by Peter Tonkin
The largest rioter strode forward. A monster of a man carrying a bloodied club in one hand and a flaming torch in the other. He leaned down closer. Lowered his torch. And spoke more clearly. In a deep plebeian voice. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I know you. I know who you are.’ He straightened. Looked back at his cohorts with something like triumph. ‘He’s with them.’ He shouted. ‘He’s with the treacherous scum who murdered Caesar!’
But before any of the mob could react, two new characters arrived on the stage. One dressed in the armour of a centurion of the VIIth. The other in that of a tribune. Only two of them. But carrying enough authority to stop the mob in its tracks. The ex-legionaries amongst it came to attention automatically. The rest, sensing their respect, also fell silent.
‘No!’ said the centurion, his voice ringing with command. ‘He’s with us.’
‘He is if you can take him,’ sneered the leader. Straightening. Striding forward to confront the centurion, chin to chin. ‘You might be soldiers, but there’s only two of you. And there’s twenty of us. You might have your pretty swords but we’ve got knives and clubs and…’
His threats stopped suddenly. For the centurion had drawn his dagger so swiftly that the gesture seemed too quick for human eyes to follow. His left hand simply flashed down to his hip and struck back upwards like a snake. The blade gleamed for an instant in the torchlight and then was gone. As he drove it straight into his opponent’s throat. The sharp steel went through the pit of the man’s gullet. It punctured the tubes of the throat, stabbed the root of his tongue and separated the bones of the neck immediately behind. Without even touching the massive blood vessels on either side. Slicing the spinal cord as it went. For the briefest instant as the hilt rested against the skin below his voice box, a finger’s length of the point stood out above the collar of his tunic at the back of his neck.
The centurion slid the dagger free and sheathed it. All as part of that one swift, flowing movement. Stepped smartly back. Stood shoulder to shoulder with the tribune. Protecting their seated quarry. The corpse stood still for an instant longer. His death had come upon him so swiftly and absolutely that his body had no time to react. His lungs emptied as his rib-cage collapsed. A soft, flute-like note sounded briefly as the expelled air went out through the hole in his windpipe as well as through his gaping mouth. Then the torch tumbled from the numb fingers at the end of his falling arm. Skittered away across the ground, making those nearest dance back. His club dropped. His knees gave. He toppled backwards, smacking his head on the cobbles. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet, above the restless roaring of the flambeaus. His eyes continued to move for a moment. Met those of the man in the toga seated beside him. Then they froze. Wide. Shocked. Dead. As with Gaius Amiatus, there was no blood. Hardly any wound. Just a black slit as wide as a thumb, as narrow as a thumbnail, on the front of his throat. And another, invisible now, on the back of his neck. But he might as well have been beheaded. And the execution had been completed in half a dozen heartbeats. To the man sitting on the ground, it was all still a part of the strange play going on around him.
‘He’s with us,’ repeated Septem the centurion. His tone like iron. His eyes like steel. ‘Does anyone else wish to discuss the matter?’
As the mob backed away then turned and ran, the soldiers stooped and lifted their quarry to his feet. The moment they did so, his ears began to clear. As did his eyes. Reality jumped back into place like the slamming of a door. ‘I know you!’ he said. It apparently did not occur to him that he should thank them for saving his life. ‘I know you both. You work for Mark Antony.’
‘We work for General Antony, yes,’ said Septem. ‘And he wants to see you.’
‘There’s a couple of legal points he wishes to discuss. So he sent us to invite you to visit him, Senator Cicero,’ added the tribune.
iii
Marcus Tullius Cicero leaned forward. Flickering lamplight gleamed on his high, balding brow and the scalp beneath his thinning hair. Sparked in his deep-set eyes. As his hooded gaze flicked from face to face across the room. He was approaching his sixty-fourth year and had supposed he had only retirement and academic study to look forward to. But Caesar’s death changed all that. It thrust him back into the deadly arena of Roman politics. To fight or die like a gladiator.
Secret Agent and Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus had never seen him look so nervous. Even sitting on the cobbles in the minor forum surrounded by the mob, he had simply looked confused. The spy glanced across to his superior, the Tribune Domitus Enobarbus. They exchanged cold gazes. Then returned their icy glares towards the nervous jurist.
Cicero had many reasons to be apprehensive.
First, there was the fact that the two soldiers, who had escorted him here after rescuing him from the mob, were still in full armour. In spite of his evident distress they had half-carried him home. Organised his litter so swiftly he had no time to change his battered clothing. Grudgingly allowed him to summon his secretary, Tiro. And escorted them both here, Cicero in the litter and Tiro running beside it. Their swords still sat now on their right hips. Daggers on their left. Helmets on the floor beside their caligae boots. And his host, General and Co-consul Mark Antony and his brothers Gaius and Lucius were equally warlike in their attire. They looked as though they had just left a battle. Or were just about to start one.
Cicero’s anxious gaze returned to the centurion’s almost magical dagger. Which brought the vision of the dead rioter with that tiny, bloodless cut on his throat to linger distractingly in the famous jurist’s memory. The flute-like note as he breathed his last. There were rumours that the murderous centurion himself had simply thrown his beautiful young lover to the mob. In spite of the vital information she had discovered while undercover in Cassius’ household, working as one of the team tasked with preventing Caesar’s murder. But the centurion discovered she had betrayed him to the conspirators Gaius Trebonius and Minucius Basilus. Blamed her, in the final analysis, for the failure of his mission to keep Caesar safe. It was said he had acted coldly and without a second thought. And for all Cicero knew, the mob had torn her limb from limb with their bare hands. As they had ripped apart the innocent Tribune Plebis and poet Helvius Cinna, mistaking him for the guilty Cornelius Cinna a hanger-on of the conspirators. As the wild Thracian women tore Orpheus to pieces.
Secondly, there was the panel of interrogators the two soldiers had brought him to face. Who they were as much as what they wore. Co-consul and General Mark Antony. His wife, the icy Lady Fulvia, at his side. Antony’s fully armed brothers Gaius and Lucius scowling at their shoulders and the consuls-elect Aulus Hirtius and Gaius Vibius Pansa at theirs. The latter pair in togas so white that they emphasised the sorry state of Cicero’s. In spite of the fact that Hirtius was a life-long friend, all of their expressions were set alike. As though they were modelling for a bust of Nemesis. Deity of implacable Justice. And inescapable Revenge.
Only Co-consul Publius Cornelius Dolabella and Master of the Horse Marcus Aemilius Lepidus were missing from this roll-call of the men currently ruling Rome. Dolabella was out, apparently making sure that every aedile magistrate in the city had mounted vigile watch patrols. Lepidus had no real legal authority or constitutional power, the battered legislator knew. For he was merely deputy to a dead dictator. His power and position terminated with Caesar’s last heartbeat. But he was also on the streets. Or in the Forum Romanum, at least. With the Seventh Legion. Nominally searching for the ringleaders of the riots that erupted after Caesar’s funeral and continued nightly since. Like Gaius Amiatus, General Marius’ grandson. Like the leader of the mob who had nearly killed him earlier. Though Cicero himself was privately certain that the people truly responsible for at least sparking the murderous anarchy sweeping through the city were sitting in this room. Watching him sweat.
Thirdly, most importantly, there was the deadly dangerous subject of the legal discussion he had been brought here to join. For they were clearly trying to circumvent the express wil
l of the Senate and People of Rome. To twist Cicero’s legal knowledge to their own devices.
Most of the men whose crimes were under discussion had escaped from Rome and the wrath of the mob by the skin of their teeth in the early watches of the nights soon after the murder. Including Gaius Cassius and his brother-in-law Marcus Brutus. Who had been forced to barricade their villas and fight off outraged crowds attempting to burn them out. As they had burned the Curia in Pompey’s Theatre where the Libertores had slaughtered Caesar. The majority of them were fleeing east, via their country villas and estates. Only one or two hardy, well-protected souls like Decimus Albinus lingered.
iv
It had been Decimus Albinus, in fact, who Cicero was visiting earlier. Decimus, still protected by the centuria of one hundred gladiators he had arranged to give a display in Pompey’s Theatre on the Ides of Mars itself. Apparently to guarantee that his good friend and mentor Julius Caesar was protected as he attended the Senate meeting that promised to declare him king. Actually to ensure the safety of the murderers as they ran red-handed from the deed; most of them waving their bloody daggers in the air. Decimus, to whom Caesar had promised command of the northernmost parts of Italy for the next year. Gallia Cisalpinus Cisalpine Gaul: the land between the Alps and the River Po, the Apennine Mountains and the Rubicon. The most potent power base in Italy. Who had wanted so urgently to discuss with Cicero whether Antony had the legal powers to cancel, change or delay his appointment. Or, worse, to take command of Cisalpine Gaul himself.
‘There is really nothing left to discuss,’ said Cicero. He sensed rather than saw Tiro get ready to record his judgement in the shorthand the secretary had invented for the very purpose. Which was the shorthand now used by the slaves who kept the public records of Senate meetings. But Cicero knew that what he was about to say would never be promulgated. Or even repeated. Not in the records of his speeches, of his letters or of his philosophical treatises. Should he survive to see them published.
‘The Senate has ruled. And that is that. Even if you have now discovered witnesses willing to describe the terrible act in detail. It should make no difference under the law. Brutus, Cassius and the men who executed Caesar did so in the belief that he was seeking absolute power. Tyranny. Kingship. Killing a tyrant is not a criminal act. It is a highly patriotic one. Like executing anyone the Senate has declared hostis outlaw. And as leader of the group, Marcus Junius Brutus has attested to being motivated by the actions of his ancestor who drove the last tyrant and king, Tarquin the Proud, out of the city four hundred years ago.’
‘But the Senate has also ruled that Caesar was not a tyrant,’ Antony reminded Cicero, eyes narrow. Probing. Testing. Twisting…
‘They did that simply because if he was declared a tyrant then all of his actions, plans and appointments would have been cancelled,’ insisted Cicero. Meeting Antony’s cold stare. ‘There would have been utter chaos. Not only in Rome but across the empire. Hundreds of senators forced to seek re-election. City officials high and low seeking reappointment. Legions no longer disbanded. Some needing to be re-formed. Both looking for officers to reassemble them. Pay to be handed back to the legions’ quaestors paymasters. Farms to be relinquished. Returned to their original owners. Entire towns to be vacated. Towns completely peopled by retired legionaries such as Valentia in Hispania. Governors returning for reassignment. Every local government officer in the empire reapplying for his post. Whole regions left without governance as they did so. Revolution. Invasion, even. The Gauls and the Germans always straining at the leash in the north. Sextus Pompey and his pirates at Sicily in the south. The Getae in the east. Anarchy in any case…’
The new calendar disbanded, thought Artemidorus. The eight-day week reinstated. All the work Caesar had done with Cleopatra’s Egyptian mathematician Sosigenes of Alexandria would be undone. Time itself would be broken…
A brief silence settled. Rain pattered softly into the pool of the impluvium at the centre or the atrium behind them. The Mars breeze stirred icily, though it was nearing the end of the month. The lamp flames flickered. Almost all of the seven men facing Cicero across the old-fashioned Tuscan style atrium had legal training as well as military. Many of them had been praetors judges as well as soldiers and senators. And Fulvia was one of the best-educated women in the empire. They all knew as well as Cicero that legally and practically undoing Caesar’s plans would simply tear Rome and the states she governed apart.
‘Mayhem…’ Agreed Antony, breaking the silence. Picking up on Cicero’s short speech without a beat. ‘And that is why I have taken possession of Caesar’s notes and plans as well as his will and other papers. In due legal process.’ He paused, locking gazes with Cicero. As though daring him to disagree with the legality of his actions. ‘Because the Senate, wisely, ruled that Caesar was never a tyrant. Thus preserving his actions in the past. But also meaning that now his plans and dispositions for the future need to be confirmed. Enacted. And only I, as named executor, with these powers and documents, will be able to hold everything together in the immediate future. And put his wishes into action as he would have wanted. Only me.’
Because you have Caesar’s plans, General, thought Artemidorus, and are the one man telling the rest of us exactly what they were. And you have the keys to the city’s financial resources in the Temple of Ops. But is even that treasure going to be enough? Neither he nor Tribune Enobarbus shared Antony’s airy confidence in this matter.
Cicero grew paler. But the purple stripes of the tunic he wore beneath his toga grew darker. Damper. ‘That is true, Lord Antony. But it does not alter the facts which you know as well as I do. The Senate may have declared that Caesar was not a tyrant. Not only making you his executor but also making Brutus and the rest all guilty of conspiracy, treason and murder – murder at the very least.’ He closed his eyes. Took a shuddering breath. ‘But only at first glance.’ Cicero’s eyes opened. Narrowed. Moved from Antony to Fulvia as he added to his explanations. ‘For they would be guilty of all these things had the Senate not pardoned them. In a unanimous vote. Just as complete as the vote that exonerated Caesar. So they cannot be guilty of any of the crimes we have discussed. By order of the Senate and People of Rome.’
v
‘Just so,’ nodded Antony. He paused for a heartbeat. Seemingly happy that the legal position had been established. But then his gaze switched to his secret agent. And he introduced into the discussion the one further question that Septem had suggested he should ask. The real reason for bringing Cicero here. To examine the one point of law that might undo all the defence strategies he had just laid out. In the case of one conspirator at least: the leader. ‘What were Caesar’s last words, Septem?’ snapped Antony. ‘And to whom were they spoken? According to the witnesses you have found and questioned?’ His gaze flashed over to Tiro, making sure the discussion was still being recorded.
‘They were spoken to Marcus Junius Brutus,’ said Artemidorus, who had heard Brutus himself telling Cassius as they fled from the scene of their crime, calling for Cicero and his advice. And the secret agent had been looking for witnesses who had also overheard the fatal words ever since. Witnesses willing to come forward. Who were part of neither faction. For none of Brutus’ friends would stand up before the Senate and accuse him. And none of Antony’s men – such as Artemidorus himself – would be believed if they did so. Even if a large section of the Senate suspected they spoke the truth. But Artemidorus had found a witness at last. A beautiful boy called Adonis.
The witness of whom Cicero had heard only the vaguest whispers.
Speaking now on his cue, Artemidorus was springing a trap which, they hoped, would catch the leader of the conspirators. And open a road down which they might, with luck and cunning, hunt the others. ‘Caesar said, in Greek, to Brutus, “Kai su teknon? Even you my son?”’
‘But what did he mean?’ mused Cicero. Masking the shock in his eyes behind lowered lids. Not surprised, but deeply disturbed by this. Thinking again o
f Nemesis and the impossibility of escaping the grinding wheels of her justice. Or the terrible Friendly Ones who helped her. The Furies who were so powerful no one dared name them outright. For fear of summoning them. ‘Like so many important cases this would turn on the meaning of a single word,’ he prevaricated. ‘That slippery Greek word teknon. Child. Now how are we to interpret that?’
‘He said it to Brutus at the very moment that he died.’ Antony’s voice rang with certainty. ‘“You too my child?” Now, you, Marcus Tullius, and the murderers involved, might insist that “teknon” was merely a term of affection. Which might translate into Latin as, “You too, puer my boy?”, “You too, juvencus youngster?”, “You too, catulaster, lad?” Expressing simple surprise that someone so young and close in friendship could be involved in so terrible a deed.’ He gave a bark of derisive laughter and leaned forward belligerently. ‘Not a public declaration, you would no doubt argue, made with his dying breath. A pronouncement carrying, therefore, great legal weight – as you above all should appreciate. A deathbed confession, so to speak, from someone staring into the face of Charon the Ferryman to the underworld. An announcement that the last of his murderers was in fact his own son. Not to be translated as “You too, filius, my son?” Not “You too, prognatus my offspring?” Not a statement of paternity! Not a declaration of fatherhood. That old question. Which has lain between Caesar, Brutus and Servilia Caepionis, Brutus’ mother, all these years…’
