by Peter Tonkin
‘I’ve got a better idea, Ferrata. Why don’t you watch it for me?’
‘Stercus! Shit! Me and my big mouth. And who’s going to watch my back?’
‘Hercules here. If Lepidus will spare him for a while longer.’
The gigantic tutor looked up with a smile. ‘Better than being stuck in a classroom all day,’ he rumbled. ‘But I have a very large back myself. And unlike you, I’m a tutor not a soldier. And therefore possess little in the way of armaments and armour.’
‘Don’t worry. I have just the man to guard your back, even though it is pretty broad.’
‘But if you’re coming with us, Hercules, you’re going to need a bloody great horse,’ said Ferrata. ‘Several, in fact…’
The four men rode into the city through the Gate of Fontus. Their arms and armour were packed with their other necessaries on the packhorse or in saddlebags on their mounts. They were all in warm, unremarkable travelling clothes. Even so, Artemidorus paused at the gate, showing the guard there the pass Antony had supplied them with. A pass requiring anyone who saw it to render Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus of Legio VII and his companions any aid or succour they required. On pain of death. ‘That should sort out the matter or fresh horses too,’ said Ferrata, approvingly. ‘Even though the “on pain of death” bit may be pushing it. Even for the general.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ said Artemidorus. ‘What he says, he tends to do. Like they say in Egypt: So it has been written; so it shall be done.’ He did not point out that Antony had given him not only the written order but also a sizeable bag bulging with golden coins.
The four of them clattered through the Forum and along the Via Sacra, heading for the Porta Capena, where the centurion showed the pass once more. Then they pushed through the bustle of tourists, farmers, tradesmen and beggars. Walking their mounts out onto the roadway itself. The Via Appia and the Via Latina both originated here and the Via Latina was a more direct route to the centre of Italy, and might actually get them to a meeting point with Octavius more quickly. But not if he was coming to Rome via the Appian Way. And Antony’s orders had been quite clear. Once onto the Via Appia, therefore, they let the horses have their heads and galloped side by side along the ancient military road, apparently oblivious to the traffic that pulled, jumped or dived to one side or the other, getting out of their way. Glancing back, Artemidorus was relieved to see that the packhorse, on a long lead rein tied to Quintus’ saddle, was well able to keep up with them.
Their initial charge down the road was not arrogance or officiousness. Artemidorus had taken Ferrata’s warning to heart. It would do nobody any good if he set out on his mission with one of the nameless assassin’s brutal arrow bolts in his back. But either the news about Octavius had not leaked out yet or whoever sent the anonymous assassin had neither time nor inclination to unleash him once more. The four men rode south through the forest of tombs unmolested.
They had set out in the early afternoon, and so they made fewer than twenty military miles before the sun set. Making even a fine road such as the Appian Way too difficult and dangerous to follow at full gallop in the darkness. They found a hostelry in the town of Campoverde. It was no mere drinking place, or taberna tavern. It was sizeable. A proper hospitium stabulum with accommodation not only for the men but also for their horses. For it was one of the first or last on the busy road running north–south. One of the busiest roads in the empire, in fact. And therefore in all the world.
The four travellers handed their weary mounts to a pair of waiting slaves who stabled the horses and made sure they would be ready before dawn next day. And would bring the packhorse’s load up to the room Artemidorus was assigned. Then they took their saddlebags and went into the tavern itself, guided by the big brass lamp that hung above the door. Fashioned in the shape of a fascinus or winged phallus designed to ward off bad luck and black magic. To do this, they crossed the stable yard and then a tiny formal garden that would have been a tempting place to linger in the warmer months. Even in early spring, the fountain played gently and the flickering lamps made the statues seem to dance. The main entrance was lit by a series of lanterns which cast an enticing glow. Almost as enticing as the odour of roasting meat which wafted out into the darkness.
The interior of the hospitium would have flattered many Roman villas. The wide ostium doorway and broad vestibulum entrance hall opened into an atrium which was unusual only in that there was no opening in the roof or impluvium pool beneath. The large, square area was filled with tables, many of which had been pushed together to make one large board that was surrounded by neatly dressed, serious-looking men. The rest were filled with an assortment of people who were being served by what appeared to be a small army of pedisecae waitresses. The atmosphere was warm, settled and welcoming. The erotic pictures on the walls almost decorous. Certainly when compared with the ones in Antony’s bathhouse, Artemidorus thought. At one side of the room stood a bar piled with amphorae, jugs and barrels. At the other a low stage where a young woman was playing a lyre as three girls, diaphanously dressed as Graces, danced. Beyond the stage, a short passage led to a staircase. Which mounted, no doubt, to the rooms above. Behind the bar, a wide doorway opened into what could only be a culina, from which the mouth-watering odours were wafting, along with a good deal of smoke.
A tall man wearing a tunic and an apron, who was obviously the caupo innkeeper, came out from behind the bar and hurried forward. ‘Welcome, gentlemen. How may the hospitium of Campoverde be of service? Food? Wine? We offer only the best. And at very reasonable prices.’
‘Accommodation. A room for the night.’
‘Ah. Now there I must disappoint you, sir. All our rooms are taken.’
The spy reached into his saddlebag. Pulled out Antony’s pass and showed it to the man. Who read it slowly and laboriously. But read it nevertheless.
‘Well, Centurion, I don’t know…’
‘We’ll pay fair rates. But we need a room. One room will do for the four of us.’
‘Well, I suppose. I will discuss matters with my wife…’
‘Excellent. Do you have a bathhouse?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘We do. And the water is hot. We can also supply masseurs if you have been riding long and hard.’
Artemidorus didn’t bother to ask how the innkeeper knew they had been riding. Not only were they not local – and unlikely to have walked here. But they also stank of horses. Which was why he had asked about the bath. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘My companions will each discuss their individual needs but for me it is a bath, a drink, a meal and a bed for the night.’
‘You have arrived at a most opportune time,’ said the innkeeper, signalling to a woman who was clearly the cupona the landlady, his wife. ‘We are very busy but I’m sure we can accommodate you.’ He turned to his good lady, including her in the conversation. ‘My wife and I usually sleep in the front overlooking the stables, but we will move out and arrange for more beds to be put in there…’ She nodded agreement and turned away while he continued. ‘And we are so busy tonight because the collegium carnifexes guild of butchers is meeting here as it does at the end of every month.’ He gestured at the serious-looking men gathered round the largest tables. ‘And the meal, in consequence, is best beef. And particularly fine.’
viii
Artemidorus relaxed in the tepidarium, allowing the warm water to lap at his chin as he made his plans for the night and the morrow. Stopping at the hospitium was an indulgence. But the general was right. Gaius Octavius and his friends could only be coming along the Appian Way – unless he wanted to go adventuring across country. Or unless he decided to turn aside and make a visit or two on the way. The via after all came past Puetoli, outside Neapolis, where Cicero was staying. And, indeed, past Antium, should he wish to talk with Brutus and Cassius for any reason. If either of those possibilities proved true then there would be no chance of meeting the boy and his companions. But it seemed to the spy that Octavius would most likely h
urry straight to Rome. He was by all accounts an intrepid youngster. He had smuggled himself across war-torn Hispania a couple of years back to join Caesar on campaign. But he was sickly. No way round that. Therefore he would likely be coming swiftly but sensibly up the Via Appia. And in that case, whether they stopped here tonight – or further down the via tomorrow night, they would come across him eventually.
But what then?
It was all very well for General Antony to order that Octavius be brought to him, but what if the young man had other ideas? Would a squad of four soldiers be enough to change his mind? Artemidorus doubted it. There had to be a better way than simply turning up and shouting the general’s orders. As he had said to Puella, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
He had reached this far in his thoughts when Hercules’ massive shadow fell over him and the huge tutor stepped down into the water. Artemidorus hurriedly sat up. He knew enough about Archimedes’ theories to realise that if he didn’t move, then his face would be submerged the instant his huge companion sat down.
‘Ferrata found a whore yet?’ he asked as the waves washed over his shoulders.
‘Not yet,’ rumbled Hercules. ‘He’s too busy trying to eat an entire cow. Says he’s never tasted beef before. But he’s got his eye on the Three Graces.’
‘It’s only a matter of time. He has a nose for a willing girl that would put a hunting dog to shame. One of the dancers is certainly most likely. Or the girl with the lyre. Where’s Quintus?’
‘On guard outside the bathhouse door. He says there’s something about this place he doesn’t like.’
‘His senses are always battle-ready,’ said Artemidorus, frowning. ‘I’d better be a little more careful myself.’
‘At least we’re all in the same room,’ observed Hercules. ‘Though I’ll never fit on that little bed.’
‘The innkeeper’s bedroom,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘The noisy one overlooking the stables and the road. Where he can keep an eye on whatever’s going on.’
He heaved himself out of the water. Hobbled across the room like a septuagenarian. ‘I think I’ll see if the masseur can untie some of these knots in my legs,’ he said. ‘Full day on horseback tomorrow. And I’m not saddle-broken yet.’
A little later, Hercules, Quintus and Artemidorus were seated together at one of the smaller tables. Each man had a goblet in front of him with a bowl beside it. There was a jug of surprisingly good local wine and a jug of water beside that. ‘Drawn from our own well, sirs. Clean and pure…’ The bowls were full of fragrant beef stew, which was such a rarity that the spy was hard put to remember when he had last eaten it. The meat had been roasted over the open fire in the kitchen and was served in a sauce made of pepper, lovage, celery seed, cumin, oregano, dried onion, raisins, honey, vinegar, wine, broth, and oil. It was served with crusty bread fresh from the oven.
The three graces and their lyricist had gone. They were replaced by a comedian in a battered comic mask who seemed to be very popular with the butchers. Though that was as much to do with what they had drunk as with what he was saying.
‘No. Listen… There’s this man, just back from a trip abroad. He goes to a fortune-teller, see? But he doesn’t realise the fortune-teller is completely incompetent. So he asks about his family, how they all are… and the fortune-teller replies: “Everyone is fine, especially your father.” Well, the man gets all upset at that and says, “What are you talking about? My father has been dead for ten years!” Quick as a flash, the fortune-teller replies: “So you think you know who your father actually is, do you?”’
‘We have to think this through,’ said Artemidorus, raising his voice above the howls of laughter, refusing to be distracted by the way the joke’s punchline made him think of Brutus and his questionable paternity. ‘Who is most likely to get the boy to agree to come and see Antony? Four soldiers? Four messengers? Four ambassadors bringing gifts and tokens of goodwill?’
‘I’d go with the last one. The men bringing gifts and good wishes,’ said Hercules and Quintus nodded his agreement.
‘I think so too,’ said the spy. ‘So the next couple of questions are these – how do we disguise ourselves as friendly emissaries. And where do we get goodwill gifts rich enough to impress young Octavius and his friends?’
‘Gifts that might reasonably have come from Antony,’ added Quintus.
The three fell into silent thought as they cleared their bowls and mopped up the sauce with the bread.
‘There was this bloke who really hated his wife, see? Then one day she drops dead. And there he is at his wife’s tomb paying his final respects when this stranger comes up to him and asks, “Who is it that’s resting at peace, friend?” And this man replies. “Me! I’m finally at peace now that the bitch is dead.”’
Artemidorus jerked as though he had been slapped. Looked around, frowning. Met Quintus’ eyes and looked guiltily away. ‘What?’ asked Hercules.
‘Nothing,’ answered the spy shortly.
But the comedian’s words echoed in his mind and memory. ‘Canicula mortus est.’ The bitch is dead. The words he had used to Quintus a few days after the Ides of Mars. Telling him Cyanea, as he believed, was dead indeed. For he had thrown her, naked, to the mob.
ix
Artemidorus woke a heartbeat before Quintus sat up. They were side by side in the bed belonging to the innkeeper and his wife. Ferrata was snoring in the low truckle bed assigned to him and Hercules was less restfully on a mat on the floor. The cloud cover had vanished. The light of a low full moon streamed in bars through the latticed shutter of the little window opening. Which let in sound as well as light.
‘What?’ whispered the triarius.
‘Hush!’
The noise that had disturbed them came again. The jingle of tack. The soft percussion of an unshod hoof beat. Someone was leading horses in or out of the stable across the yard beyond the pretty decorative garden. Artemidorus rolled out of bed and crossed to the window. Thanking the gods for the deft ministrations of the masseur. His legs worked almost as well as usual. By pressing his face against the laths he could see down into the road-side of the hospitum stabulum. Two black shapes – scarcely more than shadows bundled in travelling cloaks – were leading horses into the stables. A lamp burned welcomingly inside, so that parts of them seemed cast in silver and parts of them cast in gold. His interest piqued, the spy caught up his own travelling cloak and wrapped it around himself. Then, barefooted and silent, he ran out of the room and down the stairs.
Heat and smoke lingered in the air of the big atrium but the guests had long since returned home or gone to bed. The caupo and caupona were both likely asleep in whatever chamber they had taken for themselves. Only the slaves in the stable seemed still to be up and about – no doubt guarding the horses. And entertaining some midnight visitors.
Artemidorus tiptoed into the black throat of the vestibulum, feeling his way forward in the dark towards the broad, welcoming ostium. Explored the door with his fingers until he discovered the great bolt and eased it back. Well greased, it slid silently. And the door swung equally quietly towards him. Cold night air washed over his bare legs and feet. Night sounds of whispering breeze and tinkling water flowed in with the chill. The lamp in the flying phallus above him was still burning. That, the moonlight and the brightness in the stable were sufficient to show him that the garden and the yard beyond it were empty. He ran forward into the darkest shadow available, just beside the open stable door.
‘…No, I’m sorry, masters. This is not a staging post. These horses are not for sale or hire. They belong to four guests…’
‘Money is no object. We need to get on. We have important business.’ A hard voice. A soldier’s voice. One with authority. An equitum knight or patrician. A man used to getting his own way. Angered by the slave’s refusal to co-operate. Keeping himself under control with quite an effort.
‘I can’t help that, sir. These horses are spoken for. And by men I would rather
not cross.’
‘And yet you would cross me. Gaius Valerius Flaccus. And my employer Lucius Cornelius Balbus. One of the richest and most powerful men in Rome… Secretary to Caesar himself…’
‘And the men who own these horses are soldiers too, sir. Another centurion. From the Seventh. And according to my master they are on a mission for Co-consul Antony himself. With a warrant over his own seal and sign.’
‘Antony!’ Another voice, lighter in tone. Breathless with shock. ‘Are you sure?’
‘If you doubt me, sir, then go and ask the master.’
There was an abrupt hissing sound. The eavesdropping centurion recognised it at once. Someone had just pulled a gladius from its sheath.
He stepped forward into the light. ‘Good evening, nobili gentlemen.’
Four pairs of eyes regarded him. Two slaves, trembling on the knife-edge between worry and outright fear. A square, hard-looking soldier in centurion’s armour – except for the helmet. Bareheaded except for the hood on his cloak. Legion badges covered. Gladius in hand. And, beside him, not, apparently, in armour, a younger patrician-looking companion. Behind them, two exhausted-looking horses. Necks white with salt sweat. Legs shifting uncomfortably, dragging worn hooves in the straw. The soldier was first to move, his naked gladius catching the light as he raised it.
There was a silent stirring at Artemidorus’ shoulder. The grip of his own gladius was pressed into his hand. Quintus stood beside him, fully armed.
The stranger’s sword point wavered. Fell.
‘There are no beds here,’ said Artemidorus.
‘And no spare horses either, as you can see.’ Quintus added.
‘And the beef’s all gone as well,’ Ferrata’s rough voice struck in as he arrived at Quintus’ side. ‘Not one sweet mouthful left.’
‘So, I think perhaps Lucius Cornelius Balbus would prefer that you went on your way. I know Co-consul and General Mark Antony would. As I move at his order and speak with his voice.’
There was a moment more of silent confrontation. Interrupted by the arrival of Hercules and the sounds of stirring in the hospitium behind him. Then the stranger sheathed his gladius and led his limping horse out into the yard, heading back onto the moonlit road. His aristocratic companion followed. His patrician gaze sweeping over them, making no distinction between the soldiers and the slaves.
