by Peter Tonkin
‘Surely Antony is worrying over nothing,’ the master of the horse was saying. Not for the first time. ‘Whatever Spurinna’s auguries, whatever the Lady Calpurnia’s dreams, Caesar can never be touched. He is too astute at reading the mood of the Senate. And of the populace. The Parthian campaign will make rich men of everyone associated with it. From the lowliest legionary to the dictator himself. And Caesar will shower wealth upon the city as he always does when he returns in triumph.’
Enobarbus looked straight into the magister equitum’s intelligent brown eyes. The dictator’s deputy had a high, broad forehead. Slightly overhanging brow and a face that seemed to fall away to a narrow, shallowly cleft chin. He looked younger than his forty-four years, but was an experienced and successful soldier. By all accounts a strong and decisive leader. He was also level-headed and careful. And he had no intention of taking action until he had more information.
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Enobarbus. ‘Co-Consul Antony is worried or he would not have sent me. There’s something in the air…’
At the same moment as Lepidus and Enobarbus entered from the east, the murderers and their gladiators entered from the west. And the Forum in between burst into panic. Enobarbus had never seen anything like it. Probably never would, as long as he lived. The Forum was packed as usual. There were crowds of people from every rank and station. Senators rubbed shoulders with slaves. Freedmen and shopkeepers with plebeians, poets and retired soldiers. It was late morning on a warm day in the middle of the month of Mars. The Forum was getting hot. The citizens were getting sweaty. There was a strange, uneasy atmosphere. As Enobarbus had observed – there was something in the air. The moment Caesar’s murderers entered, a wave of violent panic swept eastwards across the crowded square.
At first it was impossible for the tribune to see precisely what was happening. Automatically, he looked for somewhere he could climb onto. The most promising elevation that he could see was the scaffolding round a nearby building. Without a further word to Lepidus, he ran across and began to clamber upwards. As his altitude mounted, so his sight cleared. He could see a sort of pattern to it. There were gladiators at the far side of the square, coming in past the Tullianum prison building. Some of them seemed to be waving swords in the air. In front of them, senators were scattering. Women, screaming and running for their lives. Shopkeepers and stallholders doing their best to close up and protect their wares. And men of all sorts seemed to be rioting. Some of them looting.
As the gladiators came past the vacant space of the Comitium he realised that it was not they who were waving their swords but a group of men behind them. His eyes were keen enough to see that the hands and forearms of the men holding the swords were red. That the senatorial togas they wore were stained with blood. He recognised Brutus and Cassius in the lead.
He knew then. And the knowledge pierced his chest like the sharpest blade.
He jumped down and ran to Lepidus, who was standing, frowning, outside the Domus Publica. ‘They’ve done it,’ he said. ‘They’ve murdered Caesar. There’s a riot starting. You have to get to the Seventh on Tiber Island and bring them into the city. Now!’
‘But…’ said Lepidus, his face the colour of chalk. ‘If Caesar is dead then I have no power. The master of horse is only deputy to the dictator while the dictator is alive!’
‘Go anyway,’ said Enobarbus. ‘Alert them. Get them here! Or as close as you can. I’ll try and find out more then I’ll follow you. I’m still tribune. If they don’t listen to you, they’ll listen to me. And failing that, I’ll try and find Artemidorus. He’s senior centurion, primus pilus. The legion’s legates and the other tribunes are all with their families at home as far as I know. In the absence of the general, he and I command the Seventh anyway!’
He stood for a moment, mind racing, watching as Lepidus and his six unarmed lictors sped past the Temple of Vesta and out of the south side of the Forum. Their best route, he knew, would run between the Temple of Castor and the tiny Lake of Juturna. Past Cicero’s city dwelling on the Nova Via. Onto the Vicus Tusculum road. Which would take them past the Forum Borium cattle market and onto the Pontus Aemelium bridge to the far bank. Then turning back on himself to cross the Pons Cestius. It was the quickest way to Tiber Island and the VIIth.
These thoughts sped through the tribune’s mind in an instant, then he was striding forward into the melee. The first thing he got was confirmation of his worst fears. ‘Caesar’s dead…’ shouted someone.
‘They’ve murdered him!’ screamed someone else.
‘Butchered!’ Yelled a third. ‘And they’re coming for us! Run!’
But by no means everyone was running. At least not in the same direction. Those taking fright were racing north and south out of the Forum. Some few were running eastwards past Enobarbus. But no one was running westwards towards the bloodstained men and their gladiator guards. But no. Even that wasn’t true. A group of senators he recognised as Lentulus Spinther, Favonius, Aquinus, Dolabella, Murcus, and Patiscus were running towards them. Grabbing swords from the gladiators, joining in with the bloodstained men. The tribune realised that he could see this so clearly because the Forum was emptying with astonishing rapidity. Even those men rioting in order to rob the shops and stalls were running up towards the Basilica Aemilia or down towards the shops by the Basilica Sempronia.
The bloodstained murderers lingered by the Comitium. Marcus Junius Brutus climbed up onto the Rostra there. The platform from which the citizens of Rome were traditionally addressed. He spread his blood-washed arms. Which made the state of his bloodstained toga disturbingly vivid. ‘Romans!’ he shouted. ‘Romans! Stay and hear the words of your liberators…’
But only his associates and Albinus’ gladiators lingered by the Comitium. The Forum itself was all but empty. And the riot had moved to the shops along the fronts of the basilicas north and south of the central square. A cloud of smoke was suddenly borne in on the morning breeze. Brutus stopped talking. Looked about in shock. Obviously surprised that there was no one willing to listen to his speech of liberation.
Cassius called him down at once, and in the face of the gathering riot, they left the Forum and vanished into the pathway that ran south past the Temple of Saturn Aerarium, where the treasury was located and the tabularium records office.
Enobarbus did not bother following. That road led to only one destination. Instead he turned and began to follow Lepidus’ footsteps towards Tiber Island and the Legio VII.
*
As soon as they turned towards the Temple of Saturn, Artemidorus knew where they were going. To the top of the Capitoline. There were several things up there which the murderers could use to their advantage. The first was the slope itself, climbed by narrow stairway cut into the rock or an equally narrow, stepped roadway. At the top of the roadway stood the Tarpean Rock. On top of a cliff so steep and high that condemned criminals thrown off it were smashed to death on the ground below. The rock stood at the corner of the square outside the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. A large building which was not only sacred but also capacious enough to house the self-styled Liberators and their bodyguards. As well as the small army of priests whose job it was to maintain the most sacred space in all of Rome.
Then there was a ridge running behind the tabularium records office to the northern spur where, on the Arx Citadel, sat the Temple of Juno Moneta, which was also the city’s mint. Where there might well be a fortune in silver and gold waiting to be turned into coin. No matter where on the Capitoline Brutus, Cassius and their men ended up, no one in the city would be able to get at them. Even the VIIth would have a hard job securing the two temples in the face of well-armed, well-placed gladiators. Not to mention the priests. And the VIIth would only enter the situation if Lepidus and Enobarbus could persuade them to come off Tiber Island.
Indistinguishable from any of Albinus’ other gladiators, Artemidorus began to work his way up to the front of the group. Placing himself amongst the gladiators was on
ly the beginning. Next he needed to hear what the murderers were planning to do next. He eased forward carefully. It was easy enough while they were crossing the Forum, but the road that Brutus and Cassius chose was narrow, as well as being steep. Even so, the spy managed to work his way up to the fringe of Syrus’ little group at the heart of the throng.
They turned right behind the Temple of Saturn and began to climb the lower slope of the Capitoline. The tabularium records office loomed above and on their right. As they followed the increasing incline along the great square building’s southern side, Artemidorus began to hear snatches of Cassius’ plans – and Brutus’ concerns. ‘It’s not too late. We have the upper hand. You see how many are joining us. Find Antony now. Kill him. And Lepidus.’
‘They are helpless. Antony is useless without Caesar. Lepidus is powerless. The moment Caesar died, the office of magister equitum ceased to exist. There is nothing they can do. I will talk to the people. If they won’t listen in the Senate or the Forum we can send messages and call them up to the square in front of the Temple of Jupiter. I can convince them that what we have done is for their own good.’
They reached the point where the roadway led off right towards the Arx and left up the steep gradient of the Clivus Capitolinus path that climbed to the Temple of Jupiter. The oldest and most sacred temple in the city. And the easiest to defend. The crowd of variously armed men became a lengthy snake as Brutus and Cassius led them left up the clivus towards the height of the Capitoline’s southern spur and the great temple on top of it.
‘What we need to do next,’ Brutus was saying, ‘is to get the message out to our friends around the city. Once I have talked to them and appealed to their patriotic and freedom-loving natures, they will rally to us.’
‘Especially,’ added Cassius, ‘if we can find some way to bribe them. We have two things that they want. Money and power. Offer them either or both and we’ve won.’
‘You’ll have to be quick,’ added Basilus, who was walking just behind them with the Casca brothers and Albinus. Unaware that the Samnite at his left shoulder was listening to every word and drawing his plans to frustrate any scheme they decided upon. ‘If you don’t get your men to take charge of the situation – and if possible the city – then it will be Lepidus who restores order. And once he does that, he and Antony will own the city. If that happens, we join Caesar. In death.’
‘I am certain Lepidus is powerless,’ insisted Brutus. ‘The Seventh Legion will no longer obey him. Neither will the old soldiers in the city waiting to be assigned their lands as Caesar promised. He simply has no power.’
‘Whether you are right or not, brother, we must act quickly,’ Cassius decided. ‘Basilus. Your gladiators. The Syrian and the rest. How reliable are they?’
‘As reliable as gold and the promise of more gold can make them.’
‘Very well. As soon as we are at the Temple of Jupiter, I want you to send them back to the city. I will give them a list of names and directions. They can alert men I have prepared. We will have begun to bribe the populace before nightfall. And also, Brutus my brother, we will have summoned up here as many representatives of the people and men of power as we can so that you can talk to them this afternoon. If we get this right, we can return to the Forum this evening and you can repeat your speech to the populace from the Rostra. Only this time there will be crowds of citizens there to hear you. Perhaps even the people’s comitia itself.’
One of the newcomers shouldered his way past Artemidorus in his eagerness to join the conversation. The disguised spy recognised young Publius Cornelius Dolabella. One of Caesar’s closest and least suitable associates. A drunkard, gambler, spendthrift and womaniser by all accounts. ‘I will go down as well if I may,’ he gasped. ‘I know many more men who will join us…’
‘Mostly men in taverns and brothels,’ said Brutus austerely. Sneering at the young man’s reputation. Which in matters of drunkenness and profligacy rivalled even Antony’s.
‘Precisely,’ answered Dolabella unabashed. ‘That’s where I’ll find Antony’s friends and associates. And turn them to our side.’
Cassius gave a bark of cynical laughter. ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘And, if you are going to return,’ added Brutus, ‘see what news there is of Porcia my wife…’
‘I will,’ said Dolabella grudgingly. One aristocratic eyebrow raised in disdain. ‘But I will not be returning quickly…’
As they arrived on the wide flagged area in front of the Temple of Jupiter, the crowd of men spread out. Syrus and his cohorts lingered by Cassius just long enough to receive his orders and directions. Then they went back down the narrow path. Artemidorus in his Samnite disguise was tempted to join them. But the dead gladiator had not been one of their men. They looked like a tight team. A stranger would stand out amongst them and be viewed with suspicion. Dolabella also turned to retrace his steps. A couple of others joined him. Men whose togas were not stained with Caesar’s blood. Murcus, and Patiscus by the look of things.
‘Samnite!’ called Cassius. ‘Come here!’
Artemidorus crossed to him. Heart racing. He suddenly realised that, with the departure of Syrus and his men, he had become the gladiator standing closest to the group of conspirators. His keenness to overhear them had overcome his sense of caution. To a dangerous degree.
‘Go with Lord Dolabella to Lord Brutus’ villa. Bring word of his wife as fast as you can!’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ snapped Artemidorus, fighting to keep the relief out of his voice.
*
The Forum was deserted. It was early afternoon so that fact alone was remarkable. Disturbing. Even the rioters and looters seemed to have disappeared. Dolabella and his fellow senators stood staring around. Then the supercilious senator turned to Artemidorus. ‘Samnite,’ he drawled. ‘Do you happen to know the location of Lord Brutus’ villa?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ The spy kept his voice gruff. His accent countrified.
‘Go there. Find news of his wife and return to him.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Really…’ Dolabella turned away as though the gladiator no longer existed. ‘What was Brutus thinking of… Am I some slave boy to be sent on an errand?’
He and his two friends began to cross the Forum, still talking loudly. Like scared children whistling in the dark, thought Artemidorus.
‘No,’ Dolabella continued. ‘I am next year’s appointed consul. I am to succeed Caesar himself while Antony does whatever Antony does – if he survives. Before we start passing out money to the plebs and whoever else we can find, I think it fitting that I should get hold of the consul’s insignia. Just to make sure I get what I was promised. What I deserve…’
Artemidorus hesitated. Torn. Dolabella was probably on the way to the Domus. That was where Caesar’s consular insignia would be. He certainly had not bothered to bring them with him to the Senate meeting. Did he need to go to the Domus himself? What good would be served by following these treacherous, self-serving men? None that he could see.
Even as he stood, mind racing, events overtook him. Caesar’s litter at last made its slow and stumbling entrance into the Forum. Two men held the forward poles, which bore the weight of the dead dictator’s upper body. One man carried both of the rear poles, though the dead legs and feet were probably not much lighter. Artemidorus stood, transfixed. The litter bearers’ fatigue and depression made them stagger as they walked. The litter swung a little from side to side. Caesar’s arm hung lifelessly out of the side. Caesar’s dead hand waved. Come here, it seemed to say. Join me…
Artemidorus obeyed Caesar’s final command. He ran over to the stretcher bearers and walked beside the man who was carrying his end of the litter alone. He raised the mask of the Samnite helmet. ‘Do you know me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. You were at the master’s Domus this morning. With the augur and the tribune…’
‘That’s right.’ He grabbed the handle and took as much of the weight as
he could while he talked. ‘Unless your mistress gives you direct orders to the contrary,’ he said to the exhausted litter bearer. ‘I want you to do something as soon as you have taken Caesar home.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I want you to go to the house of Antistius the physician and bring him to the Domus. He will want to examine Caesar. Tell him Septem sent you.’
‘Septem. Yes sir.’
Artemidorus walked a few more steps with the man, then eased away from the litter and its awful burden. Stopped still. Looking after the slowly moving men. As he watched Caesar’s tragic progress across the deserted Forum, so Artemidorus’ thoughts came clear. It all turned around whether he wanted to go back up to the Capitoline and spy out the plans that Cassius was making. Or whether he would serve Antony’s interests better by going out onto Tiber Island and helping to rally the VIIth. Not to mention that, in the mix, he had agreed to find news of Lady Porcia. Which was a strong temptation because, during the time he worked undercover in Brutus’ household he had grown to respect her.
It was not to serve Brutus, therefore, that he turned away from Caesar’s litter and the supercilious Dolabella, and began to retrace the steps Puella and he had taken during the third night watch. To Lord Brutus’ villa. As he hurried across the Forum and into the roads that he and Puella had fled down during the storm, he looked for hiding places where he could safely put the helmet and the armour he was wearing. It seemed to him that it would be better if the freedman Artemidorus came asking after the Lady. The man who had fixed the roof, who had heard terrible news of Lord Brutus and worrying news about the Lady. Rather than the faceless Samnite who could be anybody come from anywhere.
