by Peter Tonkin
VIII
i
The sicarius knifeman employed to kill Artemidorus was known as Myrtillus, though this was not his real name. That was something which sounded almost Hebrew, but he did not look particularly Jewish. In fact he was tall, saturnine, dark-skinned – though tanned by desert suns rather than African ones. He had a lean, rangy body usually concealed by a padded tunic and a long, hooded cloak. When not about his murderous business, he walked with a military swagger though he disdained to wear soldiers’ braccae trousers or caligae boots. His face was framed by a thin, black beard that followed the lean lines of his jaw down from his neat ears, past the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the resolute square of his chin. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and at the moment, burning with frustrated anger. His hands were huge and powerful; callused and bony. Held together by whip-strong tendons that stretched the skin like restless wires.
The name of his calling came from the sicarius’ knife he wore concealed beneath his cloak. Which he often used. It had a curved blade with one fearsomely sharp edge. The inner side of the hook. In consequence it was lethally effective, especially in close work. Slicing open throats, necks, arms, wrists. Occasionally thighs or genitals. Opening blood vessels that bled out in mere moments. Unstoppably. The sica was looked down upon by his fastidious Roman employers as an ignoble instrument – especially compared with their straight-bladed, two-edged weapons the noble gladius and the upright pugio. They preferred to go armed for battle rather than street fights. Though they indulged in both.
The sicarius Myrtillus was more enraged than he could ever remember having been. Some of his anger was directed at himself. He had never missed with his lethal sôlênarion bow before. Now he had missed twice. It was the damage to his reputation that was the root of his rage. Not the fact that he had killed two innocent bystanders – and without being paid for the deaths. A slave doorkeeper hardly mattered. But he had killed a patrician in Capua and executions of that sort usually came with a premium charge. All this and the fact that he had been pulled from one target to another with the first matter still unresolved. Which made him seem to be hesitant. Indecisive. Inefficient.
Apparently oblivious to the murderer’s ill-concealed annoyance, his employer’s representative leaned closer across the table that separated them. ‘Forget the centurion for the moment. Keep the original down payment and accept this additional sum…’ A leather bag slid weightily across the tabletop. ‘Priorities have changed. The young Caesar has risen to prominence and the promise of power with a rapidity and in a manner that could never have been foreseen. This alters everything as far as my employer is concerned. Alters your target especially, as we have discussed. Furthermore, your original scopum target, too, has been moved. Reassigned. He is no longer with the Seventh, which is being disbanded and settled. He is now with Antony’s personal guard of Praetorians and we want to wait and see what effect this has, if any. For although he is with a new cohort, his responsibilities seem much the same.
‘My employer suggests that your new objective will require you to consider employing new methods. The sôlênarion may be your preferred approach…’ The voice drifted into silence for a heartbeat and the professional killer detected a moment of disappointment. Perhaps disapproval. He closed his fist over the leather bag. The mass of what it contained began to soothe his wounded pride. The gentle voice continued. ‘But it has not been effective so far. And it is unlikely to be a successful approach with your new execution. Also, you may consider that employing an associate – at least one associate – might also help. There is plenty in that bag to allow freedom in this area should you choose to follow it. The entire security system you are faced with employs so many men that my employer is certain you will be able to bribe or blackmail at least one crucial member.’
‘Are you telling me how to do my job?’ snarled the frustrated assassin.
‘Of course I am. So far in our association you have failed to live up to the reputation that first attracted my employer to you. But, consider this. If you use your own methods and continue to fail then the fault is clearly your own. The damage to your reputation irreparable. If you accede to my employer’s suggestions and things still do not go well, then the blame is at least shared. Your standing tarnished, but redeemable. Besides, if Fortuna smiles on you, then you might yet earn everything we have paid so far all at once. For the centurion is often so close to your new quarry that you could conceivably kill them both at once. If, as I say, things go well for you.’
‘Things will go well,’ snarled Myrtillus. ‘No matter how I approach the problem. No matter who is there. Tell…’
‘No names!’ The representative glanced uneasily around the popina tavern as best as was possible given the depth of the hood keeping the face in anonymous shadow. ‘One slip along those lines and you either have to kill everyone nearby. Or I will have to kill you myself.’
‘If you are so accomplished in these matters, then why do you not undertake the mission yourself?’ sneered Myrtillus.
‘Because I have other duties,’ came the icy answer. ‘But, if you doubt my ability to do so…’ The quiet voice drifted into silence. And the sicarius felt the icy point of a blade slide up his inner thigh. A line of chill that seemed to strike to the depth of the femoral artery that pulsed there as powerfully as the carotid in his neck.
Myrtillus leaned forward suddenly, careful to move only his upper body. ‘You rely on the fact that you are a boy – or little more than a boy to judge by your voice – to make opponents underestimate you,’ he breathed. ‘What would I not give to tear back that hood and see your face without the mask of shadow.’
‘You might do so,’ answered his opponent. ‘But my face would be the last thing in this life you would see.’ The point of the dagger stirred, as dangerous as a sleepy serpent.
Myrtillus sat back, with a soft, unsteady laugh. ‘Very well,’ he capitulated. ‘You remain anonymous. Your newly assigned Praetorian centurion remains alive unless, as you say, he is close to my new objective when I strike. And the new target dies, in company or alone. As agreed. For the moment.’ He leaned forward once again, suddenly, threateningly, recklessly. ‘But take good care, whoever you are, that I do not add your name to the list of those I will assist in their passage to the underworld. For should that happen, I would come after you more relentlessly even than the Friendly Ones.’ He glanced around as he used the euphemism, as though fearing that the Furies might come in any case, alerted by what he threatened rather than what he chose to say.
The hooded stranger gave a quiet chuckle. The blade left the sensitive skin of Myrtillus’ inner thigh. But the cold kiss of the icy steel lingered. ‘And you, Myrtillus of Lycian Olympos, had better pray to whatever gods you worship that I do not come after you. For I too am as relentless as the Friendly Ones. And I have at least two advantages over you. I know who you are. And I know where to find you.’
ii
‘It’s strange,’ said Caesar Octavius, ‘how you always know where to find me, Septem.’
‘It’s my job, Caesar. I may be assigned to the Praetorian Cohorts for the moment as the Seventh is disbanded and settled but the only things that have changed are the badges on my uniform. If I am to carry messages between you and Lord Antony, I need to know where you both are.’
‘Well, you have found me.’ Caesar’s tone made the observation light, almost joking. But his cool grey eyes matched Artemidorus’ in that they shifted from smoke to steel. The pair of them were seated on horseback, side by side, looking down through unseasonably sheeting rain to the half-built settlement of Casilium, whose pomerium, city limit, Antony had ploughed some time ago.
It was all very well, thought Artemidorus, for himself, Caesar, Agrippa, Rufus and their men to be sitting here wrapped in thick, waterproof cloaks. But the men and their families down in the mud of Casilium, were likely to be less than happy with the progress of their promised city and adjacent farmland. Those of them who understood a
griculture would have wished to see their smallholdings and gardens well sewn by now – with hope of some sort of harvest in the fast-approaching autumn and then in spring. But it was getting far too late in the year for that. Therefore, suspected Antony’s envoy insightfully, the young man’s icy demeanour had more to do with what he was looking at and with Antony, who should be taking better care of his ex-legionaries, than with the general’s emissary. ‘What does Antony wish to say to me?’ asked Caesar Octavius at last.
‘That the law passed under his brother Lucius, the Lex Antonia Agrarian is designed to settle the ex-legionaries in Italy once and for all. Including even the Seventh.’ Artemidorus gestured down at the mud-pit of the half-built city. All too well aware of the inappropriateness of his message. ‘Lepidus has relinquished control of them and is travelling north beyond the Alps to take up his new post as Governor of Gallia Narbonensis. With five new legions under his imperium. Settling the last of the ex-legionaries should remove the threat of restless soldiers upsetting the peace of the countryside and the city alike…’ he paused again, poignantly aware of the irony of his words. Antony, in distant Rome, assumed that the ex-legionaries were established happily and his problems with them were over. Caesar Octavius – and Artemidorus now – knew different.
‘And Antony asks that I should do nothing to undermine this peace. By offering them bounty to leave their idyllic newly settled towns and fertile farms and follow me instead.’ Caesar picked up the message, his tone as ironic as the situation. ‘Also, I have no doubt, he would be happier if I stopped my own representatives from sounding out some of the serving soldiers as to how much their allegiance might be worth. We have discussed this already, Septem, and I have told you what I intend. All the more so now that Antony has sent orders recalling the Macedonian legions. In case the Getae go to war. An interesting battle plan. Worthy, perhaps, of Marcus Licinius Crassus himself. To fear a confrontation in the east of Macedonia and answer it by bringing the army that was stationed there home!’ He did not bother mentioning the useless but rapacious governor-to-be Publius Dolabella, who had not yet dragged himself out of the fleshpots of Rome to begin his march eastwards towards his new, if depleted, command.
Caesar wheeled his horse impatiently and headed back towards the leather-roofed tent that was his own current home. It stood at the heart of a simple encampment – the sort Marius’ legionary Mules erected each night after a long day’s march through enemy territory. They passed through a gate in the stockade, where guards slammed to attention, alert in spite of the unseasonal cold and wet. Rode along the straight via to the centre of the camp where the commander’s quarters were pitched. A guard of legionaries crashed to attention, then sprang forward to help them dismount and take their horses. Caesar Octavius strode into his tent. Artemidorus followed, reminded with unsettling forcefulness of Divus Julius’ battle-camp fortresses in war-torn Gaul. They entered the tent side by side, surrendering their sodden cloaks to the legionaries who were acting as servants. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ asked Caesar hospitably. Artemidorus knew the young man well enough now to answer simply, ‘Water, please, Caesar.’
‘I will join you,’ said Caesar, who hardly ever touched wine. A legionary hurried to an amphora and returned with two goblets of fresh spring water. And a look of almost worshipful awe. ‘Thank you Marcus,’ said Caesar. Again reminding the spy forcefully of Divus Julius. Who seemed to know the name of every man following his banners and eagles.
The furnishings in the tent were Spartan to say the least of it. Artemidorus approved: he was Spartan by birth himself. But there were two chairs and the men sat, facing each other over a table big enough to hold a battle plan. As though they were equals. Certainly, thought the spy, it was a mark of Caesar’s absolute trust that the pair of them were utterly alone. For the word on the street was that there were assassins about, tasked with killing many more men than Artemidorus himself. Caesar chief amongst them. But here he was, casually unguarded. Even Agrippa and Rufus were out about some other business. Subverting Antony’s legions, like as not…
‘Cicero is on the run,’ observed Caesar, coming directly to the point – as though, once more, he was privy to Antony’s most secret thoughts and concerns.
‘He plans to go to Athens,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘He says he will simply study there.’ He sipped the icy water. It was very good indeed.
‘Not what Antony wants?’
‘No, Caesar. Antony asked Cicero to rule on a matter of law some months ago. And he has not done so. The general would prefer Cicero did not leave Italy until he has done so…’
‘A point of law?’ Caesar’s eyebrows arched interrogatively.
The secret agent leaned forward, measuring his words carefully. ‘Are you aware of your father’s dying words, Caesar? What they were and to whom they were spoken?’
iii
‘That explains a lot,’ nodded Caesar sometime later. ‘Not least why Cicero has paused at Elea in his flight to Athens in order to talk with Brutus and Cassius. Who are also, I understand, on the point of leaving Italy. Clearly something needed to be settled between them before they parted – perhaps never to meet again in this life.’
‘Brutus and Cassius are also en route for Athens,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘And then to Asia. To take up their posts as corn commissioners. Until they become respectively governors of Crete and Sicily.’
‘And Antony believes they will settle for this, does he? In spite of the fact that I understand Brutus has sent his freedman Herostratus into Macedonia to try and subvert the legions there. As though a couple of corn commissioners need six whole legions to back them up. Even if the Getae are growing restless. Which I doubt.’
‘But, as you know, Caesar, Brutus and Cassius have no money to pay for troops. If Cicero rules as Antony hopes in the matter of Divus Julius’ last words, Brutus will be hostis proscribed, outlawed, in any case. Cassius’ reputation tarnished by association. Both of them far from Rome and helpless. And the Macedonian legions are on their way back in any case. Five of them, at any rate.’
‘Leaving one legion as a fig leaf to confront the warlike Getae. Commanded, when he gets there, by the redoubtable Dolabella. If Gaius Trebonius, as Governor of Syria, allows him passage and a measure of support on his way eastwards…’ Caesar smiled cynically and Artemidorus thought how bad the boy’s teeth were. ‘But Antony’s plan to hamstring Brutus and Cassius may bear fruit – who knows? So, let us leave things as they stand for the moment with the murderous brothers-in-law. They are certainly relatively helpless until they get their hands on some money, as you observe. What does Antony propose to do about Cicero and this troublesome point of law in the meantime?’
‘There has already been much unrest in Rome,’ said the spy, choosing his words with even more care than usual. ‘The citizens feel that Cicero is deserting them. Having established himself as such an important figure in the aftermath of the murder. And now, instead of standing up for the so-called Libertores, he is running like a rabbit. It is shameful. Cowardly. A desertion that will go down in history beside the perfidy of Paris stealing another man’s wife to start the war which destroyed Troy. And the stupidity of Crassus losing seven legions to the Parthians. Seven legions, his son and his head…’
Caesar gave a bark of laughter. ‘So these are the rumours you have started spreading are they? If that gossip doesn’t bring him back, then nothing will. Cicero is as anxious about his reputation as Brutus is! They are both bound by their concern for their place in history as tightly as a criminal is bound by his chains. I think I will return to Rome and see what happens next for myself.’ He glanced around the tent and its Spartan furnishings. ‘Though I mustn’t linger there too long. In case I get a taste for the high life. Which I can no longer afford…’
The pair of them rode back side by side along the Appian Way with a modest escort led by Agrippa and Rufus. They rode fast and were approaching the Porta Capena in the Servian wall late the next day under a clearing
sky with a kindly late-summer southerly to welcome them. Only to find the entrance to the city blocked by a huge crowd of wildly cheering citizens. Just before they joined the outskirts of this mob, Caesar pulled his right rein gently and guided his horse into the space between two tombs shaded by a tall pine tree. ‘Marcus Vipsanius,’ he said to Agrippa, ‘go and find out what’s going on.’
‘I’ll go too,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Probably best on foot…’ Caesar nodded and the two men dismounted. It took hardly any time for them to join the cheering multitude. And no time at all after that to discover what was happening. ‘Cicero!’ the ecstatic mob started chanting. ‘Marcus Tullius, welcome home! Cicero has returned to us…’
Rather than steal the returning lawyer’s thunder, Caesar waited until he could enter the city quietly and anonymously. Artemidorus waited with him. But soon after they had ridden through the gate, their ways parted. Caesar, having sold all of the property belonging to himself and his immediate family, was proposing to stay at the house owned by Agrippa’s brother. Whose friendship Octavius had won by pleading with Divus Julius to spare him – even though he had sided against Caesar and fought with Cato’s defeated army in the civil war.
Artemidorus went straight to Antony.
As soon as he entered the via leading to Pompey’s villa where Antony was currently living and the Temple of Tellus beyond it where the Praetorian Cohorts were encamped, he was struck by the contrast with Caesar’s quarters. And the accuracy of his words. This huge villa might well represent a weakness in his notoriously self-indulgent general. The very frontage of the villa, with its costly representations of the prows of pirate ships destroyed in Pompey’s naval campaigns, looked so lavish. He rode forward almost in a trance, his mind racing. Hardly noticing the soldiers lining the street and guarding the massive door. He dismounted, still in a dream, and handed the reins of his horse over. Only when he reached the door itself did he pause.
