boats?’ He looked around the blank faces. So he explained. ‘Captain Plinius’ boat Pescuitor won’t be able to take Cicero south in spite of what everyone is saying. It has one bank of oars at the most – and probably none. The harbourmaster was less than precise about that. It will be a square-rigged sailing vessel, totally reliant on the wind once the tide begins to turn. It may have been able to get out of harbour this morning, but the wind has swung round towards south-east. I would bet anything you like that it will be sailing northwards with the southerly wind behind it. And the next landfall north of here that they can reach with any ease is the harbour at Formia.’
XIII
PRAEDA
i
‘I feel like powerless praeda prey,’ said Quintus Tullius Minor, ‘knowing that there are hunters out after us.’
‘We will not be powerless for long,’ said his father bracingly. ‘I am certain I will be able to raise some money soon. And, as our enemies seem to have realised all too well – young Caesar in particular – money is power. With enough money anything is possible. Even should the hunters catch us, if we have sufficient funds we can buy our freedom. And should they come close but fail to catch us in the end, the right amount of gold or silver will buy us a passage to Athens, to your cousin Marcus Tullius Minor and his friends Brutus and Cassius. Do not despair too soon, my boy.’
‘It is only because I am so tired and hungry, pater. Who would have thought that sitting in a carriage being driven up the Appian Way could be so exhausting?’
‘Well, we will break our journey at Formia. Stay in your uncle’s villa there. I’m certain Philologus will be able to supply food and drink. And a comfortable bed if we need to stay overnight. I think I’ll go ove
r to the villa belonging to my old friend Minucius Basilus. He may be there. If he is then our problems are solved. He will lend us all the money we need, I’m sure. And at a very reasonable rate of interest. Even if he is not, I am well known to the janitor and the atriensis steward, Philologus’ opposite number. They may be able to help or advise...’
‘Are you sure your association with Basilus is wise, father. The man has such a terrible reputation...’
‘It is a friendship of long standing, boy. And I assure you that the stories put about concerning him are lies. He has many enemies – not least those relatives made insanely jealous by the enormity of the fortune he has inherited. He may have come into the estate and the position relatively recently, but he is still the most prominent representative of an ancient and well-regarded patrician family. He was Divus Julius’ legate in Gaul where he served with much distinction. He is even patronus legal patron of Formia – when you might suppose your Uncle Marcus to be... No. Do not underestimate my old friend Lucius Minucius...’
Quintus Tullius Minor looked askance at his father, something – a childhood memory perhaps – nagging at the back of his mind. He loved his parent, particularly as his mother was long since divorced and had left the household. And, as was proper, obeyed him in all things. But he was not convinced that his father was being altogether open with him about his friendship with Basilus. However, he certainly did believe what his father said about Basilus’ massive fortune and his ability to help the Cicero family in their hour of need. So he settled back, tried to disregard the discomfort of his numb buttocks, as he silently addressed a prayer to the gods that protected his household and family. Watching his father across the shadowy interior of the leather-walled coach from beneath lowered eyelids. Wondering at the strange expression the old man was wearing, and whether it was anything to do with Lucius Minucius Basilus and the proposed visit.