by Peter Tonkin
‘Well?’
‘Two ladies, Caesar. Cloaked and veiled. They say they are mother and daughter. Nothing more.’
‘Here to plead for…’
‘They did not say, Caesar.’
‘And have they been searched? I do not relish the thought of a knife in the back while I am, as Antony would no doubt say, doing some stabbing of my own.’
‘No, Caesar. It seemed probable you yourself might find the prospect of an intimate search amusing. Your praetorians will be within earshot at all times.’
‘Perhaps. Show them into the bedroom. I will join them by and by.’
The slave bowed accommodatingly, crept out of the room, and silently closed the door behind him.
*
Octavianus tried to settle back to work, but his imagination and his twenty-year-old body kept betraying him. At last, he thought. Both mother and daughter at the same time! He found himself praying to Venus that the mother was not too old – the daughter not too young. Perhaps the goddess would deliver a mother approaching her late thirties with a daughter not quite twenty. That would do nicely. A mature matron following the current fashion for having her body oiled and depilated. A daughter boasting enticing tufts of downy curls at the humid junctions of arms and legs. He could almost feel the contrast with his fingertips – the smooth eggshell of hairless skin over pubic bone; the warm and fragrant peach-down masking trembling folds and clefts. One woman experienced; the other almost virginal still. The mother’s body fuller, rounder; the daughter’s almost boyish but still nubile. He cupped his hands, one spread wider than the other, imagining the breasts that would fill them, one pair larger and softer than the other.
The mother, perhaps excited – as some have been – by the vision of herself as the heroine of some Greek legend, sacrificing herself for her husband and family. Or made breathless by the sheer wickedness of what she was doing. He chose to remember little of those others who had lain like marble statues hating him more with every thrust and themselves into the bargain, as likely as not. Hating the husbands whose proscription had caused them to experience this disgusting indignity. But the daughter. How would she react? Would she yield shyly to the most powerful man in the world? Would she be terrified? Excited? Would she secretly hope for a child with the blood of divine Caesars in its veins?
He had to discover if the reality lived up to his vividly sensual imaginings. Mother and daughter… How similar would they be in appearance? How different? A conundrum he was bursting to explore in every intimate detail. Once he had assured himself neither mysterious supplicant had brought a knife to a love-match.
He rolled up the papyrus financial sheet he had been studying. Swept an eye over the work table, assuring himself it was all tidy. He rose, easing his suddenly constricting clothing, turned towards the almost invisible door that connected with the bedroom, took one step towards it.
The slave from the outer office came back in again, the commander of his praetorian protection squad close behind.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Caesar,’ said the slave, his voice a terrified whisper. ‘But there is a message here from Antony and the messenger will not wait.’
‘What…’ demanded Octavianus, outraged, preparing to hurl a great deal of fatal wrath at the cringing slave.
But the praetorian stepped forward. ‘The messenger said to tell you, Caesar, that his name is Septem. He said that might make a difference.’
II: The Centurion
i
The centurion’s name was Iacomus Artemidorus. His code name, by which he was familiar to a widening range of powerful and influential people, was Septem – Seven. This was because immediately before his secondment to Julius Caesar’s nascent secret service, he had been first spear, senior centurion, of the old VIIth legion, which had been disbanded since Divus Julius’ death and reformed almost as soon as the prospect of war against his murderers drew nearer. The one-eyed man on Septem’s right was Ferrata, late of the VIth legion, the Ironclads. And the tall dark-skinned woman on his left was Puella, who had once been body-slave to Marcus Junius Brutus, Divus Julius’ leading assassin. The legionaries ranked behind them were an equally random lot selected from far and wide for their various – variously lethal – skills. The centurion and his squad were carrying an urgent message from Mark Antony to Octavianus and they did not have a lot of time to waste.
Artemidorus looked at the two men standing in front of him and the slave writhing on the icy cobbles. As he did so, the rest of his command spread out, keeping at bay anyone in the Forum whose interest had been piqued by the slave’s announcement, that the two heads currently hidden by oiled-wool hoods were together worth fifty thousand Attic drachmae. ‘Was the slave telling the truth?’ Artemidorus asked, his voice still deceptively gentle. ‘Are you Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus and Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus?’
The taller of the two pulled his hood back to reveal his face. He had piercing blue eyes beneath dark brows which overhung them like those of an eagle. An almost Roman nose jutting between pronounced cheekbones, and square chin with a dimple at its centre, darkened by the shadow of a black beard. Full lips – as ready to sneer as to smile made him every inch a patrician. ‘I am Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus,’ he said steadily. In a calm and reasonable tone that belied the latent arrogance in his physiognomy. And, thought Artemidorus, the extreme danger of his situation. ‘My men knew me as the Tribune Messala. When I served with the Martia legion.’
‘I’ve heard of Tribune Messala of the Martia. And you are proscribed?’
‘I am.’
‘And your companion is...?’
‘My brother-in-law Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus,’ admitted Messala as the young man also pulled his hood back to reveal a surprisingly youthful face, scarcely bearded, round-eyed, soft-cheeked, pink-lipped. Septem found himself wondering whether young Lucius had even attained the toga virilis of manhood.
‘And what madness prompted two men on the proscription list to go running around in the Forum on an afternoon such as this?’ he demanded, as though discussing matters of little importance at a party.
Messala opened his mouth to reply but Lucius beat him to it. ‘My mother’s madness,’ he called, his voice trembling with outrage. ‘She has taken it into her head that she can talk Octavianus into striking our names off the list…’
‘He will if her daughter Calpurnia accompanies her. Calpurnia is not only Lucius’ sister but also my wife.’ Messala concluded.
Artemidorus’ gaze fastened on the outraged boy. If he resembled his sister then her husband’s outrage was entirely understandable, he thought. For Lucius was one of the prettiest young men the soldier had ever seen.
Then a simply breathtaking truth struck him. ‘But your mother is…’
‘Up there!’ snarled Messala, his icy control slipping as he gestured towards the temple on top of the Arx. ‘She is getting ready to sacrifice herself and my wife in the hope of saving our heads!’
‘Right! Then let’s take your heads up to Octavianus himself,’ decided Septem, his tones suddenly those of the senior centurion of the old VIIth legion ordering his men into battle. ‘And we’ll do so while they are still attached to your bodies. To see whether mother and daughter have managed to save them or not.’
*
Two of Septem’s soldiers picked up the slave and carried him as the boar’s head formation of legionaries, with Artemidorus at their head and Lucius and Messala in their midst, quick-marched into the Via Sacra and from there went into the twisting Clivus Capitolinus pathway past the temple of Young Jupiter and on up onto the Arx, past the Auguraculum with its prophetic bird-cages. Then, past the Temple of Venus Erucina, protectress of prostitutes, and beside it, the aptly-placed Temple of Mens – of Proper Thinking and Self Control.
‘What is the slave’s name?’ demanded Artemidorus, reasoning that he had better get the most accurate details possible if he was going to have to discuss the situation with young Octavianus himse
lf.
‘Deuterus,’ snapped Messala.
‘Deuterus,’ Artemidorus turned to the bruised slave. ‘Explain what is going on here.’
The old man, terrified by what he had done and by what had resulted from it – fearing at least a near-fatal whipping or even crucifixion – babbled the details as clearly as he could through swollen lips and loosened teeth. ‘My lady, the domina Calpurnia, and her mother have gone to offer themselves to young Caesar Octavianus. My lady sent me to warn her husband and brother to come out of hiding and rescue her.’
‘They just strolled up to the Arx on the off-chance, did they?’ persisted Artemidorus.
‘No, sir! They went in litters. And heavily veiled. No-one would ever suspect their identity. Not even Caesar Octavianus until they allowed him access to their persons. Intimate access...’
‘That’s enough!’ snapped Artemidorus, both to Deuterus and to Messala who was taking another swing at him. ‘If the ladies are so well disguised, then not even Octavianus will know who they are if we can get to him in time. And fortunately, my mission is to get to him as quickly as possible.’
The centurion’s terse analysis carried them up onto the holy precinct in front of the Temple of Juno Moneta. Still in a tight phalanx and with a discipline that impressed ex-tribune Messala, they marched up the steps to the main door of the temple. The temple attendants saw – and heard – them coming so they didn’t have to hesitate. The doors opened, and they marched into the sacred space as though they were invading it.
‘We are here to see Caesar Octavianus,’ snapped Artemidorus as they crashed to a halt. ‘We bring an important message from Mark Antony.’
‘Caesar is occupied,’ answered the janitor priest in charge of entrances and exits. Fortunately for himself he kept his voice low and respectful. Even so, Messala growled and took a step forward, before Artemidorus’ firm hand on his shoulder restrained him.
‘Triumvir Mark Antony insisted,’ he snapped. ‘No matter what Caesar is preoccupied with, you will have to interrupt him.’
‘But Caesar’s direct orders…’
‘… will have to be overridden by Antony’s direct orders,’ snapped Artemidorus, running out of patience. ‘Either you do it or I will do it…’
‘No!’ howled the janitor priest. ‘I will…’ Turning on his heel, he vanished into the shadows.
‘You might have had some trouble, though,’ said Ferrata quietly. ‘Caesar’s probably got a wall of praetorians between here and wherever he’s got the women.’
No sooner had he spoken than a soldier appeared from the shady depths. ‘I command Caesar’s praetorians,’ he snapped. ‘What is this about a message from general Antony?’
‘I have been commanded to pass this to Caesar at once,’ answered Artemidorus, equally abruptly. He held a papyrus scroll sealed with Antony’s seal. ‘And I have a verbal message to accompany it. Which is for Caesar’s ears alone. If he hesitates to admit me, tell him my code-name is Septem. That might make a difference.’
ii
‘Had it been anyone other than you, Septem, I would never have admitted them.’ Octavianus was seated behind a desk laden with scrolls and tablets of various sorts. All closed, and tidied. Apparently finished-with, Artemidorus observed. If he was in time, it had been a close-run thing.
‘I am flattered, Caesar,’ he said. ‘But I do not believe I am taking advantage of your indulgence. Antony’s messages are of vital importance to both of you. And Antony believes you will see that urgent action will be required as soon as you are made aware of the situation.’ As he spoke, conscious that his words were beyond formal, stilted, Artemidorus was searching the room behind the impatient young man. He saw the doorway hidden in the shadows. Closed. Caesar’s impatience and strained courtesy both strongly suggested he had not yet gone through to the women. As did the fact that he was behaving normally. Because once he realised exactly who they were, even he was likely to be utterly surprised and deeply shocked.
‘Your message?’ Caesar’s abrupt question interrupted the spy and messenger’s thoughts.
As he handed Caesar Octavianus Antony’s sealed scroll, Septem began to put together the briefing his exasperated commander had given him less than an hour ago. ‘Antony has just received some very disturbing intelligence,’ he began. ‘He is informed that several weeks ago, Sextus Pompey took the considerable risk of moving his entire fleet out of Massalia. And that includes the Senatorial fleet which Cicero gave him command of when the Senate was getting ready to go to war with Antony and yourself. Using periods of calm weather, which were few enough in all conscience, he has managed to smuggle them south along the west coasts of the chain of islands that includes Corsis and Sardis until he reached Sicilia. Here, with the support of the treacherous governor of Africa Province Quintus Cornificius, he overran the island. Capturing and perhaps killing the governor. He is now established there in complete control. With the largest, best-supplied and best-crewed fleet in Mare Nostrum.’
Octavianus looked up at Septem, frowning thoughtfully. ‘If this is true, then it’s very worrying,’ he said.
‘But that’s only the beginning. Antony has it on good authority that Sextus Pompey is directly attracting men you’ve proscribed. You offer 25,000 Attic drachmae for proof they are dead. He is offering 50,000 to anyone on your list who stays alive long enough to join him.’
‘Is he?’ Caesar was thunderstruck. ‘How in the names of the gods can he afford to do this?’ His stunned gaze swept over the piles of accounts on the table in front of him.
‘That’s the final element Antony wants me to warn you about! For you will need to discuss it with Lepidus, he says, the next time Lepidus comes to you for money to feed the city.’
‘Well?’
‘Sextus Pompey has managed to take full control of the grain supply routes. Whether the grain comes from the African provinces, Egypt, or through Syria or Judea from Parthia and the East, he controls it. He is offering it to us at fifteen sestertii a measure.’
‘Is he by the gods! That’s extortionate!’
‘And he’s apparently willing to sell it to Cassius and Brutus for ten sestertii a measure!’
‘He must be stopped! As soon as possible!’ Octavianus’ hand slammed open-palmed onto the table. Then he caught his breath realising what must inevitably come next.
‘Antony agrees, Caesar. But of course Sicilia and the Africa Provinces are in that section of the Republic which is now under your personal control. Therefore it is up to you to stop Sextus Pompey. Antony is preparing to invade Macedonia, which is in his sphere of influence of course, to find and destroy Brutus and Cassius. Something he is hesitant to do until his support and supply routes on both land and sea are secure from Sextus Pompey and his fleet.’
‘So the war against the Libertores Liberators must wait until I have taken action against Sextus Pompey. But I will need to build and man a fleet of my own! It will take months. A fortune! I must get Rufus and Agrippa to work on this!’
‘A fleet powerful enough to beat Sextus Pompey, of course, will be powerful enough to counter the Libertores fleets commanded by Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus and Lucius Statius Murcius, who are currently anchored off Rhodos,’ added Artemidorus. ‘And if Antony is going to move east with any security, as you observe, he will need your fleet in a position to support him.’
Octavianus sat for a moment, his mind racing. Artemidorus could read his thoughts with almost laughable ease. The main support bolstering the tottering popularity of the Triumvirate in the face of the brutal proscriptions, was the promise Antony, Lepidus and he had made to the legions that they would invade Macedonia and avenge Divus Julius’ death on Brutus and Cassius, his murderers. But the task was proving more difficult than the Triumvirs had envisaged. The proscriptions were raising less money than they had hoped. Recently disbanded legions, like the VIIth, were being slow to reform.
The problems with Sextus Pompey and the Libertore fleets commanded by Ahenobarbus
and Murcus were now further compounded by Pompey’s invasion of Sicily and his pirating of the grain supplies. Octavianus had the immediate responsibility of stopping him – but would need a fleet to do so. But the cunning Antony could prepare his invasion very publicly. Because, even the best-prepared army could not operate far from home unless its supply and communication routes were secure by land and sea, thus putting the young Triumvir in a trap which might cost him his popularity – and, in the end, his power. Octavianus had to take immediate action.
Without thinking, he glanced over his shoulder at the secret door which now contained a dangerous distraction, rather than a powerfully erotic temptation. Then, he turned back to find himself under the disturbingly piercing scrutiny of Septem’s eyes.
iii
‘There is one other thing which Fortuna has brought to my notice, Caesar,’ continued Antony’s spy smoothly. ‘Though it concerns you as a man as well as a Triumvir.’
Thrown off balance, Octavianus looked at Septem open-mouthed. The number of men who could speak to him like this was small indeed. But Septem had saved his life more than once, so he closed his mouth and listened.
Antony’s messenger leaned forward slightly, rocking up on the balls of his feet. The hobnails in the soles of his soldiers’ caligae boots screeched softly on the marble tiles of the floor. ‘As my men and I were crossing the Forum with Antony’s message, we came across a situation that I feel I must bring to your personal attention at once,’ he said. The formal introduction gave the young man time to clear his mind and focus on the soldier’s words.
‘A situation…’ Octavianus was catching up.
‘Two men were being denounced by a slave because their names are on the proscription lists.’