by Peter Tonkin
‘ “Tolerate, elevate, exterminate.” We’ve all heard that one,’ said Cornelius. The others nodded. Muttered angrily.
‘So has Caesar Octavian,’ said Artemidorus. He did not point out that he himself had told Octavian of Cicero’s words.
‘But in the long and short of it,’ said Cornelius. ‘What sort of reception are we likely to get from Cicero and the Senate when we take Caesar’s requests to them?’
‘Frosty,’ said Artemidorus.
Felix grunted. ‘That will be quite welcome,’ he said. ‘Given how hot Rome is at this time of year!’
iv
‘What did you think of him?’ asked Felix as the three of them strolled towards the quarters assigned to Artemidorus and Puella.
‘Cornelius? Seems like a good man.’
‘The best man to lead a delegation to the Senate?’
‘I don’t see why not...’ Artemidorus tone was defensive. He still didn’t quite trust Felix. And he couldn’t see where this line of questioning was likely to lead.
‘Oh, I think you do!’ Felix lowered his voice. ‘I think you see very well,’ he continued in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘What do I see?’
‘How deeply and completely they all hate Cicero and the murderous gang for which he’s the mouthpiece. The scum who murdered Divus Julius on the Ides of March last year. The legions worshipped the old man. They will never forgive the aristocratic scum who slaughtered him. Or the self-serving senators who stand with them. You could see it in Cornelius’ expression every time he or you mentioned Cicero’s name.’
‘So what? As I understand it, they’re just going down to Rome to deliver a series of demands from Caesar Octavian to the next Senate meeting. Whether they like the men they’re delivering this message to is neither here nor there.’
‘But what,’ whispered Felix, ‘What if there’s more to it than that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Once we see Puella to her billet, we will continue this discussion. With my commanding officer.’
‘Maecenas?’
‘Maecenas.’
Puella went to bed in Felix’ tent. In the place beside that reserved for Artemidorus. unusually silent and obedient. Under any other circumstances Artemidorus would have been at least worried by her continued, uncharacteristic, behaviour. But his mind was concentrated almost exclusively on Cornelius, Felix, and the likely subject of his meeting with Maecenas. For he was all too well aware that everything which had occurred since his arrival at the camp had been calculated. Carefully planned and executed. With only one objective in view that he could see.
No sooner had they shown Puella her resting-place than they left her, and Felix’ tent, making their way back to the central command tent and Maecenas’ Etruscan annexe. It was utterly dark now. A sultry, windless night with a low, star-filled sky. The southern horizon was silver with the promise of moonrise. Lamps glimmered in some of the tents they passed. Torches flamed occasionally at junctions of the pathways between them. It was not hard to find their way back to the tent where Artemidorus first met Octavian’s youthful spy-master.
The Etruscan setting was the same. But it was as though there was a new spirit animating Maecenas’ body. One that was less suspicious, more cheerful and open. ‘So,’ he said at once. ‘Cornelius talked through the mission and Felix explained the problem?’ His bright gaze shifting enquiringly from Artemidorus to his companion.
‘Without any prompting,’ answered Felix. ‘I didn’t have to guide the conversation at all.’
Maecenas nodded. Looked back at Artemidorus. ‘Septem?’ he said. ‘What do you make of it all?’ He gestured at a chair and the three of them sat. A legionary slave came in with a tray bearing wine, water and three cups. ‘That will do,’ said Maecenas. ‘We’ll serve ourselves.’
When they were alone again, he prompted, ‘Septem?’
Artemidorus could not afford to hesitate or prevaricate any longer. That much was clear. He had been tested. He had to assume he had passed the tests or he would not be here now. He had watched the men – albeit briefly – with every sense alert for double-dealing and treachery. He either had to trust them or walk away. He trusted neither of them completely. But when it came right down to it, he trusted Octavian. And so he answered honestly and fully.
‘Caesar Octavian is sending Cornelius and four hundred soldiers, mostly centurions, to Rome with a list of demands. This is not quite a declaration of hostilities but it is certainly a threat. Centurions are men of standing on the Cursus Honorum; potential Senators. Divus Julius, in fact appointed some centurions as senators before the other senators murdered him. Some would also be short-listed for Tribune of the Plebs. Men of political, social and financial weight, therefore. Not to be lightly ignored, even by the Senate. Independently of the fact that they represent eight legions. Senior men will make even the newly-recruited, half-trained legions look more powerful. So the Senate would be in no doubt that a refusal could turn out to be very dangerous indeed.’
‘So far so good,’ nodded Maecenas. ‘But there is a flaw, is there not?’
‘Cicero,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘Caesar Octavian doesn’t trust him and feels manipulated by him. But he likes the old windbag. And he knows him inside out. Four hundred centurions are a potent threat. The arrival of which will at least unsettle the Senate. Perhaps actually frighten them. Certainly undermine Cicero’s position. Back him into a corner. Which is in turn dangerous. One hesitates to compare Cicero with a rat, but in terms of being cornered, they are indeed comparable.’
‘Therefore...’ purred Maecenas.
‘Therefore you... or rather Caesar Octavian... must send the centurions and the legionaries to scare the Senate – but he must also send something – someone – who can convince Cicero that there is a way out of this if he plays along. Someone who is a part of the delegation and yet apart from it. Independent, in some way. Someone who does not hate him. Who would not spit on his shadow like Cornelius and do him down at the earliest opportunity. Someone, ideally, that Cicero himself knows and trusts in some measure.’
Artemidorus stopped speaking then and sat looking Maecenas in the eye. Waiting either for Caesar Octavian to re-emerge from behind the curtain. Or for Maecenas himself to speak. For he knew what must be coming next.’
But it was Felix who broke the silence. ‘Well, Septem,’ he said cheerfully, ‘It looks to me as though you just talked yourself into yet another secret mission.’
So Artemidorus arrived at the point he had known in his bones that he had been destined for ever since his arrival at Octavian’s camp. Perhaps since he had been dispatched here from Antony’s.
v
Puella was deeply asleep when Artemidorus and Felix returned. She did not stir when they too bedded down. For once Felix was quiet, as though awed by the enormity of the thing he had so casually suggested Artemidorus should do. Artemidorus should have found it easy enough to sleep after the lamp went out but he lay awake instead, sorting through the options in his head.
He re-examined the logic of what he had said and could not fault it. He looked at the situation from every angle. From Antony’s. Octavian’s. The Senate’s. Cicero’s. He wondered what Enobarbus would advise. But, in spite of their lengthy and intimate acquaintance, he simply could not make up his mind what the tribune would direct him to do. He turned, therefore to a consideration of Antony. How would Antony advise him to address this situation? There was no doubt or hesitation there. Antony’s whole life, on the battlefield and off it, had been dictated by impulsivity. Sometimes dangerously thoughtless, sometimes almost divinely inspired. But his watchword – whether he was aware of the fact or not – was impeto! attack!
When Artemidorus finally went to sleep, his mind was all-but made up. The only thing causing him to hesitate was a calculation. How could he bypass Maecenas and cause Octavian to make the request man to man? So that the would-be Consul would have no doubt as to Artemidorus’ willingness to he
lp him. Not for the spy’s own benefit, but as another plank in the bridge he was seeking to build between Antony and the young Caesar. For he was certain that unless that bridge was completed, they would set about destroying each other. Sooner rather than later. But if he managed to build it in time it and yoke the pair of them together, then they could set about conquering the world. He had no doubt about it at all. First Rome and then the world.
And then each other...
Even though Artemidorus had slept for only a few hours, he woke with the dawn, full of restless energy. Noting that Felix was already up and about while Puella was still deeply asleep, he pulled on a tunic, swung his belt around his waist, settled his sword and dagger on either hip, laced up his caligae and went out in search of the nearest latrine, water, prandium breakfast and his host. In that order. He found the water second, as he returned from the latrine. In a pair of bowls being brought to his tent. He rinsed his hands in one, then drank from the other. The slave carrying the water also had scented oil, a towel and a razor. ‘Or I can direct you to the cohort tonsor sir. That is where the centurion is at the moment. There isn’t much of a queue. And in any case, as the centurion’s guest, you will be seen first.’
‘Just the oil, thank you,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’m perfectly capable of shaving myself and have no intention of jumping the queue.’ As the slave went about his duties, the spy continued to his tent, rubbed the oil into the stubble on his cheeks and chin, then, using the blade of his gladius as a rudimentary mirror, he employed his almost magically sharp pugio in place of the razor he had refused.
Felix returned just as he was finishing. ‘Breakfast?’ he suggested. ‘But don’t get your hopes up. It’s Divus Julius Caesar’s prandium in this camp!’
‘Bread and water will do me fine,’ said Artemidorus, turning to follow his host. Then turning back with a frown.
‘Worried about your woman? Let her sleep! She’s safe and she looked as though she could use a rest.’
Artemidorus shrugged. Turned. Followed.
The bread was fresh and hot from the legion’s ovens. Oil, salt, and water were set out on a long table with platters of fruit for those who craved such Epicurean indulgences. But Felix and Artemidorus were satisfied with Divus Julius’ preferred breakfast of simple bread and water. As was Quintus, who soon joined them, looking uncharacteristically pale. Artemidorus was tempted to ask what had caused such an unusual hangover, but Felix swept them into the bustle around the castrum’s command tent. And the spy saw at once why last night’s conversations had been so vital. And held so soon after his arrival.
In the camp’s spacious Forum, a great body of men was assembling. Artemidorus deduced that these were the four hundred soldiers Octavian was planning to send south. Cornelius was in the middle of the front rank and Felix shouldered his way to the centurion’s side, Artemidorus and Quintus close behind him. Octavian was standing on the raised dais that contained the sacrificial altar, looking out across his rapidly assembling messengers. At his right shoulder stood Agrippa, Rufus and Maecenas. At his left, nearest the altar itself, were the Legion’s haruspices, all in their traditional Etruscan sacrificial robes, their assistants, and a white bull, whose entrails would foretell the future, when the Etruscan prophets read it in his liver.
If young Caesar Octavian was anything like his great uncle Divus Julius - or Antony, come to that – he would already have explained to the priests what he expected them to find on the liver when they read it, thought Artemidorus. A man planning to control the future of Rome – and, perhaps of the world – would have little compunction about dictating that tiny fraction of the future contained in the next few days.
The bull, already drugged and compliant, was struck between the eyes with a hammer. It fell to its knees. As it did so, one of the priests cut its throat with an expert stroke of a long, ritual knife. The cascade of blood that pumped out was caught in a great bowl held by two of the priests’ assistants. Even though the morning air was by no means cool, it steamed as it roared into the bowl. The bull collapsed, eyes rolling and tongue lolling. More helpers rolled it onto its back as soon as the blood slowed to a trickle. The knife opened the great white barrel of its belly. The chief priest, the sleeves of his robes tied back in the ritual Gabine knot, plunged his arms to the elbow into the hot entrails, pulling free the liver, which was separated from the rest of the viscera by a few more expert strokes of the knife. The smoking organ was laid on a golden dish and the assembled priests gathered round it, searching for prognostications in its form and condition.
At last the chief priest turned to face the assembled centurions. ‘The Gods predict continued peace and plenty in the castrum of Gaius Julius Caesar Divus Fili,’ the man intoned. ‘And success for the mission on which he will dispatch the men assembled here!’
Artemidorus was not surprised by the prophesy. But he was struck by the title the haruspex gave Caesar Octavian. Gaius Julius Caesar Divus Filii. The old plebeian Octavianus family name was gone. Young Caesar had clearly taken another step along the road to assuming his adopted father’s full patrician identity. Perhaps, in time, his status as a god. Which was as interesting as it was informative.
vi
That thought remained very much to the forefront of Artemidorus’ mind after the sacrifice was completed. Particularly when, at a gesture from Maecenas, Felix and Artemidorus followed Octavian and his lieutenants into the command tent. Though the spy was mildly surprised that the soldiers were allowed disperse to their travel preparations without a speech from their newly-named leader.
Instead, Caesar chose to speak to him. There was no question of delegating the task to Maecenas now. No prevaricating. The young Caesar took the lead. His words clear, forthright and – as far as the spy could tell – honest. ‘Antony has written that he is open to an accord but wishes to wait before he and I get together formally to hammer out some sort of agreement. He gives various reasons which are, frankly, specious – he is worried about taking impulsive action that might put Fulvia and the children in further danger, for instance. They have apparently been staying with Cicero’s friend Atticus since he was declared outlaw and they were thrown onto the streets when his assets and properties were seized by the state. He is worried that the Senate could arrest them at any moment. Would certainly take them hostage if he began to threaten Rome. And so he chooses to wait. Plancus writes that he will not as yet fly in the face of the Senate’s instructions either but that he fears Decimus Albinus is a broken man.’ Octavian paused.
Artemidorus looked Octavian straight in the eye as he spoke, very well aware that Maecenas and the others would have worked out Antony’s simple strategy long ago. ‘Whatever he says, I believe Antony really wishes to wait before committing to an accord with you, Caesar, because he believes that if Plancus deserts the Senate, he will come over to join him and Lepidus. Though Cicero is quite capable of holding his family as hostage if he feels the need.’
‘In the meantime Antony will be making overtures to Pollio in Further Spain,’ added Maecenas, proving the spy’s suspicions to be correct.
Artemidorus nodded. ‘If Fortuna smiles on him, Antony will have command of Plancus’ and Pollio’s legions as well as Bassus’ and Lepidus’ before he sits down with you, Caesar. That will strengthen his hand in any negotiations that you plan to hold.’
‘My thoughts precisely, Septem. But I am not particularly disturbed by Antony’s plan. If and when we come to an agreement, it will not matter who commands what legion.’
‘No, Caesar,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘It won’t matter as long as you are facing the Senate or the so-called Libertores who murdered Divus Julius; Brutus and Cassius and their armies. But it may come to be important later.’
‘When Antony and I face each other you mean? Yes. It will be important then. But by then I will have worked to change the balance of power once again.’
The four hundred soldiers reassembled little more than an hour later to enjoy a brief and light m
eal of roast beef from the sacrificial bull – a final gesture of acceptance of the gods’ positive promises. And if there were those, like Artemidorus, who compounded their cynical suspicion that the divine message had been dictated by Divus Fili the son of a god with the suspicion that several less-holy bulls must have joined the sacrifice in supplying so much meat, no-one said a thing.
The interim for Artemidorus had been spent with Octavian and his immediate advisors, discussing what verbal message he should carry to Cicero along with the written one Octavian was sending south. Discussions that had widened to include a decision to send Mercury and Furius back to Antony with Octavian’s non-committal reply. That the rest of the contubernium should wait here with the wagons until Artemidorus returned, under the nominal command of Ferrata or Quintus. And that, as Cornelius would be attended by a legionary guard as well as by legionary slaves, Artemidorus should chose a companion from amongst his own little command. Which posed a problem – for his head said Quintus while his heart said Puella.
A problem no sooner presented than solved. By Quintus himself, who came through the throng of legionaries and centurions seated at their long tables eating their chunks of bubula beef. ‘Septem,’ said the legionary, his face a picture of concern. ‘I cannot wake Puella. She is like a statue. Responding to nothing I can do.’
Artemidorus rose fractionally before Octavian, hurrying away even as the young general mounted the rostrum to deliver his speech of farewell and final instruction. He followed his friend to Puella’s bedside where he too tried to wake her. Then, having failed to do so, took the pulse at her throat, suddenly fearing that she was dead. Even though he was warm to the touch and her limbs moved easily. The pulse was there, though thin and irregular. Her breath clouded the blade of his gladius held close to her lips.
Ferrata went to find the camp physician and within moments returned with Glyco. The Greek doctor was middle-aged, wild-haired and scrawny. His eyes still carried the haunted expression of a man who has been accused of murdering a Consul of Rome on the orders of a Caesar. But he knew his job. ‘I have seen such conditions before. Especially at the arena,’ he said, cracking the knuckles of his surprisingly large hands. ‘Has she been hit in the head recently?’ As he spoke he gently pulled her eyelids apart to reveal a strange phenomenon. Her pupils were of different sizes. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly to himself.
