The Ides

by Peter Tonkin

  Quintus Labeo, Quintus Ligarius and Lucius Cinna followed Gaius Casca into the curia. Another little group who lingered, waiting.

  The chamber was almost full now, and the tribune turned away. There were too many senators milling around for him to identify any more conspirators. He moved into the brightness of the vestibule, still deeply preoccupied. The entrance hall seemed almost as busy as the Senate chamber itself. Behind him he heard Antony’s familiar voice raised over the bustle and the chatter. The consul was beginning the process of dismissing the Senate.

  Enobarbus walked towards the great wide doorway leading out onto the colonnaded portico, deep in thought. At the forefront of his mind was the almost inexpressible sense of relief that they had saved Caesar. Even allowing for auguries, dreams and portents, there was no really accurate way to predict the future. But the auguries this time had seemed so clear. Even beyond what Spurinna had found time after time in the entrails of his sacrifices, there was talk of a little kingbird being torn to pieces in the curia yesterday. And someone had said something he had half overheard about Caesar’s horses. Those that had crossed the Rubicon with him and been turned out to grass. Refusing to eat. Shedding tears… It was as though the gods were shouting warning after warning. And Antony’s little eight-man contubernium of spies had made Caesar pay attention to their message after all.

  But then, thought Enobarbus philosophically, perhaps Caesar would have survived the day without their interference and left for Parthia safely. Perhaps the conspiracy they had uncovered and feared so much would have come to nothing in any case. Caesar, beloved of Mars and Venus Victrix had escaped many an apparently fatal situation before. At Alesia. At Munda. Both battles where Caesar had placed himself – as was his habit – right in the centre of the action. Both battles that turned on a knife-edge. Both battles that could – should – have gone to pieces as Crassus’ had at Carrhae. How close had Caesar come, time after time, to having his head taken, filled with gold and used as a prop in a stage play? Who could possibly know the will of the gods or the vagaries of chance? Or the inevitable turning of destiny?

  They might even have preserved Caesar today only to see him struck down tomorrow. There was no doubt, Antony said, that the falling sickness was getting worse. Caesar was not a well man. The tribune had known others with the same malady. It always grew worse and worse in his experience. The fits would come faster and faster. The swoons deeper and deeper. For all that the sufferer could perform wonders of energy and accomplish what seemed almost impossible in the hectic days between the fits. There came a time at last when the grip of the malady made the sufferer lose all control. Of his bladder. Of his bowels. And the end of it all was death. Which might come during a seizure. Or because of a seizure. If Caesar had an attack while on his horse, for instance. Or in the midst of battle. Or at any other time when a failure of sense could spell immediate or eventual death.

  The tribune stepped out into the brightness of the day. He gave himself a mental shake. Such thoughts could only be ill-omened. A reaction to the greater, glittering truth. Whatever was destined to happen to him tomorrow, or in any of the days, months and years succeeding. They had kept Caesar safe today.

  A tall, red-bearded man in a cloak came running up the marble steps towards him. Such was the tribune’s preoccupation that he did not recognise his speculator the Centurion Artemidorus until the man was immediately in front of him.

  And even then, the spy had to repeat his message before Enobarbus could completely understand.

  ‘Caesar is coming, Tribune. You must warn the general. Caesar is coming! Caesar is coming I say!’

  X

  Artemidorus saw the horror sweep across Enobarbus’ expression as the terrible news sank in.

  ‘How long?’ demanded the tribune. ‘How long until Caesar gets here?’

  ‘Not long. Once he’s through the Gate of Fontus, the roads are not so crowded. He was leaving the Forum when I spoke to him, so he’ll be here soon…’

  ‘You spoke to him? What did you say?’

  ‘I gave him Cyanea’s list. I added Decimus Brutus Albinus and Gaius Trebonius to it. Puella says she’s seen Albinus at several secret meetings but never knew who he was.’

  ‘Decimus Albinus! You’ll tell me Lepidus is one of the conspirators next. Is there anyone who’s not plotting to kill him?’

  ‘Lepidus is as firm as Antony I’m sure. But you must warn him. You must warn the general. He can’t dismiss the Senate if Caesar is on his way!’

  ‘Perhaps I should let him do it after all. There might be some hope in a bit of confusion.’

  ‘A waste of time, Tribune. Even if he did dismiss them, there won’t really be confusion. They’ll stand around talking. In any case, they won’t have had a chance to go anywhere before Caesar arrives. Can you get in there and warn Lord Antony?’

  ‘I can try. I’m not supposed to go past the inner door into the chamber itself – only senators are allowed in there. And senatorial staff of course. Senate secretary and the lesser secretaries. Record keepers. Timekeepers with their water clocks. All of whom look like the kind of men who’d do that kind of job. You and I would stand out like a couple of long-haired Gauls. But if I can attract his attention. Catch his eye…’

  ‘You have to try! If you don’t, I will!’

  ‘Both together then! Two are better than one!’

  Shoulder to shoulder the two soldiers marched off the portico and into the vestibule. Artemidorus’ cloak hid his gladius once more. The hood was down on his shoulders, though. His red beard might make as clear a signal as it had made a good disguise. They were going to find this risky enough as things stood, though – the gladius might make them stand out a bit too far.

  They quick-marched through the crowd of senators making their slower way inwards and arrived at the inner door of the Senate chamber itself. They had no trouble in attracting the gaze of almost everyone they did not want to talk to. It was disturbing how so many pairs of eyes observed every movement by the door with almost frantic intensity. Artemidorus had experienced something like this when a pack of starving wolves suddenly registered his presence in a winterbound northern forest. And the fact that he was edible.

  But Antony had his back to them, still in conversation with the secretary. With a sinking heart, Artemidorus saw that Caesar’s chair and work table were being taken off his raised tribunal. The dismissal of the Senate was under way. But no one seemed to be preparing to leave. Just as he had predicted. Those senators that the two soldiers had passed on their way in were still coming past them into the chamber. Something that the secretary noticed as he looked over the consul’s shoulder. Something which he obviously pointed out.

  Antony at last swung round, his face folded into an unaccustomed frown. His gaze raking over the mob of white-togaed men still crowding inwards. But then it settled on the two interlopers by the door. The frown vanished to be replaced by a look of surprise. Enquiry. Enobarbus gestured. Antony hesitated. Exchanged a final word with the secretary. Swung right round and came to the doorway.

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘Caesar has changed his mind.’ Enobarbus said. ‘He’s coming after all.’

  Antony blinked. That was his only reaction to the news. His expression didn’t alter. But Artemidorus could almost see his mind racing behind those deep brown eyes. ‘How long before he gets here?’

  ‘Not long,’ answered Artemidorus.

  ‘Futo!’ Antony swore. ‘I’d better get them back in their seats again.’ And he was gone. He reached the tribunal, spat a word or two at the secretary. The secretary gestured to his acolytes. The work table and curule chair made a reappearance. It was this as much as Antony’s bellow of, ‘Fellow senators…’ which appeared to drive the message home.

  And the message seemed to go magically through everyone there. A stirring that spread like the wind through a field of barley. Heads nodded together and the message spread almost silently onwards. Out of the chamber, r
ight across the vestibule, down the length of the portico. Caesar was coming. Was on his way. Would be here soon…

  ‘We’d better watch out for him,’ suggested Artemidorus. ‘We can warn the general as soon as he comes into the theatre. Give him some notice at least…’

  ‘Good idea.’

  The pair of them wheeled round and marched out again. Through the vestibule. Out of the main door. Onto the portico. Across the marble width of it. Stopping at the top of the steps, looking down and to their left at the stream of people on foot and in litters pouring into the enormous space. Kyros came and waited near them, a couple of steps further down. He still held the writing case. And that fact suddenly struck a chord with Artemidorus. He swung round, his eyes wide. A surprising number of senators were also carrying long, thin wooden writing cases today.

  But even as he made the discovery. Before he could take the next mental step. He was distracted once again. Brutus and Cassius were strolling along the colonnade side by side. Heading for the Senate chamber at last. Brutus was frowning and distracted. Pale. Shaking slightly. The man with the message about the Lady Porcia’s death had obviously managed to reach the senator. Which was all the spy could think of to explain how Brutus looked. But that in itself was sinister. What business other than Caesar’s murder could possibly stop a husband from returning home at once on receiving the news that his beloved wife had just dropped dead?

  The spy surreptitiously pulled up his hood. It would not do for Brutus to recognise him now. There were enough unexpected elements in this situation without adding yet more. But a new random element was added at once. The pair of aristocratic conspirators were stopped by a senator Artemidorus recognised. His name was Popilius Lena. The spy had no idea whether or not his name was on Cyanea’s list or in Puella’s memory. The three men fell into a short but earnest conversation. When it was over, Brutus looked worse than ever. But his brother-in-law smiled easily and led him onwards and inwards. Into the gloom of the vestibule.

  *

  Brutus and Cassius vanished into the shadows just at the very moment that Antony hurried out. The general crossed the width of the portico in a dozen strides. ‘Right!’ he snapped. ‘That’s done. I’m going down to meet Caesar. He’ll probably come by the south entrance. It’s the nearest way. I’ll try to talk him out of this as we come up. Enobarbus, I want you to go to Lepidus and tell him what’s going on. As magister equitum he has the power to bring the Seventh Legion into the city if any trouble breaks out. The city is filling up with Caesar’s old soldiers. If anything like what you suspect should actually happen, there’s no telling what may come of it!’

  ‘Nothing good. That’s for certain,’ observed the tribune. And he was off. Running light-footed down the steps towards the south entry. And the busy roadway through the Gate of Fontus. Then down to the Forum. And onward to the house of Magister Equitum Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. The only patrician left in the city that they all knew they could trust.

  Antony hesitated. The wind taken out of his sails. He looked around the busy scene. Took a deep breath. ‘You wait here Septem,’ he said. ‘I’ll go now to greet Caesar the moment he arrives. You’re not only speculator spy now – you’re my observabant. My lookout.’ And he was gone. Following in his tribune’s footsteps down and across to the entry.

  ‘What are we on the lookout for?’ asked Kyros.

  ‘Trouble,’ answered Artemidorus.

  And trouble arrived at once. In the person of Gaius Julius Caesar. Semi-divine being. Co-Consul of Rome. Perpetual Dictator. A man who would be king. Caesar walked through the south entry just as Antony arrived there. At his right shoulder was Decimus Brutus Albinus. At his left was his secretary Balbus and his acolytes. All of them laden with bags of scrolls and tablets. Without a second thought, Antony elbowed his way into the secretary’s place.

  Caesar walked determinedly forward. Trailing a crowd of clients, litigants and hopefuls like the tail of a shooting star. With the man at each shoulder competing for his attention. Perhaps because Caesar and Antony had not been on the best of terms recently, Decimus Albinus seemed to be winning.

  Artemidorus swung round, scanning the length and breadth of the colonnade. Suddenly struck by the fact that Caesar’s arrival somehow caused the busy expanse to empty. It was eerie. Disturbing. As though the senators all knew that something fearful was just about to happen. There were hundreds and hundreds of senators. Sulla had expanded the Senate to eight hundred. At about the same time as he had expanded the pomerium well beyond the ancient boundary that tradition said had been ploughed by Romulus to define the limits of his new city. The new line took in the Campus Martius and several sections on the far bank of the Tiber. But not Janiculum. And its rule was relaxed on Tiber Island where the VIIth Legion was waiting, fully armed. There were, perhaps, three hundred senators in the curia today. Though it was designed to accommodate several hundred more. And Cyanea’s list named twenty-one conspirators. Now expanded to twenty-three.

  It struck him then. Right out of nowhere. The writing cases. Cassius had almost certainly tucked his dagger into his belt beneath his toga. Had had little time or opportunity to do much else. As he and Cyanea could attest. As they had been watching through the spyhole in the villa’s atrium at the time. Others, like Brutus, might well have done the same. Neither carried anything but papers. But still others might well have used their long, slim wooden writing cases to hide a dagger rather than a stylus. And it looked like there were many more writing cases than usual being carried into the Senate chamber. As with any daggers tucked in belts or hidden in the folds of togas, it was too late to do much about it now.

  So Artemidorus and Kyros were powerless to do much more than keep watch. Artemidorus, the centurion, found this almost unbearable. He was a man of action. A soldier, used to giving and obeying orders. On campaign, the majority of his time might be filled with anticipating action and relatively little of it in actual combat. But those times before and after battles were always filled. With planning, preparing, weapons training, spying. Tending the wounded, collecting the bodies and burying or burning them. Spying on the departed enemy. If there were any left to get away. Planning for the next encounter. Training in the skills and tactics needed to face each foe. It was a relentless round of one activity or another. He had never been ordered to just wait and do nothing while events beyond his control relentlessly unfolded around him.

  Caesar and his immediate group emerged from the cohort of well-wishers, clients and others who could have no business with the Senate. But then one man extracted himself from the bustle in the gardens and stopped Caesar. Chatting to him for a moment as the rest of the crowd melted away. It was Popilius Lena once again. The senator who had spoken to Brutus and Cassius earlier. A little bird of hope seemed to take flight in Artemidorus’ breast. Perhaps Lena had somehow learned of the plot. Perhaps he was warning Caesar even now – giving Antony a chance to offer his word in confirmation. But no. Caesar shook his head. Lena turned away. The spy and his assistant were forced to watch the dictator’s seemingly inevitable rush into danger once again.

  To watch as Caesar began to mount the steps angled to head past them, deep in conversation with Decimus Albinus. Looking away from his would-be protectors. Apparently paying little attention even to Antony. Followed by his band of secretaries with their bags of tablets and scrolls. Mounting the steps. Hesitating for a heartbeat on the outer edge of the portico. Striding onwards towards the shadowy cavern of the vestibule. It seemed to Artemidorus that Albinus had even taken Caesar gently by the hand to lead him in.

  The little group were just at the vestibule doorway when someone called Antony’s name. Gaius Trebonius emerged from behind a pillar and Antony hurried over to him.

  ‘Are you alright, Septem?’ asked Kyros. ‘The look on your face…’

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ said Artemidorus in a low voice. ‘Antony doesn’t know that Trebonius is on the list. I haven’t had the chance to warn him…’


  ‘Warn him now,’ suggested Kyros, appealing to the man of action.

  The pair of them crossed towards Antony and Trebonius. Only to see Trebonius slide a friendly arm across Antony’s shoulders and lead him further away down the portico. Deep in conversation. Utterly unaware of the two desperate men following in their footsteps.

  Almost frantically, Artemidorus sought to frame a sentence that would attract Antony’s attention and alert him without alerting Trebonius. But then, he thought, did it matter at this point whether Trebonius knew their suspicions or not?

  Artemidorus sucked in a deep breath. ‘Lord Antony!’ he shouted.

  *

  ‘Lord Antony,’ shouted Artemidorus at the top of his voice. But his words were drowned out by a scream from inside the curia. Another scream followed immediately by more cries. Shouts. Pandemonium. And then by a wave of senators running out into the portico like an invading barbarian army. At first it was hard to make out what they were shouting. One horrified phrase tumbling over another. The senators flooded down the steps and spread across the gardens. Antony stood, amazed. Trebonius had vanished. Artemidorus, on the edge of the stampede at first, found himself almost swept into it as more and more senators ran out. Ran, it seemed, for their lives. Kyros, younger and slighter than the powerful soldier was carried bodily away, lucky not to lose his footing as he was swept helplessly down the steps.

  But here, in the outer fringes of the crowd, what they were shouting began to make some sort of sense to Artemidorus.