by Peter Tonkin
But most of all, there were the soldiers. Recently retired from the legions. There were Galicians from the IIIrd, Gauls from the VIIIth, Iberians like Ferrata from the VIth and the IXth. Especially from the VIth. Because Caesar had disbanded the legion after the hard-fought battle of Munda. Ferrata and his friends wanted confirmation that their land around Arelate would be delivered as promised. That the proposed settlement of Colonia Iulia Paterna Arelatensium Sextanorum, would stand as Caesar planned it should.
The single topic of conversation they all shared was Caesar. What had he promised them? Would his promises be kept? Who were these Libertores who had murdered him? Why had he not been avenged? Where were his friends in the Senate? All of whom had formally sworn a great oath to honour, serve and protect him? Where were his friends on the streets?
By the time he reached the Temple of Tellus and shouldered his way through the crowd there, his face was folded into a very worried frown indeed. The presence of the soldiers seemed to have shifted the balance somehow. Yesterday the mood of the crowd had been lighter. They had been amused at the sight of Antony’s breastplate under his ceremonial robes. But these men were angry. And a good number of them were armed.
He really had to get to Antony and warn him.
*
Artemidorus watched through the eye slits of the Samnite face mask. Enobarbus ran up the steps onto the portico of the temple. Frowning. Apparently too preoccupied to notice that he had actually pushed right past him. Samnite headdress and all. He was standing beside the statue of Ceres. Hercules was over by the statue of Quintus Cicero. These were the only places where it was possible to stand and watch the crowd without being jostled or swept away. The spy had no idea where Ferrata was. But he suspected he would be somewhere in the heaving mass close by.
There was an atmosphere of lively expectation, tinged with an edge of impatience. And a current of anger which surfaced every now and then in confrontations and shouting matches. But no actual fights. Yet.
As Enobarbus was shown into the temple, Artemidorus got a brief view of the interior, as he had done yesterday. Antony and Dolabella were sitting in gilded curule chairs. Side by side on the dais. Facing the packed senatorial seats. In front of the two consuls stood the tall figure of Caesar’s father-in-law Lucius Calpurnius Piso. Also facing the Senate. Holding a papyrus scroll. Obviously reading from it. Then the doors closed once again and there was nothing more to see.
A rustle of expectation ran through the crowd. Many of them had seen what Artemidorus had seen. And they knew as well as he did what was going on behind the closed temple doors.
Piso was reading Caesar’s will to the Senate.
Artemidorus fervently hoped that the contents of the actual document were not too different from the digest Antony had received along with the other personal papers from Calpurnia. Or a good number of the plans they discussed late last night and early this morning would come to nothing.
But time dragged on and the doors of the temple remained stubbornly shut. The crowd in the temple grounds continued to grow. And those who had arrived first started to become even more restless. Their irritation spreading rapidly throughout the gathering multitude. An irritation, Artemidorus calculated grimly, exacerbated by the fact that it was getting hotter. As the sun crept up towards its noonday position in a lightly overcast sky. People were becoming thirsty. Hungry. Increasingly desperate to relieve themselves. And the nearest public latrines were quite a way distant. Like the nearest tabernae taverns.
To pass the time and take his mind off bodily functions, he tried to work out what must be happening in the Senate meeting. Piso would be taking his time reading the will. He was an old-fashioned, punctilious man. Seemingly much older than his late son-in-law. Though they were actually the same age. When, at last, Piso finished reading the will, the Senate would have to vote on it to ratify it. But wait! Would they actually debate and vote on it section by section? Or would they wait until it was all read and then debate and vote? It was taking so long he began to suspect that they must be voting on each individual section and bequest.
And once the will was voted through or voted down, that was only the beginning. Were there appendices? Codicils? Who were the executors? Were they to the Senate’s liking? More debate. More voting. Then, once the will was dealt with, there would be the matter of the funeral. A pyre was already being erected on the Campus Martius beside the tomb of Caesar’s beloved daughter Julia. But there would need to be a lively debate about the procedeure for taking Caesar’s body from the Domus to the pyre. Where would the body be displayed? Who would do the oration? Caesar had no close male relatives in Rome. But Cassius, Brutus and the rest would not be happy at the prospect of allowing the next most logical candidate do the job. Because, as they had already discussed, that candidate was Antony.
Preparations at the Domus would be well under way, especially with Cyanea and Puella helping. But who would actually pay? State funerals like Caesar’s were lengthy and expensive. Sulla’s had been a carnival. A performance. A circus. The funeral games alone had lasted days. And Sulla had been accompanied to the Elysian Fields by the spirits of hundreds of gladiators slain in his name. If the expenses were coming out of Caesar’s personal fortune that was one thing. If the Senate voted for the Republic to meet the cost, then that was something else again…
Artemidorus’ reasoning had reached this stage when the doors opened. Antony and Piso appeared. With Enobarbus a couple of steps behind Antony. For a moment the crowd went wild. Shouting, cheering and applauding. Then Antony held up his hand and there was instant silence. Silence so intense it was almost like a sound. ‘Friends,’ he said, his voice carrying easily over the expectant hush. ‘Here is Caesar’s father-in-law Lucius Piso. I urge you to listen courteously to him as he reads Caesar’s will. But before he does so, I wish to inform you of several things. First, the will has been accepted and ratified by the Senate. Like all the rest of Caesar’s appointments, decisions and bequests have been. There was debate about some of the provisions. But in the end they were all accepted. Secondly, I must inform you that I have been named – and duly appointed – as one of the executors of the will. Alongside Lucius Piso himself.’
The crowd burst into loud applause at this, and cheering broke out again. Until Antony raised his hand once more.
‘As executor, I now have many duties to perform. But there is more. The Senate have agreed that Caesar’s body will be displayed in the Forum tomorrow. At which time, I will present a brief oration. As the Senate has agreed. At the urging of Marcus Junius Brutus, whom I thank. Then the body will be taken to the Campus Martius where Caesar’s funeral pyre is already being built. Furthermore, the Senate has agreed that the Republic itself will meet all the costs of the funeral. After which, the four days of Quinquatria games that Caesar himself instituted, will be dedicated to him.
‘Friends, as you will understand, there is much for me to do. I have been summoned to the Domus to engage in the preparations for the funeral tomorrow. So I must leave you.
‘But, as I say, I urge you most strongly to listen quietly and calmly to Lucius Piso. Quietly and calmly, friends.’
And having delivered that short speech he ran down the steps and strode through the crowd that parted for him. With Enobarbus immediately in his wake. Brushing past Artemidorus and marching onwards.
But Enobarbus lingered for an instant before following. ‘What did you think of that?’ he breathed.
‘I think it was carefully designed to start a riot,’ Artemidorus answered.
Enobarbus gave a bark of laughter. ‘You wait,’ he said. Throwing the last words over his shoulder as he followed his general before the crowd closed in once more. ‘You wait ’til Piso reads the will!’
*
Piso’s voice went with his appearance and his reputation, thought Artemidorus. It was thin, precise. Punctilious.
‘I have here the will of the Divine Gaius Julius Caesar,’ he said. Almost inaudibly. Then he
cleared his throat, spoke louder and repeated himself. ‘…Gaius Julius Caesar, Pater Patriae, Pontifex Maximus, Consul of Rome, Dictator for Life…’
‘Get on with it!’ yelled a voice from the crowd. And the cry was immediately taken up, drowning out Piso’s attempt to list all of Caesar’s honours and titles.
Wounded, Piso waited for calm to be restored. Then he continued. ‘I Gaius Julius Caesar, Pater Patriae et cetera, et cetera…’ He was not going to risk the indignity of being shouted down again, ‘do hereby will and declare the following. First Bequest: That two thirds of my personal fortune, lands, properties and estates other than those mentioned below, I bequeath to my great-nephew, Gaius Octavianus, grandson of my beloved sister Julia and son of my niece Atia Balbus Caesonia. Who I hereby adopt as my son and heir. To whom I also bequeath my name, Gaius Julius Caesar. To him and to his heirs in perpetuity…’
The crowd stirred. Artemidorus found it hard to read their mood. Some of the soldiers knew Caesar’s great-nephew, whom they called Octavian. He was a sickly but intrepid nineteen-year-old. Currently studying in Apollonia. He had been with his great-uncle on some of his campaigns. Most recently in Spain. Where he had arrived in spite of illness. Shipwreck. And a dangerous journey through enemy territory. He was a popular lad. Everyone seemed fairly content with his nomination as principal benefactor.
But then, almost immediately, things started to slide out of control.
‘However,’ Piso read, raising his voice once again, ‘should any sons be born to me before my death – but by my death should they be left as babies or infants yet to assume the toga virilis – then I place their raising and education under the guardianship of my dear friends and associates Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Trebonius and Gaius Servilius Casca…’
‘Hey,’ shouted someone. ‘Weren’t these three amongst the ones who murdered him?’
Artemidorus thought the voice sounded like Ferrata’s but he couldn’t be certain.
‘Yes!’ shouted others in return. ‘They were all Libertores… Murderers…’
‘Leaders of the murderers…’
But the momentary interruption stopped when Piso held up his hand again. ‘…to each of whom I leave money and valuables to the sum of…’
Whatever the sum amounted to, it was lost beneath the howls of outrage. More shouts. Much louder. Even Artemidorus was shocked. That so many of the men he trusted so completely – willing even to give them guardianship of some infant son – should be among his murderers! And that he was bequeathing them not only his trust. But also his money and valuables. This was a detail that had not been included in the outline amongst Caesar’s documents. He wondered how badly Antony had been shocked. Then he began to wonder what other shocks and surprises were coming. As Piso called for silence so he could continue reading.
Suddenly Enobarbus’ parting words took on an extremely sinister implication. Wait ’til Piso reads the will.
Piso waited for silence to return before continuing. ‘Second Bequest: The remainder of my personal estate I bequeath to my next nearest living male relatives, Lucius Pinarius and Quintus Pedius, to be shared equally between them.’ There was nothing controversial here, so the crowd settled again.
‘Third Bequest: To the People of Rome, to their families and heirs…’ Piso paused, clearly expecting some reaction. But there was none. Other than an expectant hush. ‘I bequeath my villa, walks and gardens on the Janiculum Hill beyond the Tiber for their use and enjoyment. Also in perpetuity.’
‘But that’s where he housed Queen Cleopatra!’ said a lone voice, full of wonder.
‘Cleopatra!’ said another, awed. ‘And he’s given it all to us!’
That was the last articulated sentence Artemidorus heard before wild applause began again. But even beneath the cheering, he heard snatches of conversation. The beginnings of real confusion. Anger. Outrage.
‘…But Brutus said he was a tyrant seeking to rob us…’
‘…steal away our freedom. But now he gives us freedom to walk…’
‘…it’s not right! They lied. The Libertores. He wasn’t a tyrant. They didn’t do it for us at all…’
The centurion’s stomach clenched as it sometimes did when the tide of battle suddenly turned against him and his men. There was real, immediate danger here.
Piso’s hand went up once more. This time it took longer for the crowd to settle. But when he said, ‘Fourth Bequest: To every adult male citizen of Rome…’
Everything went absolutely still. Surprised, Piso looked up and lost his place. So he began again. ‘To every adult male citizen of Rome in Rome at this time, from my personal fortune, I bequeath three hundred sestercii, or seventy-five Attic drachmas. To be paid in coin. As at my triumphs.’
Artemidorus looked around at the stunned faces. Three hundred sestercii wasn’t quite as much as Caesar had given at the last of his triumphs on his return from Spain. But it was still more than Ferrata and his soldier friends earned in almost half a year. The cheering started again. This time it was so loud that the disguised spy heard none of the comments that his neighbours were making. But he was certain there were some. He could almost smell the anger and outrage. Almost taste it.
This time Piso had to wait a long time with his hand in the air.
Then he continued. ‘Addenda to the main Bequests: I name as my principal heir in the second degree, in case that Gaius Octavianus cannot for any reason accept my bequest to him, my trusted friend and close associate over many years Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus. Whom I hereby adopt as my son and to whom I also bequeath my name: Caesar.’
The stunned silence at this news allowed Piso to complete his reading. ‘In pursuance of which, I name as my chief executors, my father in law, Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesonius, and my friend and associate Marcus Antonius who I also name as my heir in the second degree.’
Piso straightened. Filled his lungs. ‘This is the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,’ he shouted. ‘As agreed, authorised and endorsed by the Senate of the Republic of Rome. On behalf of the People of Rome. On this Dies Solis, four days after the Ides in the month of Mars, Ab Urbe Condita since the founding of the city 710.’
*
‘Why didn’t they riot?’ asked Enobarbus. ‘I was certain they were going to riot.’
‘It was the last bit, I think. It just seemed to stun them.’ Artemidorus shrugged. He didn’t really understand it either. ‘It seemed to me that they were on the very edge. That almost anything else would have set them off. But that final section simply took the wind out of their sails. It was very strange. To see a crowd behave like that!’
‘What? About Antony being executor? Or that he was heir in the second degree? That came close to stunning Antony – it wasn’t in the outline he’s read.’
‘No. The bit about Decimus Brutus Albinus. It was the irony. The scale of the betrayal, I’d guess. That one day Decimus Albinus should be held up by Marcus Junius Brutus and the rest as the heroic heart of the Libertores’ plot. The man who finally talked the over-ambitious tyrant into attending the fatal Senate meeting. In spite of the terrible auguries. In spite of the warning dreams and wonders. Who actually led him into the chamber by the hand. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Who supplied the gladiators as a bodyguard for the murderers.
‘Then, that only four days later, this same Decimus Albinus should be named Caesar’s heir. Adopted as his son. Bequeathed Caesar’s name. It seemed to focus all the rest of it. That so many of the men mentioned in the will as close and trusted friends should have taken their daggers to him. Brutus, Trebonius, Gaius Casca. And Decimus Albinus worst of all. It was more than they could comprehend. It simply seemed to stun them. And so they went away quietly. And did nothing.’
It was late afternoon. The two men were in the tablinum of Antony’s villa, where they had met after the crowd dispersed. So silently. So sinisterly. There was no sign of Antony. Or of Cyanea. Who were both almost certainly still in the Domus getting ready for tomorrow. Only Anton
y had been invited to the preparations which were intensely private and the responsibility of the women. So the tribune had been sent away.
In Antony’s continued absence, the cena that Fulvia presented was simple. Eggs, olives and salad. Bread. Fish, meat, puls flavoured with garum, intensely salty fish oil. Fruit. Water and wine. Quickly but courteously consumed. Which suited both men. The streets might be quiet, but the atmosphere in them was still tense. As soon as they had eaten, Artemidorus and Enobarbus went out again, side by side. Unarmed. With no disguise. Their objective to go to one or two of the taverns favoured by soldiers and to listen to the conversation there.
‘The atmosphere was like this on the eve of the battle of Munda,’ said Enobarbus. ‘We had eight legions and Pompey’s son Gnaeus had thirteen. They were in the stronger position uphill from us. But that wasn’t going to stop Caesar. That’s just about the worst I can remember.’
‘The eve of Crassus’ last battle against Spartacus,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ve never known tension like it. It was near the village of Quaglietta on the bank of the River Sele. In Brundisium south of Rome. It was against a slave army so it was never named as an official battle. No triumph. Crassus crucified six thousand of the survivors though. All along the Via Appia to Capua.’
‘You sometimes wonder whether the gods ran out of patience with him. He got what they decided he deserved at Carrhae. Lost seven legions, his son and then his head. Do you think the gods ran out of patience with Caesar too?’
