by Peter Tonkin
‘The gods have given us a gift,’ said the orator, his voice unusually quiet. ‘This is not a Samnite gladiator. This is a centurion of the Seventh Legion. A spy working for Marc Antony himself!’
‘Is this true?’ gasped Brutus, clearly deeply shocked.
Artemidorus thanked the gods that the Libertore still did not recognise the man who had pretended to fix his roof. Tightened his grip on the dagger. ‘Yes, sir. That is true.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ Brutus demanded.
‘Doing what spies do!’ snapped Cassius. ‘He’s spying! On us!’
‘But you called him a gift from the gods, Marcus Tullius! What did you mean by that?’
‘Think, man! If you capture a spy, what do you do with him?’
‘Kill him!’ spat Cassius.
‘What a waste that would be, Gaius! No. If you catch a spy you turn him. Use him! What we have here is a line of communication that can go straight from us directly to Antony himself.’
‘But we can’t trust him! He’s a spy!’
‘We don’t need to trust him, Gaius. We just need to give him a good reason to do what we want him to do.’ Cicero turned to Artemidorus. Looked him straight in the eye. ‘Convince him that our aims and objectives are the same as his and Antony’s.’
‘And what are those?’ demanded Cassius. ‘What’s the common ground between Caesar’s friends and ours?’
‘To maintain the peace. To talk instead of fighting. To respect each other and each other’s position. Instead of tearing each other apart. Like wild animals in the Circus Maximus. Don’t forget the past. Just don’t act on it. What’s done is done. We need to move on. Together! If we get this right, the Republic will stand forever. And you, Marcus Junius, will be as famous as your ancestor who founded it four hundred years ago!’
‘Is that what Antony wants, spy?’ demanded Cassius, still not convinced. Spitting out the word spy as though it were something foul he was removing from his mouth. ‘Peace and an eternal Republic?’
‘Peace, yes,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I don’t know about the eternal Republic.’
‘We’ve already offered peace,’ said Cassius.
‘And yet you’re still up here surrounded by guards!’ observed Cicero. ‘You call this peace?’
‘I don’t trust Antony!’
‘And he doesn’t trust you! But what I’m saying is that the centurion here is a bridge on which we can build trust. The very fact that we have unmasked him and let him live proves that! Send him to Antony with an assurance that there will be no more daggers, and we will have taken the first step! Don’t you see?’
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ said Brutus. ‘We don’t want to be stuck up here for ever. This man can help us come down…’
Some time later, Cicero was leading Artemidorus down the hundred steps. ‘I don’t think I convinced Cassius,’ the orator was saying.
‘No, sir. But he’s willing to await events, I think.’
‘An acute observation. But then I suppose acute observation is the spy’s stock in trade.’
‘I suppose so, sir. I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Somehow I doubt that. But of course lying is also an important asset to a spy.’
‘Sometimes, sir. If you can make the lie convincing.’
‘But you will tell the truth to Antony. That the Libertores want peace. That there will be no more daggers.’
‘I will, sir. It is a message he wants to hear.’
‘I believe you,’ said Cicero, stepping down off the last step and into the roadway of the Vicus Jugarius.
That’s because it’s a message you want to hear, thought the spy stepping down beside him.
Their ways parted then. The orator went home to his books and his bed.
The spy went back to his masters, aware that the gods had smiled on him yet again today. His head full of much more information than the message he was carrying.
And the absolute certainty that whether Caesar’s murderers wanted peace or not. Whether the general agreed to their requests or not. Whether he listened to the wishes of the Senate or not. Whether he signed accords, ratified appointments, forgave past sins and misdemeanours or not. Marc Antony was planning to slaughter every last one of them. And Artemidorus himself was duty-bound to help him.
XIV
The real trouble started early next morning. Dies Veneris, the seventeenth day of Mars. Two days after the Ides. Liberalia.
Everyone in Antony’s household was up before dawn. That included guests, soldiers and spies. Especially spies. Antony summoned Artemidorus for another briefing before setting out for his Senate meeting. He wanted to have clear in his mind every detail of the message Artemidorus had brought last night. As well as his observations and his suspicions. Enobarbus was there too. As was Lepidus, who had risen early to join in the planning. Gaius Matius and Aulus Hirtus were not attending this meeting. They were getting ready to attend the Senate meeting. As friends and supporters of Antony and Caesar. Should they be needed.
As with most of the meals lately, jentaculum breakfast was taken in the tablinum while this briefing took place. And, as was again becoming the norm, everyone was fully armed. Artemidorus as a centurion, now that the Samnite costume was no longer any use as a disguise.
After they had gone through everything with Artemidorus once again, Antony and Enobarbus set out for the Temple of Tellus and the Senate meeting. Lepidus and Artemidorus were to go back to Tiber Island and bring back at least a centuria of legionaries. A hundred or so good men, fully armed. Enough to defuse any situation but not enough to frighten the Libertores. Antony wasn’t certain that he wanted a whole five-hundred-man cohort on the streets yet. Or the entire VIIth Legion – which currently stood at nearly five thousand. It depended, he said, on how things went with the Senate. And the people. But a centuria would be good insurance against almost anything short of revolution. And it would give them a unit of similar size to Albinus’ gladiators.
So Artemidorus set out with Caesar’s ex-magister equitum. Who now held formal authority from the consul to command the legion. Or any part of it he wanted. The morning was overcast. Keeping the chill of a cold night trapped on the streets. But at least people were up and about. That was to the good, thought Artemidorus. Lepidus and he quick-marched down towards the Forum, planning to take the Vicus Jugarius past the Tarpean Rock down to the Carmenta Gate through the Servian wall out onto the Campus Martius. Then across the Pons Fabricius onto Tiber Island.
But they were just entering the Forum itself when a strange sight met their eyes. A senator, in full formal senatorial toga was running along in front of the old basilica as though multi-headed hound of hell Cerberus himself was after him. Artemidorus recognised trouble when he saw it. ‘Lord Lepidus,’ he said. ‘Go for the legion as fast as you can. Get a centuria back here! The sooner the better.’
Lepidus broke into a sprint at once. As did Artemidorus. Running across the Forum, past surprised citizens, slaves and freedmen. Sprinting round proud patrician fathers showing off their sons in their new, adult togas. Before taking them home and heading for the Senate meeting. Hesitant to let even something like Caesar’s murder upset their traditions. Somewhere, also, Artemidorus suspected, some die-hards would be carrying out the Procession of the Argei. A ritual so old that its origins and purpose were lost in time. Though he doubted it would have happened yesterday – the first of the two-day festival.
In the meantime, he was heading for the fleeing senator. As he came closer to the man he recognised him. It was Lucius Cornelius Cinna. Who had made such a performance of ridding himself of badges and robes of office. Things that associated him with Caesar. And who had made a speech calling the dead dictator a tyrant. Calling his killers heroic Libertores. The mob that he was fleeing from came boiling through the building site where Priscus and the boy lay hidden in a flooded ditch. As dead as the dictator. The senator shouted in terror. No one in the Forum took much notice. Certainly no o
ne there had the slightest intention of helping him. Except for Artemidorus.
As he ran, Artemidorus was looking for somewhere the senator could hide. Preferably somewhere that could be barricaded. Defended until Lepidus came back with his centuria. Artemidorus’ own centuria stood at eighty men. But they were tough. Experienced. Iberian. Like the bodyguards Caesar had so publicly dispensed with. Eighty of them would be better than a couple of hundred lesser troops. A hail of missiles flew towards the fleeing man. Mostly sticks and stones. A few came near Artemidorus. But he could afford to disregard them. He was in full armour. Helmet, breastplate, backplate, greaves. Braccae trousers. Caligae hobnail boots. Gladius and pugio, though he had no intention of using them.
Then he was at Cinna’s shoulder. ‘Do you know where you’re heading for, senator? Somewhere you’ll be safe?’
‘Down here. My friend…’ he said a name but his words were lost in another rain of stones. He shouted out with terror once again. And in pain. There was a nasty gash on the back of his head. Several of the stones hit the centurion, but his armour kept him safe.
Then the senator was banging furiously on a door. It opened immediately. Before the doorkeeper could even speak, Cinna bundled in. Artemidorus followed him. Tore the door out of the keeper’s hands and slammed it. There was a bolt. He slid it home. ‘We may need to barricade it as well,’ he said. Calmly. In a conversational tone. ‘That was quite a large mob. They don’t look as though they’ll just go away.’
No sooner had he spoken than someone threw themselves bodily against the door. ‘Come out you traitor!’ someone bellowed. ‘We know you’re in there.’
The ostiarius vanished. Cinna was long gone. Deeper into the villa. Artemidorus glanced over his shoulder. The senator was talking to someone in the atrium. Someone who didn’t look too happy with the situation the senator had put him in.
‘Yes,’ chimed in another voice from the street outside. A woman’s. ‘Come out and tell us what a tyrant Caesar was. Tell us again how he’s better off dead and we ought to kiss the hands of his butchers!’
‘I have to warn you that the senator is under military protection,’ called Artemidorus. ‘There will be a patrol here soon if you don’t disperse.’
‘We don’t want to harm you, Centurion,’ said the first voice. ‘I was in the legion myself. Just send that treacherous little spurious out so we can discuss Caesar’s murder with him.’
‘Really soldier? What legion?’
‘The Sixth. Ferrata. The Ironclads. That was us.’
*
‘Well I warn you, soldier to soldier,’ called Artemidorus, ‘that you’re just about to meet some men from my legion, the Seventh. And they won’t be very happy…’
‘More Iberian lads. Just like us! When they see who’s here they’ll probably join in!’
‘I doubt that! My men would never waver.’ Even as he spoke, Artemidorus thought of Cicero’s observation. Spies must be good at lying. He could in fact think of a number of his men who would just love to join the mob when they heard it was out to get Caesar’s killers and their friends. If it came right down to it he could only be totally certain of Quintus, his old friend and weapons expert.
Conversation stopped then as the door was subjected to another battering. The doorkeeper returned with a couple of helpers carrying an iron-bound wooden trunk. They pushed it against the door. ‘You’ll need more than that,’ said Artemidorus. Under the onslaught, the door was beginning to yield. The three men ran off.
But then the battering stopped. Artemidorus found the sudden quiet worrying. Especially when he heard the softer sounds of things being stacked against the portal outside. He understood at once what was going on. The mob was piling kindling against the front of the house. The doorkeeper and his friends returned with another wooden trunk to stand upon the first. ‘Get water,’ ordered Artemidorus. ‘They’re going to burn us out.’
The two men in the atrium were having a shouting match now. Artemidorus reckoned that if the house-owner had ever really been a friend of Cinna’s, the relationship was coming to an immediate and acrimonious end. There had already been a host of relationships pushed past breaking point by Caesar’s murder. And there would be many more before things were settled.
Suddenly his head turned. He came out of his brief reverie. He smelt smoke. ‘Hurry up with that water,’ he shouted.
The long-suffering doorkeeper and his helpers came back carrying brimming bowls. But before they could throw the water over the door the sounds outside changed.
‘Look out!’ someone shouted. ‘Here come the soldiers!’
There was a confusion of shouting and scuffling. The sounds of feet running away. The sounds of caligae approaching. Hobnails marching across cobbles. Of kindling being kicked aside. Then a fist hammered on the door. ‘Are you all right in there?’ shouted Lepidus.
‘Fine,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘You got here just in time. You three, clear the doorway. Senator Cinna, the mob has gone. It’s safe to come out now.’
They exited the house and Artemidorus could see at once why Ironclad’s mob had gone. There was a centuria of full-armed legionaries behind Lepidus. His own centuria, in fact. With Oppius, his replacement centurion standing grim-faced. And Quintus in the front rank. Though in battle he would be in the third. Quintus, in the most up-to-date, expensive armour money could buy. Looking like a man of iron himself.
A short time later, Cinna was out and walking across the Forum. Head high. Face fixed in a disdainful frown. Lepidus at one shoulder. Artemidorus at the other. Eighty stout legionaries, fully armed, at his back.
Enobarbus was waiting at the Temple of Tellus. The temple was old. Of a traditional design, modelled on the Greek. Built over the remains of a house once owned by a man, like Caesar, who wanted to be king. Executed for that very crime nearly four hundred years ago. As Tellus was the Earth Mother, it was fitting that a statue of Ceres, goddess of crops and fertility, stood outside it. Marcus Tullius Cicero had more recently added a statue of his brother Quintus. The Cicero family home was nearby. Though Marcus Tullius himself lived on the other side of town.
Steps led up to a columned portico. The main building behind stood square and spacious. Tall doors opening onto the sacred space large enough to accommodate several hundred senators. On banks of temporary seating ordered by Antony and erected during the night. Antony, as consul, was in charge of procedure. He would be sitting on a dais at the front. Just as Caesar had sat in Pompey’s curia a little less than two days ago. ‘The consul is expecting you, Lord Lepidus,’ said Enobarbus. ‘Go straight in. It doesn’t matter that you are armed and haven’t got your formal toga. These are apparently unusual times.’
Lepidus gave a bark of cynical laughter. Nodded and entered. Cinna strutted at his side. Yet to thank either of the soldiers for saving him from the rioters. Artemidorus got a glance at the tiers of benches. The dais. Antony seated apparently at his ease. Dolabella on his feet beside him. Ranting about something. The door closed. ‘We’re to guard the building,’ said Enobarbus. ‘There may be some unrest.’
‘There already has been. Cinna was lucky he wasn’t torn limb from limb. Or roasted alive.’
‘Some of the citizens are turning against the murderers,’ observed Enobarbus. ‘But the Senate seems largely on their side. For the moment at least. None of the ringleaders has appeared. In spite of what Brutus and Cicero said in their message. I suppose they are all still up in the Temple of Jupiter. Waiting to see which way the wind will blow.’
‘That’s probably just as well,’ said Artemidorus. ‘If the citizens go after hangers-on like Cinna, what will they do to Brutus and Cassius?’
The first citizens arrived just after the guards had been set. The grounds of the temple were ample. Soon the crowd gathering there grew large enough – and restless enough – to cause Enobarbus some alarm. Then they started calling for Antony. The tribune went into the temple and asked the consul to come and talk to them. As he opened t
he door, Artemidorus heard the ill-tempered squabbling that had begun to characterise the Senate meeting.
A moment later, Antony and Lepidus both came out. Lepidus was in his armour. Antony was in his senatorial toga with his consular trappings. Enobarbus fell in at Antony’s shoulder. Artemidorus at Lepidus’. As they reached the top of the steps, a range of voices, mostly male, started asking questions. Seeking reassurance. Wondering what was happening. What was going to happen. It was impossible to answer everyone at once, so Antony held up his hand demanding quiet. After a few moments, the crowd settled down. Antony drew breath to speak. But, before he could utter a word, someone bellowed, ‘How do you know they won’t kill you too?’
Artemidorus recognised the voice. It belonged to the old soldier from the Ironclads. The one who had led the mob chasing Cinna.
By way of answer, Antony simply pulled down the toga from his neck. To reveal his breastplate underneath.
*
A wave of amusement swept through the crowd. The atmosphere lightened. ‘Citizens,’ Antony shouted.
But once again, his voice was lost as members of the crowd started to demand that Caesar’s murderers be brought to justice.
Antony held up his hand. Silence came more quickly this time.
‘Friends,’ called Antony. ‘That is what we are debating at this very moment. Whether it was Caesar or his killers who served Rome best. Our aim is to come to an agreement that will bring peace. First to our city streets. Then to our provinces at home and abroad. But naturally it will take a little time to test these agreements and guarantees. Every man in the chamber behind me once swore an oath to Caesar. Some of the men here – and others elsewhere – broke that oath. So can their word be trusted now? It is a hard matter. And we must finish our debate. Let us do so, friends. Then we will tell you what has been decided. But remember. I too swore an oath to Caesar. Both as consul and as friend. To protect him or avenge him. If I break that oath now it is only because I owe a greater loyalty. To you, to our city and to our empire!’
