by Peter Tonkin
Gaius Largus gaped at him for an instant, then turned and sprinted away towards the basilica. Almost immediately, a line of seven soldiers burst out of the shadows to confront him. Largus froze. Turned. Ran back. ‘My head is apparently worth thousands of attic drachmas,’ he gasped. ‘If I’m to lose it tonight, I’d rather you had it than they did. You at least treated me fairly.’
‘Sensible fellow,’ said Ferrata. He stepped forward and lopped Largus’ head off with one massive blow of his gladius. The corpse toppled sideways, fountaining blood. The head bounced in front of Furius, who managed to catch hold of it. Just as the second squad arrived.
‘I am the Tribune Pontius Rutillius Lupus,’ their leader announced. ‘And that head belongs to me.’
‘In that case,’ said Artemidorus, ‘perhaps we had better separate you from the one you’re wearing on your shoulders at the moment.’
‘How dare you!’ snarled Lupus. ‘I serve Marcus Aemilius Lepidus...’
‘While we serve General Marcus Antonius...’ countered the spy softly.
‘And we serve Gaius Julius Caesar Divus Filii,’ said Popilius Lenas’ familiar sneering drawl as he and his men stepped out of the shadows at Artemidorus’ right shoulder. ‘There’s heads enough for all, Lupus. Though if you’re looking for those belonging to any of the Cicero family, you’re too late. They’ve gone.’
‘But the gates are guarded,’ spluttered Lupus. ‘I brought orders from Lepidus...’
‘Even so. Houses dark. Ovens cold. Ciceros all escaped.’
‘Right then,’ capitulated Lupus. ‘Who’s next?’
‘That depends on who you’ve got,’ answered Popilius Lenas.
‘The lists overlap,’ observed Artemidorus. ‘Even leaving the Ciceros out of the calculation, there are some men on all three lists by the sound of things. Some on two, I would guess. And some just on one. Gaius Largus was on Lupus’ list but not on mine. So it depends which Tribune or Senator has upset which Triumvir. Our next step should be to post our lists in the Forum, then make more of a plan. My list is with Consul Quintus Pedius. He’s planning to post it as part of a plan to keep control of the situation. He doesn’t want panic in the city.’
Pontius Lupus and Popilius Lenas exchanged a long glance that showed how little they cared whether there was panic in the city. But then Popilius Lenas shrugged. ‘It makes no difference to me and my men,’ he said. ‘We have collected enough heads tonight to secure our fortunes.’
‘As have we,’ agreed Lupus. ‘This night’s work alone will buy me a villa to rival Minucius Basilus’ famous houses in Pompeii , Formia and Tibur.’
‘And I will commission a golden statue,’ said Popilius Lenas. ‘Though I’m not sure what it will present – other than myself, my sword and somebody’s head!’
‘Houses and statues!’ said Ferrata. ‘With all due respect, Tribunes, a poor legionary like me will spend what gold I get on the best quality whores and wines that I can find. So I can happily go to the underworld through fornication or Falernian. Or both.’
Popilius Lenas gave a grunt of laughter. ‘And they say the common legionary lacks ambition...’
As this seemingly friendly banter continued, the three squads trooped down the last of the Palatine and into the Forum Romanum. One glance was enough to tell Artemidorus how brutally successful the others had been. In front of Divus Julius’ newly positioned wooden-fronted Rostra speaker’s platform there stood a set of stakes set on roughly fashioned bases. Artemidorus counted ten at a glance. And on the sharp point of each of there was impaled a head.
In front of the grisly display a man was kneeling as though in some kind of worship. A man wearing a formal toga with senatorial stripes. Some glimmer of recognition took Artemidorus hurrying to the worshipper’s side. He crouched, reaching gently for the slumped shoulder. The profile was familiar enough. The kneeling man was the Quintus Pedius, Caesar’s co-Consul and relative.
At Artemidorus’ touch, he slumped forward, his forehead hitting the pavement of the Forum with a sharp crack!
Artemidorus looked up at the rest of them.
‘Consul Quintus Pedius is dead,’ he said.
XI
TRIUMVIRATE
i
Caesar entered the city first, three days later. Which was his right as Consul. As the only surviving Consul, in fact, thought Artemidorus, as he watched him do it. 711 had been a bad year for men holding consular office. There would be at least six in the end. Hirtius and Pansa, killed in battle at Mutina, had been replaced by Caesar and Pedius. Quintus Pedius had died three nights ago – apparently simply taxed beyond his strength by his efforts to keep the city quiet in the face of seventeen heads spiked in the Forum. According to Antistius the physician who had examined Pedius’ corpse with the same thoroughness with which he examined Divus Julius’, post mortem, on the afternoon of the Ides of March last year. And indeed, at Spurinna’s request, also that of the elderly haruspex Plecu Apatrui.
Caesar would be surrendering his title to Ventidius Bassus soon and then looking for a man from his own party to replace Pedius. The rumours suggested that it was likely to be Gaius Carrinas, the general who Pollio had replaced on the Iberian campaign a few years ago – but a staunch Caesarian in any case. Which would make six. An unheard-of number. The last two had a chance of surviving to the end of the year, though, for there was little enough of November left – in spite of the lingering summer heat so out of place in late autumn. Then only December to go before Lepidus and Plancus were due to succeed them the instant the kalends of the New Year 712 dawned under the aegis of the two-faced god of exits and entrances, endings and beginnings - Janus.
Caesar paraded in thorough the Porta Fontinalis on horseback. Punctilious as ever: not in a chariot because this was not a Triumph. Having led his men down the Flaminain Way across the Field of Mars. The rhythmic crash of their marching feet drowned beneath the cheering of the crowds which had come out to welcome him. As though he was going to save them from whatever horror had caused the severed heads that still stood spiked in the Forum. Most of the applauding multitude blissfully unaware that he had actually generated it. And was about to unleash more.
Caesar was accompanied by a personal guard like the Praetorian cohort first set up by Antony. And then by the Martia Legion. All of them in full armour. With their shields, spears, swords and daggers. Only the veteran legion’s iron control stopped it looking like an invasion. For the older men and women shouting, cheering and waving at the magnificent parade, this was another unsettling reminder of Sulla – the last man who had actually brought his legions past the pomerium fully armed. And immediately instituted a proscription of unrivalled savagery.
Artemidorus and his soldiers were assembled outside the Temple of Juno Moneta at the peak of the Arx, on the second spur of the Capitoline. Separated by a narrow ridge from the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus which stood on the larger spur. Enobarbus had arrived the night before with Quintus, Puella and the rest of the team, sent ahead of his legion by Antony. With orders that they should come up here at first light. Enobarbus himself apparently had other work to do. Including, surprisingly, a visit to the animal cages between the Circus Maximus and Forum Baorium.
They had made Quintus’ vast old villa their base as usual and Artemidorus had reacquainted himself with many of the reasons he found Puella filling his mind whenever they were parted. They had fallen asleep late and sated – waking refreshed and full of energy in the morning. To eat Divus Julius’ favoured breakfast of bread and water on the move as they hurried through the stirring city to their lookout on top of the Arx.
The plan according to Enobarbus was that Caesar would come to the Arx to sacrifice as soon as possible after his arrival. Spurinna, his acolytes and his manumitted slave Kyros stood by the stone altar of the Auguraculum the city’s centre of prophesy, holding a carefully drugged and quiescent pure white ram. The augur in the same full ritual robes that he had been wearing when his master and mentor
Plecu Apatrui had prophesied and died out on the Field of Mars. The ram selected as its thick fleece would protect it in case the gods threw any more hailstones down on them.
The contubernium was ordered to ensure that the holy place was secure today, tomorrow and the day after when Antony and Lepidus would each arrive and come to sacrifice, though Artemidorus found himself wondering uneasily why he and his team had been chosen for the task. ‘Caesar has Lucius Flavius Felix and his men. Not to mention Lenas and Herrenius with their contubernium working for Maecenas,’ he said to the tribune, shouting over the cheering booming up from below. ‘Lepidus has Pontius Rutillius Lupus and his men. That’s four security teams including our own. Why choose us?’
Enobarbus shrugged, refusing to look Artemidorus in the eye.
Artemidorus frowned. The most obvious answer was the most likely, he thought. The other contubernia or rather crypteia hit squads were already out in the city, hunting the men named on the next set of lists that the triumvirs were preparing to nail to the door of the Comitia. Collecting the next set of heads. And the fabulous rewards that went with them.
***
But then the situation in which they found themselves took precedence in his mind. Their position gave them a good view of Caesar’s arrival, of the Praetorian guard crowding the Clivus Argentarius roadway immediately outside the gate behind him. And of the Martia Legion winding like a metal-clad serpent across the Field Of Mars and away along the Flaminian Way for the better part of a mile. Had the spy raised his eyes further, he would have seen, beyond the Temple of Jupiter, the peak of the Janiculum in the distance.
He should have felt elated by the magnificence of the occasion, of his position and of the view. Instead he felt confined. Trapped.
The strange feeling did not lessen as he watched Caesar riding through the Forum. Coming to a halt beside the black column erected to mark the spot where Divus Julius’ body had been cremated by his grieving people. Dismounting from his magnificent black stallion – which the men called Bucephalus as though young Caesar were Alexander reborn. Then, alone except for three friends, apparently modest and humble, the man who controlled Rome and a third of the world, toiled up the steep path onto the Capitoline, swinging right at the head of the climb to enter the Arx.
ii
Artemidorus and Enobarbus watched Caesar’s slow progress, each suddenly reminded of something they had not considered for some time. That Caesar was Alexander’s soul trapped in a weak and sickly body. Nevertheless, the contubernium formed a guard of honour as the Consul and his modest company arrived. Those in armour – including Puella – to the front. Those in other dress, including Venus, Adonis and Notus to the rear. Kyros with his old master, Spurinna, beside the sacrifice and the ancient stone altar. Oddly, as Caesar reached the top and paused to catch his breath, he chose to lean on Artemidorus rather than Agrippa, Maecenas or Rufus.
‘Sacrificium,’ he said to the spy as he did so, so softly that no-one else heard him speak.
Frowning with surprise, Artemidorus followed the Consul and his friends to the altar. Stood to attention as the ram was stunned; had its throat cut by an assistant while another deftly caught every drop of blood in a huge golden bowl. Then had its belly slit by Spurinna, helped by Kyros and the acolytes who served the haruspex. Stood silently watching as the soothsayer reached over the steaming snakepit of guts into the gaping belly and pulled out the liver. Saw how it fitted perfectly on the inscribed and moulded plate Kyros was holding. Held his breath to hear Spurinna announcing that the will of the gods as revealed in the ram’s liver meant nothing but good fortune for the ancient City and the new Caesar. Watched Kyros as he carried the ritual tray containing the liver as Spurinna showed it to Caesar in an unusually honorific gesture. Implying that the young general was an adept in the supernatural mysteries as well as in those of war and statesmanship.
As the soothsayer spoke quietly to Caesar, twelve vultures flew low over the city, their forms and numbers clearly revealed against the lightening sky. Gasps of wonder from below were followed almost immediately by renewed cheering and applause.
Artemidorus found himself amused by this proof that Caesar was indeed adept in all three of the skills Spurinna had implied. Wondering where Agrippa had managed to find and cage the birds for him. And how he had managed to have them released at the crucial moment when he himself was standing beside his divus filii friend. But the mechanics of it hardly mattered. These were the birds – in type and number – which legend said had flown above Romulus when he made his first sacrifice founding the city. Everyone knew the story. Everyone recognised the significance. And the good will of the gods that the huge birds represented.
Caesar turned, marching smartly towards the opening that would lead him back down off the Arx and into the Forum. Apparently invigorated by the sacrifice and the prophesy. Alexander’s spirit in a body closer to Antony’s, suddenly. In strength if not size. Enobarbus, Artemidorus and his legionaries moved swiftly, once more forming a guard of honour. This time Caesar did not pause or speak. He marched past the rigid soldiers with Agrippa, Maecenas and Rufus in his wake, to go clattering down the hill, striking sparks off the flint pathway with the hobnails on their caligae boots.
***
After they were gone, Artemidorus went back to the altar. Spurinna had promised that, if the auguries were good and the dead beast therefore available, he would share it with Artemidorus and his contubernium. For the flesh of sacrificial animals was not only the sweetest, but also, sometimes, seasoned with the blessings of the gods.
‘I will take the right hind quarter,’ said the soothsayer. ‘You may take the rest. After all, at least one of my men will be sharing it with you...’ he glanced indulgently down at Kyros. But something in the young man’s expression caught Artemidorus’ eye, reminding him of Caesar’s whispered word. He followed as the manumitted slave walked away from the bustle of the butchery. When they were briefly alone together, Kyros pushed a tightly-rolled scrap of parchment into Artemidorus’ hand.
‘Where did you get this?’ he demanded.
‘From Caesar,’ answered Kyros. ‘He slid it to me as I was showing him the sacrifice.’
The spy walked off the open space and into the portico of the temple, unrolling the parchment as he went.
He read what was written there with a prickle down the back of his neck which was a mixture of excitement and fear.
Pocketing the parchment in the pouch beside the dagger on his left hip, he returned to the others. He walked straight up to Enobarbus. ‘I have had enough of this,’ he said. ‘I am Antony’s man. I will guard Antony’s entrance into the city and his sacrifice tomorrow. But then my crypteia and I will go head-hunting.’
‘Crypteia? Not contubernium? Why so Spartan all of a sudden?’ Enobarbus narrowed his eyes and frowned.
‘You know why. Crypteia work outside the rules of war. Of civilisation if need-be. To kill and kill. If Felix, Lenas and Lupus pretend they are doing anything else, then they are mistaken or they are lying.’
‘And who will you and your murderous crypteia go hunting? Who is so important that you will disregard the general’s orders. And, I warn you, risk crucifixion for you and all who follow you.’
‘You know who. Cicero. If we bring him Cicero’s head, he will forgive us anything.’
‘It will be incredibly dangerous,’ warned Quintus.
‘No more so than leading the Seventh against Vercingetorix and his Gauls at Alesia,’ said Artemidorus, who had been Primus Pilae first spear - senior centurion - of the Seventh Legion at the time.
‘On that occasion, if I recall,’ snapped Quintus, who had been at his shoulder all those years ago, ‘not only Mark Antony but also Divus Julius himself were on your side. Neither of them will be in this.’
iii
Puella stirred against him, rubbing the entire length of her naked body against his flank. Pushing the yielding softness of her sharp-peaked breasts against his ribs as the soft cus
hion that topped her pubis pressed against his thigh. ‘So,’ she said, her breath perfumed with honey and rosemary; her lips gleaming with the fat of the roasted lamb. ‘Tell me more about this new madness of yours, my sudden Spartacus.’
They were in one of the huge beds in one of the huge cubiculae bedrooms in the vast villa Quintus owned on the southern flank of the Esquiline hill, which they made their headquarters when in Rome and not assigned to any particular duty. It was late. The evening had mostly passed in discussion of Artemidorus’ unexpected plan to revolt against the orders of the general he had served faithfully at Divus Julius’ side and after his murder. Like Quintus, they all saw the danger in what little he told them of his plans – a certain amount more now that Enobarbus was away in his own family villa low on the Quirinial. But, again like Quintus – like the Alaude Legion and the Thirty Fifth with Antony – they would follow him to apparently certain death without a second thought. Even the non-military members like Notus, Venus and Adonis, should he demand it.
The discussion had wavered back and forth as they consumed the honeyed lamb with rosemary, bread, a salad of late herbs and carefully watered Albanum wine from the slopes above Cicero’s villa in Puteoli. Then, for Artemidorus and Puella at least, a vigorous bout of lovemaking, followed by another - gentler and lengthier.
Her thigh slid cajolingly across his loins and he thought of the last woman he had trusted as much as he trusted Puella. The breathtakingly beautiful Cyanea, whose treachery had ultimately been equal to that of Decimus Albinus in responsibility for the death of Divus Julius. Who had told every secret whispered into her delicate ear to the monstrous Minucius Basilus as he tortured Septem’s agent Telos just as Popilius Lenas tortured Quintus Gallius. Eyes and all. Cyanea, whom he had thrown naked to the mob in revenge – but who had escaped, becoming mistress first to Basilus by helping him in his sick games of sexual torture. And then to Basilus’ equally perverted friend Trebonius. Whom she had robbed and left to die in agony at the hand of Cicero’s son-in-law Dolabella. There was a sickness running in those men and everyone who touched them, he thought. Basilus, Trebonius, Dolabella, Quintus Tullius Cicero – with their lust for pain and humiliation. Their arousal at the sight of torture...’
