by Peter Tonkin
‘No. Spurinna’s slave Kyros has been working with Hercules keeping watch on the general. He delivered the message and went straight back. If we hurry we may catch up with him…’
xii
But they came across Adonis first, as the Senate secretary and secret agent came hurrying across the Forum. ‘The Senate have just finished debating…’ he gasped. ‘Caesar Octavius has tried to get Flaminius, one of his men, elected to the post of Tribune of Plebs. Cicero was all for it. But Antony just said it was a trick to allow Caesar himself access to the post. And Cicero’s support is just another ruse to keep him from ruling on the point of law he wants clarified. And Caesar’s only nineteen years old, though it’s his birthday today, they say. Even so, nineteen is far too young for such an important post. Antony insists Caesar Octavius has had no experience and isn’t even qualified to go on the Cursus Honorum, let alone move up it so fast! Besides, he’s a patrician and Divus Filius the son of a god. Hardly perfect qualifications for a Tribune of Plebs…’
‘That will stir up a whole lot of trouble,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Antony at daggers drawn with both Cicero and Caesar at once. Go back to Quintus’ villa and get a detailed report ready for the tribune. He wasn’t at the Senate meeting, was he?’
‘No. I heard the consul say he’d sent him to a meeting of the senior Praetorians…’
But by the time they got to Antony’s villa, the tribune had returned. With a delegation consisting of all the other tribunes in the Praetorian Cohorts. Artemidorus led Quintus through into the crowded atrium, leaving Hercules and Ferrata guarding the door. The soldiers stood to attention, rank upon rank of them. It was just possible to see beyond them. To where Antony was seated on the great paterfamilias’ chair in the tablinum. Raised on a low dais and facing them.
‘This looks nasty,’ he said to Enobarbus as they fell in beside him. He nodded silently, his expression bleak.
‘General, this can’t go on…’ the spokesman for the tribunes was saying. Even from the back, Artemidorus recognised the tribune called Licinius. ‘You must make peace with Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filius. You should not be fighting between yourselves. You should be standing side by side and avenging Divus Julius together. All the men think so. If you do not stand together then you will find that no one will follow either of you! No matter how great your reputation. Or how deep your purse!’
There was a growl of general agreement.
Antony sat silent for a moment. The he rose to the occasion. Literally as well as figuratively. As only Antony could do. He slowly stood up. On the dais, his Herculean frame towered intimidatingly above them. His gaze swept over them, meeting every pair of eyes. Cataloguing every face present. His thunderous frown of anger moderated to one of hurt and confusion. ‘Friends,’ he said. ‘Licinius. I hear you. I understand your concerns. Indeed, I share them. Young Oct… Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus and I are not enemies. The rift between us has been put there by the manipulation of Cicero and his like-minded followers. Apologists for Divus Julius’ murderers. Who dare not see the two heirs to his name and power combine against them. Young Caesar and I are like twins in our plans and ambitions. Identical in every point. Like Castor and Pollux; Romulus and Remus…’
‘That’s pushing it a bit,’ breathed Artemidorus. ‘Though at least Castor didn’t kill Pollux like Romulus murdered Remus.’
‘Could be the gods speaking through him,’ whispered Quintus. ‘He’s an augur after all.’
‘Maybe Caesar and he are destined to be like Romulus and Remus in the end…’ added Enobarbus, his words just one step above silence.
But Antony was continuing, in typical vein. ‘Tell me what you want, friends. How can I demonstrate my willingness to live at peace with young Caesar? Would you have me do what Brutus, Cassius and I did on the day after Divus Julius died? Shake hands in the Forum to affirm our friendship in front of the whole of Rome?’
‘Yes,’ came the answer from almost every man there. ‘Yes!’
But then their spokesman Licinius added, ‘But not in the Forum. In the Aedes Iovis Optimi Maximi Capitolini Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus at the top of the Capitoline Hill.’
*
‘If that nothus bastard with the sôlênarion bow is still after you, then he won’t get a better chance than this,’ said Ferrata as he and Artemidorus completed their swift security sweep of the Temple of Jupiter and its grounds. The weather had moderated and the afternoon was sunny, clear and hot for the season. The temple and its grounds full of dazzling surfaces. And impenetrable shadows.
‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘It’s the general.’
‘Given those vicious bolts it fires, he could probably get you both with one shot if he placed himself correctly…’
‘Thanks for the thought. But I’d say we’re relatively safe. Yes there are hundreds of places he could hide. Most of them giving an excellent field of fire across this square. But the Temple and the precinct are full of priests and acolytes. Who tend to frown on any weapons that aren’t part of the displays inside. And anyway, he hasn’t got enough time to set himself up. Unless that mouthy Tribune Licinius who suggested this is hand in glove with him, the fact that Antony and Caesar Octavius will be here within the turn of a water clock will have surprised him as much as it surprised the rest of us.’
‘That’s good,’ said Ferrata. ‘You keep looking on the bright side. And if the great god Jupiter isn’t watching your back, I expect your hero Achilles is!’
‘If they are, then now’s the time for them to focus,’ said the spy. ‘Here comes Antony. Surrounded by his Praetorians.’
‘Just more excellent targets, if you ask me. And the general’s the biggest one of all, as usual. But only because Licinius’ mouth is closed for once.’
Antony came running up the one hundred steps that rose from the Vicus Jugarius below. His Praetorians streamed behind him, Licinius officiously in the lead. Artemidorus and Ferrata watched them approach. But as the general bounded up onto the marble flagstones of the temple precinct, Caesar Octavius led a crowd of senators and citizens out of the top of the Vicus Capitolinus on the other side.
‘We’d better pray this all goes to plan,’ said Ferrata cheerfully. ‘Or there’ll be more than one of us going off the edge of that.’ He nodded over to the south-west corner of the precinct where the Tarpean Rock stood, overhanging the dizzying drop to the ground more than one hundred steps below.
A figure in a white toga over a purple-striped tunic took command of the steps leading up to the temple and began to speak. ‘Senators, citizens and soldiers. We are here at the army’s request to see a seal of friendship sworn between Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filius and Consul of Rome General Mark Antony…’
‘Oh by the gods,’ said Ferrata. ‘Cicero’s going to give a speech. I may just leap off the Tarpean Rock myself!’
‘…a sign that peace and accord have returned to our city and empire. That from this time forward we may all sleep soundly in our beds, assured of tranquillity and, above all, safety!’
IX
i
The sicarius known as Myrtillus eased himself invisibly past the sleepy Praetorian who was supposed to be guarding the end of the narrow vicus beside Antony’s villa. As he had done past a series of Praetorian guards and patrols already tonight. He was able to do this because he was dressed from head to foot in black. Everything from his hood to his boots was as dark as the River Styx. And, although the moon was bright and the stars hanging low in a cloudless autumn sky, the assassin could hardly be distinguished from the shadows through which he was creeping. He had visited the villa in secret many times since the meeting with his employer’s mysterious go-between. He had even watched some of the security systems being put in place. Amused to find a challenge worthy of his talents. Knowing that when he pulled this off, his reputation would not merely be restored. It would be immeasurably enhanced.
Myrtillus knew the doors
and windows were closed to him and that there was no way over the roof into the peristyle. He also knew precisely how many steps it took to get from the corner of the house to the section of bricks he had loosened in preparation for this moment. Whose removal would – just – allow him access to the hypocast heating system. And hence to the interior of the villa. Where there were no Praetorians. Or guards of any kind. Kneeling in the darkness now, he reached up and tightened the black cloth that covered his nose and mouth. Which left only a narrow band for his eyes between its upper edge and the low cowl of the hood. Then he reached down and, with hands bound, like a cestus, with black leather bands, he began to ease the bricks out of the wall and lay them carefully – silently – on the black cobbles of the little pathway.
His plan was simple. He would follow the air duct under the floor to the kitchen. He would ease out into the room through the foculus, cooking fire. Then he would go to work. Work that would end the existence in this world of everyone he could find in the villa. Starting with Antony himself. But including Fulvia and the children. Sheathed on his black belt and secured to his forearms and thighs – even tucked into his boots – were knives of various sizes and designs. From neat little Babylonian daggers to Iberian blades that were almost swords. Collected from all over the known world. All of them almost incredibly sharp. Each of them supremely suited to its single task – of ending lives swiftly and silently.
But the assassin was not relying on his armoury alone. He had managed to bribe two people. One of Antony’s Praetorians and one of his slaves. He carried clearly in his memory, therefore, minutiae of the soldiers’ guard dispositions and a map of the entire villa. With details of who slept in what room. There would also be a dark lantern waiting for him in the culina – in a prearranged spot he could find in the utter blackness. And anything that might trip him or fall and make a noise between the fireplace to the lantern had been carefully cleared away. The only risk as far as he could see was during those few dangerous moments it would take to light the lamp before he could close its shutter.
Within a few heartbeats all the bricks were safely moved – ready to be replaced when he escaped. So no one would suspect how he got in and out. To make the whole thing seem like the work of the gods. Or of the Friendly Ones. Smiling at the thought, he leaned forward, and with the slow, deliberate movements of a stilio chameleon, he eased himself into the hole in the wall. The darkness was absolute. The sensation of being crushed by the weight of the layers of concrete and tile above him almost overwhelming. But he had practised this. Rehearsed it in the ruins of a villa on the far side of the city. He controlled his fear and moved slowly onwards. Everything around him – above him and below – was warm. But not hot. It all reeked of smoke. But not strongly enough to make breathing difficult – even through the black mask. He closed his eyes – which were useless in any case – and concentrated on the plan of the house he carried in his memory. And imagined himself moving relentlessly across it. Towards the culina and liberty. And the start of his murderous task.
It took him longer than he had thought it would. But then, maybe his sense of time passing had been blunted by the situation. Still, he made it. Alerted to his approach to the kitchen by the upward slope of the tiles beneath him. Guided to the actual opening by the way the columns closed in on either side. Alerted to his arrival at the culina itself by the sudden cleanness of the air and the redolence of roasted meat.
Myrtillus snaked out through the flue into the camina kitchen fireplace. Reached up to feel the spit that normally carried sheep, boars, cows and the occasional ox. Pushed it back silently on its well-greased hinge. Came a little stiffly to his feet and paused, orientating himself. Then he moved silently along the cleared path five steps to the table where the dark lantern stood. With flint, steel and kindling wool beside it. Three strikes and the kindling caught. The dazzling light revealing the lamp. Open and ready. He touched the flame to the wick and it caught at once. A couple of heartbeats later he had extinguished the wool and was closing the shutter. Only the slimmest finger of light shone out in front of him.
Myrtillus paused, checking the weaponry strapped to his body. Making sure that every blade, no matter what its length breadth or curvature, was easily available. Then he picked up the lantern and was in action. The rooms on the ground floor were all public spaces, until they ran into the slaves’ quarters at the back. Myrtillus kept clear of those – the chance of causing an alarm while slitting the throat of some nonentity it wasn’t even a crime to kill was just too high. Instead he crept to the staircase and silently mounted to the second floor where the family’s bedrooms were. Following the finger’s width of light he crept along the ectheta balcony with the drop onto the atrium on one side and the doors into the sleeping quarters on the other. He was following the map drawn in his memory step by step. And so he knew exactly which door led to Antony’s chamber.
Silently, he lifted the latch that opened the door. With his shoulder he eased it wider. In his left hand, the dark lantern gave its shard of brightness for him to follow towards the sleeping man even as his right hand felt beneath his night-black cloak for his favourite sica knife. The splinter of light showed the centre of the room as he swept it swiftly from side to side. The bulk of the bed with a table close by. The chests and stands containing the general’s armour and the consul’s robes. The hillock of the sleeping man in the high, wide expanse of the bed.
As the light fell on his face, Antony groaned and stirred. Snored and slipped back into deep sleep, sprawling on his back. His throat was a perfect target. Myrtillus slipped the razor-sharp curve of the sica out of its sheath. Placed the lantern on the table so that its modicum of light fell across the face and throat of the sleeping man. Took one ecstatic, victorious breath and raised his hand to strike.
When one of the nearby shadows stepped forward and clubbed him on the head. A blaze of brightness dazzled behind his eyes. Then a pit of blackness as deep as Hades opened before him and he tumbled into it.
ii
Myrtillus woke up to find himself tied tightly to a chair. He was naked. His clothing and weaponry was all piled on a table on his right. His head hurt abominably and the brightness of the lamplight surrounding him didn’t help at all. ‘You have to thank a woman called Puella for this particular approach,’ a friendly voice assured him. ‘Though I think she got a bit ahead of herself when she suggested we start by nailing your testes to the table. Perhaps later. What do you think?’
Myrtillus was gathering himself to answer when he realised the question was not addressed to him. ‘I think this is an assortment of blades that I’m going to add to my own collection,’ said another voice.
‘In the meantime,’ struck in a third. The familiar voice of Antony himself. ‘It doesn’t matter what we do to this nothus bastard as long as he answers our questions. He’s going off the Tarpean Rock in any case if he lasts that long.’
‘But I suppose we can make it easier for him if he tells us what we want to know,’ suggested the first voice. ‘If not, I think we should start with the cestus knuckledusters and take it from there…’
The succeeding hours became more and more uncomfortable for the sicarius. The men he recognised as the Centurion Artemidorus – the first of his targets – and Quintus, triarius of the recently disbanded VIIth, and Antony himself. Then they were joined by Fulvia – who was the most terrifying carnifex interrogator of them all. Then by the Tribune Enobarbus.
Myrtillus fed them the names of the Praetorian he had bribed to reveal the guard rosters. Then of the household slave who helped him with the map, the clear pathway and the dark lantern. He remained unmoved as first the soldier and then the slave were beaten to death in front of him – in vivid demonstration of what he could expect himself. But he held out against their relentless quest for the name of his employer. His only real regret – beyond the fact that he had got himself caught – being that he had failed to kill his chief interrogator. Not once but twice.
; Until, at last, as he lay spreadeagled on the table, with the point of an iron nail resting icily on his scrotum and the hammer poised to drive it home, his resistance finally collapsed.
‘Caesar!’ he shouted brokenly. The syllables choking out of the blood-thickened phlegm in his throat; lisping through the ruin of his shredded lips and broken teeth. ‘It was Caesar! He disguised himself and pretended he was speaking on someone else’s behalf. But I recognised his voice. That of a boy…’
‘Caesar!’ snarled Antony. ‘Just as I thought! That nasty little nothus spurious bastard. All that goodwill up in the Temple of Jupiter was just a fictus sham! Chuck this excrementus off the Tarpean Rock and let’s get on with the war!’
The consul and general stormed out of the room, followed by his wife. ‘Well,’ said Artemidorus amenably, ‘that seems to be that.’ As he and Quintus carefully began to release and re-secure the assassin limb by limb. ‘Normally, of course, a citizen would have to be arraigned before a praetor – perhaps even the Senate. And tried under the Twelve Tables of the Law. Before he went off the Rock. But both of the current praetors are on their way to Athens. And the Senate is just about to get very busy indeed. Courtesy of your testimony. The direct judgement of a consul bypasses most legal quibbles in any case. And, of course, you’re not actually a Roman citizen anyway, are you? I mean you’re not going to start shouting, “Civis Romanus Sum!” halfway down off the Rock expecting Jupiter to bear you safely up after all? No. I thought not.’
Quintus turned and went through into the main body of the villa, leaving Artemidorus and Myrtillus alone.
The carnifex interrogator leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘And, as we’re talking of thoughts at the moment, I also think you are a lying nothus spurius. I’ve been a carnifex for long enough to know the difference between truth and untruth. I think you know very well Caesar was not your employer. I think you know who was. And I just have to work out a way to make you tell the truth to me. Before, during or after the general’s orders are followed and you get thrown off the Tarpean Rock.’
