by Peter Tonkin
‘I’d like to talk to whoever did this,’ growled his companion Bibulus. His hands closed into massive fists.
‘Messala?’ prompted Artemidorus.
‘Otho and Saccus,’ answered the tribune. ‘I never knew their names. But yes. It’s them; our guides and guardians.’
‘And,’ said Artemidorus quietly, ‘the only reason I can give for anyone doing this, is that they were looking for Lucius and yourself. And supposed these poor bastards knew where you were.’
‘Well, let them find me,’ said Messala. ‘That’s the quickest way. And we can get it settled before Lucius arrives with your man Quintus. Let them find me. Then we can all have a little chat!’
But no sooner had he finished speaking that several more watchkeepers ran into the temple. ‘Cessy,’ the first of them called. ‘There’s a battle broken out down on the docks. Those sodding marines again.’
Their guide straightened. ‘That’s Gistin, the head vigile,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the rat-faced man who had spoken. ‘Coming, Gistin…’
‘Well bloody get a move on then. It’s like Carrhae all over again down there…’ But then Gistin broke off, looking at Messala, frowning. ‘It’s him!’ he said, his voice shaking with shock. ‘Him to the life. Just as they described him! And they said they often came back to look over their work!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Artemidorus demanded.
‘Him!’ The chief watchman pointed at Messala. ‘He’s the one who did this!’ The finger swung towards the battered corpses of Otho and Saccus then back to Messala again. ‘We have witnesses who saw everything. Described them in detail. This man and his young accomplice!’
*
Jovinus Caesennius Sospes’ villa was unusual, in much the same way that Acilia’s parents’ hospitium was. The standard layout of the villa had been extended to make a residence well suited to the praefectus of a busy port and military facility. Added to the usual accommodations, was the large, secure room vigile Cessy had already mentioned. A sort of above-ground version of Rome’s Tullianum prison. Less than an hour later it was proving large enough to accommodate a dozen battered and disgruntled marines in their blue naval uniforms. And Messala.
‘No, Centurion. I’m afraid that will not be possible. Your friend is accused of the most dreadful crime. I cannot release him into your custody even if you do hold authority directly from Mark Antony himself.’ A tiny twist of his thin lips showed Artemidorus what the magistrate thought of the Triumvir. ‘And as my man Gistin here says, he and his accomplice have been identified – described in great detail – by witnesses who saw them in the act but were unfortunately too late to intervene.’
Sospes exchanged a look with Gistin, who nodded his agreement with a smirk. ‘Described them clearly dominus. So there can be no mistake.’
Sospes nodded in reply. ‘Furthermore, I understand the dead men were free citizens of Rome. So this is a clear case of murder as covered by the twelve tables of the law. He must wait here until I can question him and allow him to face his accusers. Neither of which is likely to happen tonight. You may, if you wish, bring him sustenance and I will have my watchmen, or my house-guards deliver it to him and oversee him as he eats or drinks. As they will while he uses the latrine and so-forth. He will not be comfortable, but he will be well looked-after. That is as far as I can go I’m afraid.’
vi
Still faintly redolent of horses and sweat, Artemidorus had gone with Gistin the chief watchman to report to Sospes himself and demand the immediate release of the young tribune, something that was a mere matter of form, really. Patrician tribunes would not be expected to remain incarcerated, no matter what they stood accused of. As Messala had no villa here, it was almost inevitable that he would be returned to the hospitium by the docks and held there, under guard, perhaps, but still in his own room with every facility and amenity. So he followed the watchkeeper to Sospes’ office while Puella, Ferrata and Furius kept an eye on things by the locked prison door. Outside the praefectus’ office door, standing despondently and clearly forbidden entry was a young man Artemidorus had no trouble identifying as the legionary commander of the Galene, come to seek his men’s release. ‘You’ll have to wait,’ said the watchman. ‘As usual.’
Gaius Licinius shrugged. His gaze met Artemidorus’, then fell, like that of a defeated gladiator in the circus.
But Artemidorus’ demands also fell on deaf ears. He was not used to having his official requests turned down. Or his unofficial ones, come to that. It hadn’t even occurred to him to bring Antony’s commission back with him. But the magistrate was adamant. His natural reaction to having his dignitas undermined in such a manner was simple outrage. And apart from his house-guards, he had at least twenty watchmen within calling distance. All armed with a lot more than buckets, as the brutal manner in which they broke up the fight between the triremes’ crews had proven.
But after a moment of reflection, Artemidorus realised that he was more suspicious than angry. Cessy’s unguarded words about the willingness of his bosses to be swayed by bribes abruptly brought a thoughtful frown. The ease with which the rich-as-Croesus commander of the Aegeon’s complement of soldiers could get his men free – as opposed to the difficulties faced by Gaius Licinius of the Galene who didn’t even have two obols to rub together. Whose men were in the locked room with Messala while he was forced to kick his heels out here, almost as powerless as Artemidorus now found himself to be. Perhaps the willingness to accept bribes went higher than chief vigile Gistin.
Artemidorus wondered for an instant whether he should point out to Sospes, whose sympathies clearly lay with Divus Julius’ murderers, that he was standing in the way of a proscribed patrician trying to escape to Brutus’ camp. But no – he was far too close to being convinced that the magistrate’s motives were financial rather than political. And that the revelation would only make Messala an item that could be sold to a wider range of bidders for an even higher price.
Glancing round the tablinum as Sospes delivered his patronising verdict, Artemidorus was struck by how little there was in the way of books, papyri, busts, statues and adornments. The room already looked as though it had been stripped by a rapacious mob. Like the villas of the proscribed in Rome. Just like the corridors and public spaces he had seen in Sospes’ villa so far, he realised. And because, looking at matters from the praefactus’ point of view, the need for ready money might explain the lack of expensive adornments – might well outweigh all other considerations after all. If Sospes was of the Libertores’ faction, then it was only a matter of time before he found himself proscribed. And at least one factor famously contributing to the deaths of Cicero, his brother and his nephew was that when they tried running to safety last Decembre they found they had too little ready money to pay for their escape. Something a man like Sospes would no doubt try to avoid – no matter where the vital extra sestertii came from.
*
Artemidorus followed Gistin out of Sospes’ tablinum office, still deep in thought. Gaius Licinius had gone. The corridor was as empty of humanity as it was of statuary. Perhaps the praefectus had started selling off his slaves as well as his statues. ‘Which way back to the locked room?’ he demanded.
‘Down there, dominus.’ The vigile gestured to a long corridor. ‘I can’t come with you myself, I’m afraid. But you’ll probably bump into a slave. They’ll lead you…’ The head watchman scurried off in the opposite direction, clearly about some important business. Artemidorus remembered the look Gistin and Sospes had exchanged when talking about the witnesses. He took half a dozen steps down the indicated corridor, making sure the hob-nails on his boots crashed loudly against the floor-tiles. Then he paused, turned and, making sure he was unobserved, tip-toed back. At the far end of the corridor he had taken, Gistin was just letting himself out of the posticum side door to the villa. Stepping out into a dark alley and vanishing into the shadows.
Artemidorus began to follow the scampering r
odent. He regretted that there was no time to contact the others, all too well aware of the danger of following men he did not trust through sections of cities he did not know well. Heading for clandestine meetings with people he suspected of torturing and killing hulking gang-members; with a cloak over his tunic instead of a suit of mail.
For whatever good that would be against a well-honed pugio or the needle-sharp point of a gladius.
V: Laenas
i
Although the path they were following was in complete darkness, the scuttling watchman’s body was silhouetted against the brightness of a wider via at the far end. An avenue running past the front of this villa and many others whose civic-minded owners kept blazing flambeaux outside their doors. Dodging from shadow to shadow, Gistin led Artemidorus back down towards the docks, unaware he was being followed. Retracing the route up which he had brought Gaius Licinius’ arrested crewmen. But at the last minute, he turned right into another narrow alleyway. This was also familiar from the break-up of the fight and the arrest of Galene’s marines. There was a taberna down here. It hadn’t looked as big as the hospitium on the dockside, but it had been large enough to accommodate nearly fifty men from the two warring triremes’ crews. And it clearly had rooms upstairs, from where a line of heavily-shuttered windows overlooked the alley and the more distant quayside. Artemidorus paused on the corner. And was about to follow Gistin, when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He was being followed himself. He glanced over his shoulder, raking the shadows with narrow eyes. No sign of life or movement, other than that created by the wind which also generated sufficient noise to cover all but the loudest sounds. He would never hear a quiet footfall close behind him, or the whisper of a blade sliding out of its sheath.
No help for it now, he thought. He plunged into the shadowy side-street with one hand on the pommel of his gladius and the other on the grip of his pugio. The hesitation, brief though it was, allowed Gistin to pull well ahead. Artemidorus caught a fleeting glimpse of him turning off the narrow alley and apparently into the taberna itself. But it was hard to see clearly, for the fight that had erupted there had caused a significant amount of damage. The front of the place was in partial darkness – interior lamps and exterior flambeaux extinguished. So the only light came from the flame of the huge phallic fascinum that still hung above the door, creaking and flaring unsteadily.
Artemidorus ran on, trying to catch up with the little vigile. His gladius slapped distractingly against his right thigh as his pugio bumped against his left hip. He was tired, dirty and extremely hungry – by no means in the best condition to face such an adventure. As he discovered a few moments before he planned to turn into the shattered front of the taberna. For Gistin had not gone into the building itself, he had vanished into an even smaller alley running up beside it, knocked on the posticum, and had been greeted by someone waiting for him at the side door. It stood ajar, allowing just enough light out to gild the outlines of two men standing head to head, deep in conversation. He recognised Gistin at once then caught his breath as his worst fears came true. For the other figure was Octavianus’ ruthless carnifex torturer, tribune Popilius Laenas. Young Caesar’s intelligence chief Maecenas’ most murderous secret agent. The man who had taken Cicero’s head and hands.
He hesitated again for a heartbeat, then tensed his body ready to run up the alley and challenge the whispering men. But even as he did so, his hood was torn back and the icy blade of a pugio rested across his throat.
*
‘Salve Septem,’ growled a familiar voice. ‘If you’re so interested in the tribune’s conversation, why don’t we join in?’
‘Salve, Herrenius,’ answered Artemidorus to Laenas’ faithful and brutal centurion. ‘That’s just what I was planning. So let’s get on with it.’ He took his hands off the grips of both gladius and pugio and allowed the centurion to hustle him forward.
The wind eased so that the voices in the distance came clearer. ‘One of them at least,’ Gistin was saying. ‘The dominus will hold him as long as you want. If the price is right.’
‘But only one?’
‘My second in command Cessy says he overheard this one saying that the other one will be here in a day or two with someone called Quintus…’
‘That’s my man Quintus,’ Artemidorus broke into the conversation, his voice as cold as the blade of the pugio stinging his gullet.
‘I thought it would be, Septem,’ answered Laenas easily. As though he knew the spy was there all along. ‘As soon as Gistin here said Quintus, not to mention of course that we saw you out of our bedroom window as you observed praefactus Sospes’ watchmen breaking up the fight outside our door.’
‘So, Tribune,’ persisted Gistin, ‘do we act now or wait?’
‘If we wait we double our money,’ growled Herrenius.
‘Not quite double it,’ answered Laenas easily. ‘Because, one way or another, the good praefectus will supply so much more and allow us to recover the bribes we have paid him so far but a further element, certainly – an extra two thousand five hundred Attic drachmae – enough to make us pause for thought.’
Artemidorus gave a cynical grunt. ‘So, you have bribed the praefectus to bring you Messala and Lucius, whose heads are worth just as much as Cicero’s was. Whose pardons, signed by Octavianus, may be worth still more. One way or another as you say. And then you take Sospes’ head as well – worth an equal amount when you add his name to the lists in the Forum. But before you take it you make him return the money you used to bribe him in the first place! Money, with all the other money he has accrued, to finance his escape to the East but which he won’t need, of course, once you’ve taken his head..’
The vigile stepped back into a shaft of brightness that showed the simple horror on his face. ‘You plan to take our praefectus’ head?’ he choked.
Laenas turned towards him, his face catching just enough brightness to illuminate a rueful smile. ‘Sorry, Gistin,’ he said. ‘Septem has seen through us all. And that means you know too much.’ The right half of his body moved forward in a short, brutal gesture, as though he was shoulder-barging the watchkeeper. Who staggered back, gasping for breath and looked down to see the handle of a dagger sticking out from his chest.
As the watchkeeper crumpled silently into the gutter, Laenas reached down to jerk his dagger free. He rolled the corpse onto its back with a casual kick. He reached down again, to wipe his dagger clean on Gistin’s tunic, and to cut the dead man’s purse free of his belt. He straightened, hefting the leather bag in his hand. ‘I told you, Herrenius,’ he said, oozing satisfaction. ‘Every sestertius we paid him is still in here. They always do that. Too mean to share it and too scared of losing it. It’s always on their belts, which is more or less where the traitor Sospes’ bribes will be – with all the money he’s amassed from selling his possessions in preparation for his escape. How rich will all that make us?’
‘Is it worth waiting for the boy, then?’ asked Artemidorus. ‘What difference will one more head make?’
‘To me and my fortune, not a lot as I said,’ answered Laenas. ‘Oh but to Maecenas and Octavianus, all the difference in the world. Given what the boy knows about his mother, his sister and the young Caesar. As, I’m sure, my personal assurance that your tongue is forever silenced in the matter will do as well.’
‘And who will assure him of your silence, Laenas?’ asked Artemidorus. ‘Yours and Herrenius’? As you both seem to know as much as Messala, Lucius and I do? Who will guard the guards in the end?’
‘Me, perhaps,’ said a new voice as Felix joined the conversation by sliding his dagger across Herrenius’ throat.
ii
‘Now this is interesting,’ purred Laenas. ‘Looks like you’re in trouble Herrenius – almost as much trouble as Septem. One wrong move, two cut throats and Felix and I will be moving on with our lives.’
‘I wouldn’t count on that, tribune,’ said Puella as she stepped out of the shadows behind Felix, s
word in hand. Laenas gave a shout of laughter – which was cut off when Ferrata stepped out of the shadows behind him, sword in one hand dagger in the other. He didn’t need to say he still suspected Laenas was responsible for the damage to his face or the death of his friend. The simple hatred seemed to shine out of him like light from a lamp.
‘A dramatic moment,’ said Felix cheerfully. ‘Laenas, you get to choose whether the drama in question is a comedy by Plautus or a tragedy by Sophocles.’
‘I’d suggest we go with Plautus,’ said Artemidorus, ‘and die another day.’
‘I agree,’ said Laenas, beginning to recover his arrogance. ‘Plautus it is. The Pot of Gold seems appropriate. Herrenius, let’s get rid of this corpse and continue as planned. Our immediate plan, Septem, is to do nothing but await events, primarily the arrival of your man Quintus and young Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus, his head and his pardon; both, perhaps, for the taking.’
Herrenius’ blade moved away from Artemidorus’ throat – at, he assumed, much the same speed as Felix’ moved away from his.
*
‘He’s working on the assumption that there’s nowhere we can go,’ said Felix as the four of them walked back to the hospitium. ‘And, under the circumstances, precious little we can do. He’s going to bribe that poor fool Sospes to make sure none of us gets out of the city gates while using his vigiles to watch us while we’re trapped in the port.’
‘Which he’s probably done already,’ answered Artemidorus.
‘True.’
‘Just as he did by getting the vigiles to look for Messala and Lucius by describing them as the murderers. An intelligent move, especially as he’s now recovered some of the bribe money.’