by Peter Tonkin
The realisation that the day had officially dawned spurred Artemidorus on almost magically. He turned and prepared to follow Cyanea to her spyhole overlooking the atrium of Cassius’ villa.
But it struck him immediately how much slighter both Cyanea and Telos were than he was. It struck him literally as he smacked his head on a roof beam. Once again, only the leather cap that disguised him as a freedman saved his scalp from a nasty gash. But the pain made him doubly careful. Just as he was larger, he was heavier. He placed his feet as carefully as he positioned his head and followed Cyanea as swiftly as he could.
When he caught up with her, she was lying flat on her belly looking through a hole that seemed about the same size as her eye. As he arrived, she moved accommodatingly so that he could see what she saw. He pressed his face to the cool lath and peered through the perforated plaster on the far side.
The spyhole gave him a perfect view of the atrium. Gaius Cassius junior was just about to take his seat in his father’s chair. The tonsor was oiling the razor’s blade. Cassius senior was holding a box that would soon contain his son’s first beard. And which was far too large for the task by the look of things. But the chair was elevated. The boy and his father still standing. Everyone was looking up. So their faces were easy to see. He recognised Publius Casca at once, and his brother Gaius. Quintus Labeo and Quintus Ligarius. Publius Naso and Pontius Aquila. He mentally ticked off more than fifteen of the suspects from the lists Telos and Cyanea had written on the secret tablets. Tablets that Syrus, Cestus and their brutal crew had splintered as they took the young spies to Telos’ terrible fate. Tablets which he prayed Cyanea would be able to reconstruct and explain in telling detail as soon as he got her out of here.
But he noted the omissions too. For instance, Marcus Junius Brutus was nowhere to be seen. Probably still at home, mused Artemidorus, comforting the Lady Porcia. Dressing the wound in her leg perhaps. That thought made him squint a little as he tried to see the shrine with the boy’s bulla, the household gods, the lares, the statuette of Vesta, guardian of hearth and home. And the dagger. Almost certainly the one that had fascinated both men according to Puella. The one Basilus had run into the slave’s leg. The one that had been used to cut Telos’ throat. Returned to Cassius by Basilus, obviously. The twin – except that the grip was slightly different – to the one Lady Porcia had used to cut her own leg and prove her Stoic strength of mind. Which had stood in Brutus’ family shrine until he had stolen it.
Marcus Tullius Cicero was also notable by his absence. Though Enobarbus was of the opinion that the lawyer and statesman would be unlikely to be fully involved, for he had often spoken out against the unlawful killing of leaders and superiors. Though no doubt, the tribune suspected as did the spy, Cicero would be happy enough to see the deed done by hands other than his.
Gaius Cassius Longinus junior sat. The faces mostly moved down as he did so. Though some – Spurius, Galba and Naso – still looked up. Watching the proud father standing almost tearfully behind the chair rather than the nervous boy seated in it. Minucius Basilus hovering at his side like an evil spirit. The spy felt the back of his neck begin to prickle. There was an atmosphere here. A strange, almost wild, mixture of excitement and terror. It was a sensation he recognised. For he had known it all his life. It was the atmosphere that preceded a battle. Or a fight to the death in the arena. It was something he could sense almost as vividly as the stench of sweat and the sweetness of fresh-baked bread that greeted him on his first entry into Cassius’ villa. He pursed his lips and almost shook his head. How could he possibly transmit a sensation like that to the all too hesitant Antony? Antony knew the sensation as well as any other old soldier – but would he allow himself to be convinced that what his spy felt here and now was genuine? And yet he had to try. And he had to try at once. As soon as he and Cyanea could get out of here and back down to the villa that Antony had stolen from Pompey’s heirs.
But then he caught his breath. For a latecomer was pushing his way through the gathered patricians. A tall man with a military swagger and an air of command to rival Cassius’. Artemidorus recognised him with a shiver of shock. It was General Gaius Trebonius. Artemidorus knew him from the siege of Massalia five years in the past. Trebonius had been in command of the land forces while Decimus Brutus Albinus – whose gladiators were putting on a show at Pompey’s Theatre today – had commanded the navy. Both men had been Caesar’s battle commanders then and were close to Caesar still. Though they had had their differences in the meantime, it was still a shock to see Trebonius here.
He moved so that Cyanea could replace him at the spyhole. ‘The tall man who’s just approaching the boy’s seat. Have you seen him here before?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ she answered after a moment.
‘You’re sure?’ he pressed her. ‘It’s important. He’s important. Gaius Trebonius. Another of Caesar’s senior generals.’
‘Never,’ she assured him.
Artemidorus heaved a sigh of relief. Certainly, Trebonius’ name had not appeared on the list from the shattered tablets. Or it hadn’t by the time he left Antony’s villa to come to Basilus’. But then, given the number of senators assembled below, it would surely be inconceivable for all of them to be involved in whatever Cassius and Brutus were planning. Logic dictated that some of the visitors must be innocent. Perhaps Trebonius was just an acquaintance of Cassius’. Another old soldier who liked to swap stories of the campaigns they shared in Gaul, Hibernia and Egypt.
The ritual shaving was soon over. The damp hairs just about covering the bottom of Cassius senior’s box. Red-faced, the boy stood once more. The servants who had carried his toys to the shrine took the box and then helped Cassius senior remove the toga praetaxa with its broad purple stripe and array the young man in the pure white toga virilis that signified his passage from impubes youth to pubes manhood. There was loud applause and the young man bowed gracefully. The crowd began to surge towards the exit almost immediately. Cassius let his son lead the way and followed, going from one group to another talking earnestly. Artemidorus looked away from the hole, blinking. Cyanea took his place for a moment. ‘They’re all gone,’ she said at last.
‘Time for us to go as well,’ he said. ‘Back the way we came?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We made an emergency exit so we could get out without going through the villa.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’
But before she could do so, there came a loud crash from the atrium below, followed by a good deal of lively conversation. Without thinking, the spy pressed his eye to the spyhole once again. The slave removing the first of the toys from beside the shrine – the chariot – had somehow managed to drop it. It appeared to be broken and the Lady Junia was making her displeasure very clear indeed. Artemidorus glanced over at the toys still resting beside the shrine. And, for the second time that morning, he froze. The toys were there; the soldier and the wheeled horse. The bulla was there. The statues of Vesta and the lares were there.
But the dagger was gone.
Artemidorus eased onto his knees, his mind racing. Only Cassius himself could have taken the dagger from the shrine. No one else, except, perhaps, Lady Junia, would touch anything in a place so sacred to the family. But not even someone as powerful as Cassius would walk the streets carrying a dagger in daylight.
‘Did you see Cassius leave?’ he demanded.
‘He was just going out when I looked. Publius Casca and Minucius Basilus were with him. But now you mention it, I don’t think he was going straight out into the street. There are a couple of other rooms before you get to the vestibule. It looked like they were going into one of those. But he can’t possibly be in there for any length of time. He has to catch up with his son and the other guests.’
He’ll be in there just long enough to tuck the dagger into his toga, thought Artemidorus. A quick enough job with Casca and Basilus to help him.
‘And that was it?’ he said. ‘Just those t
hree together?’
‘Well, the man you pointed out to me. Gaius Trebonius did you say? He was just ahead of them. He might have gone into the room as well, I suppose.’
The need to get to Antony was now overwhelming. ‘We have to get out of here,’ he said. ‘What’s the quickest way?’
‘This is,’ said Cyanea.
She led the way forward, continuing to follow the straight line of the villa’s traditional construction towards its frontage. At last she turned aside. ‘We prepared an escape route here,’ she said. ‘But we never used it. We’ve loosened the bricks but left them in place. We just have to pull them apart, stack them in here, and we’ll open a hole that will allow us to drop down into the alley beside the villa. On the street side of the posticum. We’ve secured a rope here that we can push out when the bricks are clear and climb down. We designed it for a swift, silent getaway.’
‘Not swift enough. It’ll take too long to pile that many bricks in here. And we’re out of time. Let’s just kick them out and make a run for it.’
‘It’ll be noisy…’
‘Then we’ll have to be quick.’
Artemidorus swung round so he could put his feet against the bricks Cyanea indicated. One good push and the central section vanished, crashing down into the alley that Priscus had led the gladiators and their prisoners into just before dawn. Daylight flooded in at once, accompanied by the morning breeze. Which still smelt faintly of fresh-baked bread. Cyanea worked at his side, kicking the last few bricks out of the way, leaving a long, low opening just below the overhanging eaves of the villa’s roof. She pushed out the coil of rope secured to a roof beam. Swung round, lying flat on her belly. Shuffled sideways to the edge of the hole, grabbed the rope and was gone.
Artemidorus followed. Lucky to squeeze himself through an egress designed for Telos. But their actions had been so swift that the dust was still settling over the pile of bricks as he joined Cyanea in the alley. Which still seemed to be echoing with the thunder of their fall. A face appeared at the posticum behind them and vanished at once.
‘That was Balbus,’ said Cyanea. ‘He’ll be after us as soon as he can get someone to help.’
‘We’d better hurry, then,’ snapped Artemidorus. In motion as he spoke.
Cyanea was right behind him and they were running full tilt almost immediately.
But as they came out of the alley into the now deserted street, Balbus came charging out of the villa’s main door, clearly intent on cutting them off. And Priscus was just behind him. Artemidorus was simply astonished to see that the gladiator was still alive. He must have a head as hard as a ballista stone, he thought. And the unkillable gladiator did not look happy. Hardly surprisingly. His throat must hurt as much as his head. Artemidorus reached a practised hand to his right hip and slid out the gladius, still running full tilt.
In answer, both the assistant janitor and the gladiator flourished clubs that looked just as lethal as Syrus’. The fugitives’ flight began to slow. Cyanea ran to her left, crossing the street towards the villa opposite, heading for a side alley that might take them round their opponents. Understanding her simple plan at once, Artemidorus followed suit, staying on her right, so that he could protect her back. Holding the gladius low, as though he had a scutum shield in front of him. Ready for the upward killing stroke that opened his enemy’s belly and slid up under his ribs.
Balbus and Priscus also ran across the street, ready to block Cyanea before she reached the alley. Coming to a halt with their backs to the opening. Holding their clubs high and ready. They didn’t even need to fight, Artemidorus realised grimly. Just slow Cyanea and him until the rest of Cassius’ slaves arrived. If Priscus was here then Balbus had already been aware that the prisoners had escaped. It was inconceivable that he hadn’t roused the household. Those not out escorting Cassius pater et filius down to the Forum. Though, knowing Cassius, the senator would probably call the young man teknon, preferring the socially elevated Greek word for son. The remaining slaves would all be searching the villa. But Balbus couldn’t have had time to alert them to this new development by anything more than a shout of warning as he ran out to stop the escape. The rest would be here soon, therefore. But they hadn’t appeared yet. If only Cyanea and he could get past those dangerous-looking clubs in time, they might yet get away.
But then two figures stepped out of the alley Cyanea had been heading for. They wore cloaks and hoods that hid their faces. And they carried lethal-looking clubs too. Made from the handles of long-quenched flambeaus. Balbus and Priscus fell into their fighting stance. Ready to come to blows with Artemidorus and Cyanea. Unaware that there was anyone creeping up behind them. The anonymous strangers joined the fray at once. Laying their clubs with devastating force across the skulls of Cassius’ men. The janitor and the gladiator went down without a sound. Artemidorus couldn’t begin to imagine the headache Priscus would suffer when he woke up. In the meantime, the two fugitives didn’t even need to slow as they leaped over the senseless bodies and swung into the alley with their cloaked saviours beside them.
After eighty paces, the alley opened into another major road and the four of them stopped on the corner. Now that they were not being closely pursued, continuing to run would only draw attention to them. The street parallel to Cassius’ quiet domestic thoroughfare was a commercial one. Already busy, if not yet bustling. It should be easy enough to lose themselves in the crowd. But Artemidorus stepped back into the shadow. He sheathed Priscus’ gladius. Paused, thinking. For they still had a problem. A freedman carrying a sword within the pomerium or Servian walls would attract almost as much unwelcome attention as four fleeing fugitives.
As they caught their breath, the slighter of the two cloaked men pulled back his hood to reveal Kyros’ grinning face. ‘I followed you when you came out of Basilus’ villa,’ he said. ‘Because I didn’t know where you were being taken. But I stayed here when everyone came out of Cassius’. I know where they’re all going – to the Forum then the Senate meeting. And you were obviously not among them. So I thought it best to wait for you to appear. I never doubted you’d be out of there pretty quickly, Septem. Though I wasn’t so sure you’d be bringing another lovely companion with you. I sent the others back but kept a couple of cloaks. And Narbo here because he’s the biggest of the master’s slaves. The best in a fight. Good thing I did.’
Artemidorus had been half-listening to this, for he was still preoccupied by the problem of Priscus’ sword, which he was loath to lose. But then the simplest of answers occurred to him. A freedman could not carry a sword. But a gladiator could. He pulled off his leather cap, rolled it up and stuck it into his belt at the back. ‘Narbo,’ he ordered. ‘Lend me your cloak.’
The slave obeyed. Revealing an olive-skinned, dark-eyed face framed with tight black curls both of beard and hair. Iberian, realised the widely travelled spy. Named for his birthplace, the port city of Narbo, no doubt. Refounded more recently by Caesar and filled with retired soldiers from the Legio X Equestris Veneria. His body was almost as muscular as Syrus’. Kyros had clearly made a wise choice of companion. Artemidorus swung Narbo’s cloak over his shoulders, adjusted his tunic and assumed a belligerent swagger. He led the little group out into the bustle of the street like a drunkard looking for a fight. Almost magically the way ahead of them cleared. Just as well, thought Artemidorus. Cassius’ household slaves would not stop looking for the fugitives just because they found the apparently lifeless bodies of Balbus and Priscus. He and his companions needed to mingle with the crowd and fade away as soon as they possibly could.
He shouldered his way forward with a well-practised arrogant sneer. If anyone risked challenging them, he would say that he was one of Syrus’ troop. On his way to Pompey’s Theatre for the gladiatorial display sponsored by Decimus Brutus Albinus.
Which, as all Rome knew, was due to take place there later today – to celebrate The Ides.
They reached Spurinna’s villa without incident. As they moved th
rough the streets, the city came fully to life around them. The crowds thickened. The lesser forums through which they passed were soon thronging. Shops and stalls – resupplied last night – were opening for business. The majority of the early customers were slaves with shopping lists. Almost all memorised by servants who could not read or write. Those trusted by their owners and better educated in finances had ready money in the household purses that they carried. But the majority negotiated with shopkeepers on behalf of their owners, running up accounts to be checked and settled later.
Artemidorus strode through them all like Spartacus, with Cyanea like the rebel’s Thracian wife walking confidently at his side. While the other two followed behind. Until at last they turned into the street with the scaffolding against which Telos had been crucified. They crossed to the house opposite in a tight group. Almost as though the mutilated corpse still hung there. But Spurinna had not yet returned home. Neither he nor Puella had been seen since they all left to talk to Antony long before dawn.
Making a positive out of a problem as always, Artemidorus decided that going straight back to Antony’s villa was the best course of action in any case. Now that The Ides was here and time so clearly running out. On they went, therefore. With equal urgency if a little less swagger. For within a very short time they were coming past the side of the Basilica Aemilia market and into the Forum Romanum itself. Their path took them to a junction with the Via Sacra. And here they paused. The Forum stood before them, with its arches and statues, temples and public buildings. Its crowds of the great and the lowly cheek by jowl in the early morning.
Artemidorus looked left almost longingly. Towards the Regia. That strange-shaped, almost triangular building which housed at once the Temple of Mars and the office of the pontifex maximus. As chief priest and overseer of the Virgins in the Temple of Vesta standing just beside the Regia, Caesar himself was housed in the Domus Publicus which all but joined the two buildings. He had lived there for years. But recently, to support his position as premier general and dictator, he had moved the shields and spears sacred to Mars out of the Regia and into a special room in the Domus. There were those who suggested Caesar’s legendary virility was beginning to fail and he needed a little help from the god, who seemed to have joined Venus as his Olympian patron.
