by Peter Tonkin
‘His brother Gaius, maybe. Because Caesar had stabbed Publius with his stylus.’
‘Has Gaius been a soldier?’
‘Haven’t they all? I’m surprised Cassius didn’t make a better job of it, though. He was a soldier’s soldier.’
‘Opened his face, you said. Maybe a different agenda. Like Brutus. All those years wondering if this was the manhood that fathered him like the gossips say.’
‘Caesar called him his son as he died, apparently. Kai su teknon?. And you my child? His dying words. Scared the life out of Brutus. He came out calling for Cicero.’
‘The Sextus Roscius patricide defence. Brutus must have been shaken.’
‘More than a little. He’d just been informed his wife had died. She hadn’t, in fact. But he didn’t know that at the time.’
Antistius shook his head. ‘The gods must be splitting their sides today. One joke after another.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘Wait for matters to become clearer. Then we’ll start to clean him up. Prepare him for his funeral. Could be in several days’ time. You?’
‘Find Antony. The tribune’s already looking. Will you be able you do something with his face? There will have to be a death mask made.’
‘Don’t worry. I know an expert in imagines maiorum. But in fact, I think I’d better have a full-body cast made. If you do find Antony and he can get control of the city, then I suspect there’ll be a lot more statues to Caesar going up. And a full body cast will really help the sculptors.’
Something stirred in the spy’s imagination at the physician’s words. ‘And the toga,’ he said. ‘Keep the toga safe.’
‘As you wish,’ said Antistius with a shrug.
And the gods laughed on. For of all the things the spy said or did during the next four days, his thoughtless demand that Caesar’s toga be kept safe was probably among the most fateful.
But, as he came out of the room back into the atrium, Calpurnia reappeared, holding a box. ‘Septem,’ she said. ‘Are you going to Antony?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If I can find him.’
‘You will find him,’ she said. ‘And when you do, give this to him. The vestals brought it over on the news of his death. And Dolabella’s visit shows me how much at risk it could become.’
‘Of course I’ll take it. May I ask what it is?’
‘Caesar’s papers. And, most importantly, a copy of his will. Well, notes, really, that he made while preparing the full document. The original has gone to my father, Lucius Calpernius Piso as tradition requires. He will oversee the funeral arrangements. I have also put in there the thing he kept closest to him whenever he was in Rome. The one thing more important, perhaps, even than his will.’
‘And what is that?’
‘The key to the treasury. Guard it with your life. And get it to Antony.’
XII
Artemidorus ran through the Forum once again, heading for the Carinae and Antony’s villa. Coming from the Domus past the Regia. Through the eastern end of the open space. Preparing to turn right into the roadway that ran past the Subura. Which was fortunate, as the western end was packed. It was late afternoon now and the conspirators, at the heart of their cohort of gladiators, had dared to come down off the Capitoline once more. It seemed to the spy that the crowd that had climbed to the Temple of Jupiter had returned with them. And had been joined by many other citizens.
Brutus and Cassius were up on the Rostra and easily visible. He did not need to go any closer to know what they were saying. Their togas were still stained with Caesar’s blood and Brutus’ hand was bandaged. Nevertheless, he slowed. A third figure joined them. The stranger was wearing the official robes of a praetor, a senior magistrate. The spy slowed further, staring down the length of the Forum until he recognised the man’s face. It was Lucius Cornelius Cinna. One of Caesar’s more intimate circle of friends and relatives. Caesar himself had asked Cinna to take on the responsibilities, privileges and position of praetor for this year. Now in a pantomime he tore off his badges of office and removed his ceremonial robe. Theatrically hurling them onto the ground. The spy could not hear what he was saying. But he did not need to. As with Brutus and Cassius, the message was all too obvious. He gripped the box containing the will and the key more closely still and ran on towards the Clivus Pullius and the villa Antony all but stole from Pompey’s estate.
The ostiarius opened the door gingerly. Only pulling it wide when Artemidorus raised the face mask and he recognised the visitor’s face. ‘Is the general at home?’ asked the spy as the doorkeeper led him into the atrium. He unlaced the helmet and eased it off his head.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I need to see the Lady Fulvia. If she’s here…’ It suddenly occurred to him that, like her husband, she might be in hiding. Who knew what names might still be on Cassius’ kill list?
But no. ‘Wait here, please,’ said the doorkeeper. ‘I will send someone to tell her.’
Artemidorus nodded, and stooped to put the Samnite helmet down on the top of a chest. Carrying that as well as Calpurnia’s box was a bit like juggling.
Lady Fulvia swept into the atrium as he straightened. Antony’s wife was no great beauty, but she had a striking, powerful face which reflected her character precisely. Her eyes were wide and intelligent. Her nose slightly hooked and thoroughly patrician. Her mouth was neither full nor thin-lipped. But it habitually turned down as part of the slight frown that usually lined her high, clear forehead.
She stopped in front of Artemidorus. Regarded him silently for a heartbeat. Then, ‘Am I talking to my husband’s senior centurion? Or to the tribune’s most trusted spy?’
Artemidorus scratched his bristly chin. ‘To the spy, my Lady…’
‘Well, Septem, what do you want with me?’
‘I have two missions, my Lady. Like the tribune, I’m looking for Lord Antony. But I have also been ordered by the Lady Calpurnia to give him this box. And in his absence, I’m putting it in your safekeeping.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘A copy of Caesar’s will. Or notes he made in drawing it up. The original document is with his father-in-law as tradition decrees. Some letters. The key to the treasury. They must go into the consul’s keeping.’
Fulvia took the box. ‘That’s one part of your mission fulfilled,’ she said. ‘As for the other part, don’t waste your time. I expect you know as well as I do where he’s gone to hide.’
Before he could answer, she continued – voicing his suspicions for him. ‘He’s in Janiculum with his Egyptian whore.’
‘If he is, that’s the safest place, Lady. Cleopatra has a small army of guards and attendants. And Janiculum is outside even Sulla’s pomerium, so they are all fully armed at all times.’
‘Whether you’re his soldier or his spy, you always look after him, don’t you?’
‘It is my duty, Lady. As soldier or spy.’
‘The tribune said it was you who gave him the disguise he escaped in. Possibly saved his life.’
‘As my duty demanded…’
‘And now I find I have a duty to you. As your commander’s consort. As his grateful wife. The tribune has gone to Janiculum. Antony is either planning to return with him. Or is bedding Cleopatra now that his love rival no longer stands between them. Either way, he will be home soon enough. You must wait here. Eat. Bathe. Sleep. You know when he comes back he will be like a whirlwind. And he will need you like his sword. Fresh. Clean. Sharp. Hold this for a moment.’ She handed the box back. Clapped her hands once. A middle-aged slave appeared. His face was familiar. The steward in charge of the day-to-day running of the household. ‘My guest the centurion needs food, a bath and sleep, Promus. See to it.’
‘Yes, Lady,’ he bowed slightly.
‘And a shave if possible,’ added Artemidorus as he handed the box back to Fulvia.
The steward showed him to the triclinum dining room with its central table surrounded by three klini beds. ‘I
f you would care to take your ease, I will send in warm water and wine, then gustatio.’
‘No. I will eat in the kitchen, thank you Promus. It will be quicker and better suited to the occasion. I take it the Lady Fulvia has eaten?’
‘She ate earlier.’ Promus nodded.
‘Good. Then it’s off to the culina. Lead the way.’
*
The kitchen was quiet. There was no family in the villa at present apart from Fulvia herself. And no guests apart from Artemidorus. The culina was a larger version of the room in Spurinna’s villa where they had melted the wax off Telos’ tablets. Artemidorus rinsed his hands in a bowl of water, then moved a stool over to the table. He was hungry. But he was also used to soldier’s fare and had no desire to eat anything much other than the puls porridge and flat emmer bread already there. Promus produced an amphor of wine, a jug of water, another of olive oil. There were olives and fruit piled on plates beside the bread. Beside these, eggs and cheese. A copper goblet and a terracotta bowl with a horn spoon were placed before him and he proceeded with his meal.
Artemidorus poured wine and water into the goblet, swirling them together. ‘Is there anything further, Centurion?’ asked Promus.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Then I will go and ensure the thermae is reheated for your bath.’ He turned to go.
But Artemidorus stopped him. ‘My associate. The woman Cyanea. Is she still here?’
‘She has joined the women serving the Lady Fulvia. Shall I ask for her to be summoned?’
‘No. I just wanted to know she’s safe.’
‘She is safe. If you require anything further, just ask the cocus.’ He gestured at a matronly figure in a cook’s apron, who nodded at him cheerfully.
He tore a chunk off the emmer loaf and dipped the solid, chewy bread into his wine. As it softened, he took a handful of olives and chewed them carefully, spitting the stones onto the side of his bowl. His stomach growled. It had been two full days and an entire night watch since he had slept. And almost as long since he had eaten. He took a bite of the softened bread. The wine was good, even mixed with the coarse loaf. He took a sip. ‘Are the eggs cooked?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Centurion,’ answered the cook.
He took one, cracked the shell, began to peel it. ‘What is the puls porridge flavoured with?’ he asked.
‘This bowl is flavoured with honey. This other with olives and cheese.’
‘I’ll have some of that. This food is excellent. The best I’ve tasted in many years.’
The cook smiled. They were friends. She ladled a huge portion into his bowl. He swallowed the egg, lifted his spoon and dug in.
As soon as he had eaten his fill, Promus led Artemidorus through to the bath. The centurion had heard tell of the baths Antony enjoyed in Pompey’s house. They were modern and luxurious. He had heard they even contained a palaestra open-air exercise area at their centre. As well as a latrine. And a library. All this in addition to the usual arrangement of rooms. The palaestra and the library were tempting. But he used the latrine first.
Two male slaves awaited him in the apodyterium changing room. They helped him remove the Samnite armour he still wore. His belt with gladius and dagger. His tunic. His braccae trousers and his sandals. They led him, naked, into the frigidarium. This was so cold his flesh rose again. As he stepped into the icy water, his scrotum clenched. The breath was driven from his lungs as he sat. The pool was not large but it was beautifully appointed and decorated. Sea deities and legendary aquatic beings disported themselves with each other and a range of sea creatures. When he could stand the cold no longer, he stood up and went through into the tepidarium which was a good deal warmer. The tepid water in the pool began to relax him. The strain of the last few days and their tragic outcome began to ease. He floated contentedly, belly full of food and head full of wine. The pictures of nymphs and satyrs on the walls seemed to come to life. Doing what nymphs and satyrs do. In every conceivable manner – and a few he had never even imagined.
By the time he walked through into the calderium he was semi-erect. His head still full of erotic images. But the withering heat soon sorted that out. Just walking across to the central pool and the slaves waiting to wash him reminded him of his days in Egypt with Antony, Caesar and the VIIth. Where they had all, it seemed, begun to fall in love with Cleopatra. The fornicating nymphs vanished from his imagination. His memory was filled instead with visions of burning deserts bigger than Mare Nostrum. With dunes for waves. Moved by winds coming straight from a furnace. And burning sun in place of cool water. His body was instantly slick with sweat. He cupped his hands, filled them with cool water from a convenient bowl and dashed it into his face. Then he eased himself into the hot pool. Very, very slowly.
In every bath he had ever used, the bather returned to the tepidarium for massage, oiling and scraping with strigils. But the bath slaves led him instead into a laconium sweat room. Here there was a massage bed. A masseur and a masseuse. A matching pair of Nubians, their skin as dark as Puella’s. But gleaming with a combination of oil and perspiration. They both wore loincloths and nothing else. They had prepared scented oils. Strigils warming in hot water. And Antony’s tonsor stood beside them. An older man, fully if lightly dressed. With his razors, his shears and still more scented oils.
Artemidorus elected to be shaved first. It was a slow, uncomfortable process, for the red beard was full and thick. But the tonsor was painstaking, gentle and extremely careful. At last, he smoothed lemon-scented oil onto Artemidorus’ cheeks, packed his razors and left. The spy sat for a moment wryly regretting that he had not sent for Brutus’ knife. It seemed to him that its blade was keener than the tonsor’s sharpest razor.
Then, with his chin feeling strangely naked, he lay down on the massage bed and let the man and the woman go to work on him. The man was muscular but his hands were soft. His fingers experienced and knowledgeable. The woman was a revelation. The soldier had never felt so pampered as he did when she used fingers that felt like strongest steel covered with softest silk. Under her ministrations, he began to come erect again. As she saw this, she asked, ‘Would the master like to enjoy me?’
Her hand went to her loin cloth.
‘No,’ said Artemidorus.
‘My brother, then? He is as experienced as I am.’
‘No. Thank you. Both.’
*
Promus was waiting in the apodyterium changing room. He held a light woollen robe. There was no sign of the spy’s clothes. But his belt, gladius and dagger were where he had left them. The Samnite’s armour and helmet stood in the corner. ‘The mistress has ordered that your clothes be cleaned and mended while you sleep. Are you happy to continue wearing the Samnite armour or shall we send to the Seventh for your centurion’s uniform when you get dressed tomorrow?’
‘I’ll know the answer to that when the general returns,’ answered Artemidorus, tying the robe’s sash. Stooping to retrieve his sword-belt and dagger. ‘I’ll know then whether he needs a soldier or a spy.’
‘Very well. But you must be tired. Please come with me. A cubiculum has been prepared.’
The bedroom was surprisingly large. Such as might be offered to an important guest. Or a particularly favoured one. It was on the upper floor overlooking the peristyle garden. On the eastern side facing west so that the morning sun would not disturb the sleeper. The window could be shuttered and curtained. Promus proceeded to do this, after affording Artemidorus a glance at the beautifully manicured lawns and beds of scented herbs and flowers. The fountain was in the shape of a faun. Standing on one goat-foot in the middle of a rectangular pond. Framed by the shadows of the marble-columned colonnade. The entire garden given a golden glow by the slowly setting sun. Whose rays were briefly reflected in a big bronze mirror on a stand in the corner by the door.
But so was a strange, unsettling darkness. The exhausted spy realised that the sun was setting behind a bank of black clouds. It looked like another storm was on the
way. It would soon be time to stop the water clocks and put them away until dawn, he thought. If there was anyone left to tend them. Then the closing of the shutters and the drawing of the curtains brought a restful darkness to the room. He put his weapons down carefully on the top of an ornate trunk standing knee-high at the foot of the bed.
A multi-flamed oil lamp on a bedside chest illuminated the paintings on the walls and ceiling which were of classical country scenes in the Greek manner. No doubt designed to give the bedroom’s occupant restful thoughts on sleeping and waking. However, Artemidorus’ imagination immediately peopled the verdant forests, shady groves, riverbanks, lakeshores and rolling hills with the orgiastic nymphs and satyrs from the tepidarium.
The bed looked extremely comfortable. Even the ascender beside it to help the sleeper step up into the thing was cushioned. The mattress thick and more than likely stuffed with down. Rather than the straw he was used to – on the rare occasions he slept in a bed. As opposed to a military cot. Or the ground. There were fat pillows. A pile of woollen blankets that promised warmth against the chill of the mid-Mars night. The counterpane was purple and covered with a pattern of gold thread. But, noted the spy regretfully, the bed looked big enough for two. Far too large for a man alone. Especially a man with a head full of rutting satyrs and infinitely willing nymphs. Perhaps he should have accepted the silken fingered masseuse’s offer after all. But it was too late now. And, if the truth be told, he was simply too exhausted.
Or so he thought as Promus left him to climb into a bed that felt as soft as a summer’s cloud. To discover that there were sheets of silk beneath the woollen blankets. And commit himself to sybaritic sleep. As he did so, the first downpour of rain rattled against the shutters. The first rumble of thunder snarled in the distance.
