And so he was even willing to go down into the sewers in order to root out all forms of opposition. Not like Maecenas, who was too busy playing at developing plans and projects with his young slaves, or like Agrippa, who Octavian used only for the most important jobs: he got his hands dirty in every sense, as should all those who possessed a modicum of consistency with the objectives of the sect.
He had been chopping off heads all afternoon, and in the most unlikely places. People had started going into hiding as soon as the lists had been made known. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have published anything and would have descended upon the outlaws directly in their homes when they least expected it, thus saving a lot of time and energy, but the triumvirate had decided otherwise in order to re-assure the citizens, and now he had to flush out these people from all kinds of places, effectively turning the city upside down – because they were in the city, there was no doubt about that. With a minimum of foresight, the triumvirate had placed checkpoints at each of the city gates, and the identity of all those leaving was checked. But Rome was large, with many places to hide: places that would never even have occurred to a bloodhound like himself had it not been for the slaves, wives and children of the proscribed.
Yes, because there was almost always someone in the family with an interest in getting rid of the condemned relative – a child, greedy for an inheritance, a slave hungry for freedom or simply a wife who had had enough of married life. And when there was no one willing to speak, Rufus had learned by now where to look for the fugitives’ hiding places. In one of the houses, a slave had told him that the owner had hidden in the drain, and that was now one of the first places he went to check when there was no trace of the offender in the house. He had also found one man huddled in the attic, and another had lowered himself down a well. These were now all places that he checked carefully. When he was forced to find them without the help of someone in the family, he let his soldiers plunder the house before all the property, annuities and money were confiscated by the triumvirate: it was also a way of buying support and goodwill from the soldiery for when he would eventually lead them.
The stench inside the sewer assaulted his nostrils as soon as he entered. He had a slave to thank for the information that the man’s master had sought refuge in the sewer, and now that he saw how disgusting it was down there, he decided that despite the tip-off he would still allow the soldiers to loot the place once he returned upstairs: the family members had to pay for giving them the unpleasant task of hunting their prey in one of the unhealthiest places in the city.
He had to shout at the legionaries to get them to move. Upon entering the sewer, some of them had stopped to pray in the small circular chapel dedicated to Venus Cloacina set just below the entrance at the Basilica Emilia. It did not even enter his head to honour the gods in the midst of that stench, and nor would he have done so before killing someone. Not unless he were about to go into battle, in which case he would seek divine protection. It seemed to him that the only reason the soldiers were doing it was to assuage their guilty consciences.
He took a torch from one of his men and hesitated for a moment before deciding which route to take. Under the Forum, the cloaca branched out into two parallel tunnels to compensate for the reduced height, and he had no way of knowing which one the outlaw had taken, but further ahead the two tunnels re-joined so he split up his squad and sent some men down the other one, hoping that the fugitive had not already reached the mouth of the main duct near the bridges of the Tiber Island.
For a moment, he regretted not having brought along the slave who had suggested he look for his master in the sewers – at the time he had not thought it necessary, as he knew the senator who was to be executed by sight, but perhaps now, in the darkness of the sewer, the servant would have been more familiar with this man and his habits. He led the column of men he had brought with him down a narrow tunnel which was slightly taller than a man, with a vaulted ceiling and walls made of large clay blocks. They walked along a sort of walkway wide enough only for one person at a time. Beside them the mephitic water flowed past, bearing with it the human waste of an entire city. After a few steps, he untied the scarf around his neck and held it over his mouth and nose to protect himself from the pestilent odour that forced its way into his nostrils, and the legionaries followed suit. Water seeped through the roof and drops of gooey liquid occasionally fell on him – he would make the outlaw pay for this as well, he thought.
Suddenly, he thought he heard noises. He signalled for his men to stop and in front of him distinctly heard footsteps echoing down the tunnel. He set off again, faster than before, and soon began to see dim shapes moving in the darkness. “Stop!” he shouted, but this only made them move faster.
He began to run, but after a few steps slipped and fell into the shallow water, twisting his ankle and dropping his torch. He swore, but one of his soldiers picked it up before the water had a chance to extinguish it. Two legionaries helped him to his feet while the others, with considerable zeal, continued to run after the fugitives. Rufus angrily pushed the men next to him out of the way and tried to walk unaided, but realised immediately that he could not count on his injured leg and had to lean against one of his men in order to proceed. A few moments later he heard cries and clanging echoing around the walls of the tunnel.
The cries of men… and of women.
With great effort, Rufus managed to reach the place from whence the sounds of the scuffle came. It was at the confluence of the two parallel tunnels, where he found a civilian lying on the ground, half-submerged by water which was now red with his blood. The soldiers who had overtaken him and those he had sent down the other tunnel stood around him. There was a woman in tears, along with two small children clinging to her. Next to her were two huge wet sacks.
“What happened here?” Rufus asked the legionaries.
“We killed the fugitive, sir,” replied one of the soldiers from the other squad. “We blocked his escape by surprising him at the junction of the two tunnels.”
Rufus looked at the corpse. “This isn’t the condemned man. Who is he?” he asked the woman.
She sobbed again, before finding the strength to look at him and reply. “My husband… Gaius Capitus, he was called…”
Rufus looked at his soldiers, who lowered their eyes guiltily. Then he asked for the list and checked the name. “And what were you doing in here, damn it?” he asked the woman. “Your husband is not an outlaw!”
“It’s true… but… we fled because we were certain that a slave of ours we had punished some time ago would seek revenge. When the list came out, he had confided to my maid that he would find a way to denounce us, and she told me. My husband went to implore him to change his mind, he even promised him his freedom, but the man was adamant. So before he could report us, my husband gathered together our most valuable belongings and decided to flee.”
“I see. But why did he take his family with him?” asked Rufus, who was rather shocked by the whole affair.
“That slave’s so obsessed with his revenge that my husband thought it would be safer to bring us as well – and in any case, I would never have abandoned him. We had counted on getting a boat on the Tiber to take us to the sea. We were going to sail to Apulia, where we have properties…”
Rufus looked at the bags. “So, these are your possessions…”
The woman nodded, but her expression was one of dismay. The tribune reflected for a moment. He felt vaguely guilty. If what she said were true, and he had no reason to doubt that it was, she already had enough trouble. “I am sorry about your husband. In these damn sewers, it is difficult to distinguish friend from foe…” he began. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve done enough harm here,” he said to his men, and started limping off along the tunnel.
But no one followed him. Not hearing their footsteps echoing behind him, he turned and saw that they were talking to each other. One legionary approached him, took his arm and whispered, “Um… tribune
… I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but we’ve committed a grave error here. If this woman reports us, we’re all finished.”
Rufus had not thought of that. It could taint his career and his enemies could use it against him. And one day, when he was powerful – a celebrated general and an acclaimed statesman – he would have plenty of enemies.
“And all that nice stuff in the bags,” said the soldier. “It’s a shame to just leave it there…”
Rufus looked at the legionary, then at the other soldiers, and finally the woman and the children, feeling a knot form in his stomach. He told himself that if he wanted to walk the path of glory, there would be some unpleasantness that he must learn to live with.
“Hurry up, then. And make it a clean job,” was all he said, turning around and walking away.
Immediately after, he heard the strangled cry of the woman and the wailing of her children behind him, immediately interrupted by gasps of pain.
Auspicious therefore is destiny: none must welcome or hide in their house any of those whose names appear, nor accompany them elsewhere, nor allow themselves to be bribed with their money. We will consider any who are found to have saved or helped or been in any way an accomplice to the proscribed as being proscribed themselves, and we will hear no justifications or excuses. Those who kill the proscribed must bring us their heads: for each, a free man will receive 25,000 Attic drachmas, while a slave, in addition to his freedom, will receive 10,000 Attic drachmas as well as citizenship. Equal rewards will be paid to informers. No mention will be made in our records of those who receive these sums, that their identities may remain unknown.
A scream of terror rang out along the road, drowning the words of the crier. Gaius Chaerea rolled over for the umpteenth time in bed, resigning himself to the fact that he would not be getting any rest that night. Enjoying the warmth and the sense of peace that her body gave him, he clung to his woman, who, unlike him, was fast asleep, but it only lasted a moment. However pleasant and re-assuring her company was, his inner torments were too numerous and too intense for him to be able to appease them for more than a few moments.
Within a week, the proscriptions had degenerated into an all-out massacre, and the sect was doing nothing to stop them. Perhaps Octavian could not intervene because he was not the only one commanding Rome, or perhaps he did not want to because it was in his interest to establish a reign of terror. In any case, every man in the city had reason to fear for his life now. Not only the proscribed, or those who had helped them or been seen talking to them even only once, but those who were rich, or who had old enemies, lived in constant fear of the appearance of the soldiers at their front doors. Meanwhile, on the walls of the buildings, fresh lists were constantly appearing, with new names being added to those already identified and executed. You could die on any pretext in those days. The Forum was full of the outlaws’ heads – delivered by their killers to prove the deed had been done and to receive their reward – exhibited on the Rostra. The streets were full of headless corpses, as well as bodies which were intact – killed by mistake among the indifference of passers-by, or for personal revenge, or simply to gain an advantage by making them look as though they had been supporters of the condemned.
It was man against man, and the triumvirate did nothing to stop the killings. That was why Chaerea had left. He had feigned a serious illness and it had given him the opportunity to stay quietly at home with his family and to reflect upon belonging to a sect which was not contributing to improving the lives of the Romans – quite the opposite, in fact. But the screams that he heard on the street constantly interrupted his thoughts, and made his days even more tormented.
Nor could he banish from his mind and heart the image of Octavia, who had whispered words of love to him a week earlier in the Suburra. She was still waiting for him, and that made it even more difficult to recover his role in the sect. He knew that it was another problem he would have to deal with when he eventually returned to the ranks. A few months earlier he thought he had resolved it, after having told her of his irrevocable decision to remain with his family, but now he realised that his decision was not so irrevocable after all, if her passionate words were enough to make him have doubts.
He would not be able to stay out of the game too long. He had taken an oath and would soon have to return to work, and then he would have to face his own conscience: as a soldier who obeyed the orders of his commander, as a member of a sect which put revenge above all else, and finally as a man who had to understand his true feelings.
And he was certain that his torment would continue, whatever choice he made.
X
“It’s Cicero’s turn now. We’ve kept him alive too long,” said Octavian to his followers at the meeting of the sect’s general staff in the tablinum of his house on the Palatine. “Mark Antony is lobbying to have his head as soon as possible, as well as that of his brother Quintus and his nephew.” The meeting, which had lasted for much of the afternoon, served to take stock of the proscriptions and of what was available for the war on Sextus Pompey in Sicily. It was to the island, which was under the control of the son of Pompey the Great, that the outlaws who had managed to escape the sword of the executioner flocked.
“Why doesn’t he kill him himself, then?” asked Rufus, who, Quintus Pedius thought, seemed to take great pleasure from finding and executing the condemned.
Octavian made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You know that it is part of the agreement. He kills ours and we kill his. Never mind that ours are few and that he has allowed himself to get carried away by his lust for revenge. I have to keep him happy.”
“So why haven’t you given the order, then?”
“Because I know Cicero well enough to know that he’s stewing in his own juices. As you are aware, as far as I’m concerned he’s just as responsible for the death of Caesar as those who stabbed him, and killing him isn’t enough. I’ve let him think that he is one of Mark Antony’s victims, but he is actually one of mine, and while Antony just wants him dead, I want him to suffer. And to delude himself, too: he could go to Brutus in Macedonia, but he is hanging about in his properties near Rome because he is convinced that, in the end, I will decide to spare him.”
“So you wanted to make him live in fear for a few more days…” mused Maecenas.
“That’s right. This is my way of imposing justice. The choice of how to kill him is Mark Antony’s. But the execution is our job.”
“Shall we send Gaius Chaerea?” asked Pedius, who, as consul, had to arrange the practical details.
“No. Gaius is still unwell,” said Octavian. “This is a good opportunity to put Popillius Laenas to the test for one last time. I have decided to let him enter the sect, but I still want to see how he handles it.”
Agrippa made a gesture of annoyance. “Caesar, I’ve already told you that I do not think Laenas suitable – he is too brutal and too ignorant. He almost seems to enjoy killing people. If you give power to such individuals, they will abuse it…” he said, for the benefit of those present, who were unaware of what he had already told his friend after his experience at the house of the tribune Salvius.
“He will not abuse it because we will guide him,” said Octavian. “In the proper hands, such a tool can be very useful. We need someone willing to do the sect’s dirty work. We have given many such tasks to Ortwin, and now I know why my father relied upon him so much – he is intelligent, and has a noble soul, and I have no wish to lose him or waste him in deeds that are at the limits of the possible. And I do not demand heinous actions and demonstrations from him, because he is not a despicable individual like Laenas. Precisely because it is as you say, Agrippa, I will entrust to him the tasks that no one else has the stomach to carry out – and there will be many, you’ll see. There are still many of Caesar’s assassins from whom Mars Ultor demands blood.”
Agrippa said nothing. As Pedius knew well, when Octavian had an idea, no one could change his mind except, perhaps, M
aecenas, whose acumen the young man respected. But Maecenas did not utter a word, so Popillius Laenas would kill Cicero.
“Of course, we won’t let him go alone,” said Maecenas, finally. “The task is too delicate for there not to be a member of the sect present.”
“That is reasonable,” agreed Octavian. “Ortwin will go with him, then. Laenas will be the head of the operation, but the barbarian must be assured that this is not a demotion. I have begun to think too much of him not to treat him with the respect he deserves.”
Pedius noticed that Rufus appeared annoyed by Octavian’s words. He always did whenever the triumvir spoke well of anyone but himself. Not surprisingly, he had also seemed to be in a bad mood during the discussions of the war against Sextus Pompey, which Agrippa had virtually monopolized, his ideas overshadowing all the others. But then, it was no secret that Rufus was envious and jealous of Agrippa: Rufus himself was the only one who seemed not to notice the fact, or at least he did not let it show if he did.
The leader of the sect declared the meeting ended and arranged for another immediately after the death of Cicero where, he said, he would take stock of the situation of the proscriptions: after an initial list of a few hundred people, there had been thousands of victims among the senators and equites. Octavian had, in fact, informed the others of the amount of the confiscations and the split with the other triumvirates which had been agreed upon – it was a question usually handled by Maecenas, who divided up the funds flowing into the coffers of the state controlled by his friend, setting aside a part for the enrolment of recruits for the army and another, almost as large, for the expenditure and investments made by the sect in order to gain the support of people deemed ‘useful’.
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