by Peter Tonkin
‘So, Tribune Popilius Lenas,’ Antony was saying, ‘explain to our honoured guest Marcus Tullius here what you propose to do with the money you have won by bringing his head to me.’
‘I propose to have a statue of myself cast in gold, standing fully-armed with one foot raised...’
‘You hear that Cicero old man? All in gold. And you’re paying for it! But with one foot raised, Lenas. Why is that?’
‘So that it can rest on the severed head of your honoured guest, General. Also cast in gold!’
‘Oh! Do you hear that you silly old fool? Standing with his foot resting on your head! A wonderful notion, Lenas. I think I’ll match the prize money out of my own funds. A notion like that deserves a reward! And we’ll put the statue itself in the Forum! Don’t you agree Marcus Tullius? What nothing to say on the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
iv
‘Talking of his tongue,’ interrupted Fulvia, ‘pass the head to me. That tongue has done so much mischief and evil I think it deserves my particular attention.’
At Antony’s gesture, one of the slaves picked up the platter bearing Cicero’s head and carried it to his mistress. Artemidorus’ eyes followed the grisly thing, then swept round the room once more. Lepidus and Pontius were both regarding proceedings with mild amusement. Lepidus’ wife with ill-disguised revulsion. Lenas and Herrenius, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, simply glowed. Antony’s and Enobarbus’ expressions were harder to gauge. Fulvia was like a Friendly One made flesh. Caesar, Octavia and Felix, however, looked vaguely sickened. Expressions that abruptly intensified.
Artemidorus looked up to see that Fulvia had laid Cicero’s head on its back, allowing the lower jaw to sag, opening the silent mouth wide and was pulling out Cicero’s tongue. It was dry, for the saliva had departed with his blood. She held its tip firmly. As she pulled, the head itself stirred, hanging from the afflicted member as it slowly came further out of the gaping mouth. For all the world as though it was stretching like wet leather. Holding it with one hand, Fulvia reached up into her complicated coiffure with the other. Pulled a long pin out and, before any of the others quite realised what she intended, she stabbed it right through the base of the tongue. Then she replaced the head in its original position. But this time, the tongue stuck out, the shaft of the pin hard up against the pallid lips. As though in the grip of a dream, Fulvia pulled another pin out of her hair and stabbed it down beside the first.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Antony, shocked. Then, at a fulminating glance from Fulvia he added, ingratiatingly, ‘Meus amor, my love.’
Too little, too late, thought Artemidorus wryly.
‘Think of all the evil this tongue has done to us, Antony!’ Fulvia snapped. ‘All those wicked speeches it has given, all too many of which have been written down and posted on the Senate House...’ She paused. Looked up. ‘Someone get me a stylus!’ she ordered. ‘A good, sharp stylus! NOW!’
One of the slaves scurried off to obey her.
The conversation in the room died.
Antony looked around for some way to change the subject. ‘Ah, Septem, there you are,’ he said as though he had only just noticed the centurion’s arrival. ‘Time for your report, I think.’
***
As concisely as he could, Artemidorus recounted the events which had occurred between the departure from Rome of his little crypteia death-squad in the hollows beneath the Gaul’s amphora wagons and his own arrival back in the city with a depleted, partially incapacitated command earlier that evening. Being precise about the events that Felix, Lenas and Pontius had been involved in and, therefore, witnessed; being much vaguer about the precise nature of Basilus’ death and about the manner in which Lenas had proposed to deal with Cicero before finally killing him. Explaining the thinking behind his respectful disposal of Cicero’s remains at the hands of Lucius Verius Ancharius, adile of Formia. Antony shifted uncomfortably at the mention of vengeful ghosts. But being, in the final analysis, careful not to point a finger too readily at the men he suspected of ambushing his command as they were riding to fulfil their mission. The mission they had ultimately failed to fulfil after all.
Antony nodded as Artemidorus mentioned Basilus’ death. ‘Two slaves brought his head in yesterday. They have been manumitted, freed and paid,’ he said. News which went a little way towards lightening Artemidorus’ mood.
‘But,’ Antony concluded as Artemidorus finished his report. ‘The one thing that you were tasked to do is the one thing you have not done...’ The words seemed thoughtful, but the tone was dangerous. Fulvia stopped trying to push the stylus through Cicero’s tongue and looked up. The look on her face even more threatening than the look on his.
Artemidorus came to attention and looked into the far distance and waited to hear his doom.
Lucius Flavius Felix stepped forward, leaned down and whispered in Caesar’s ear.
Antony, courteous even in his anger, waited silently for the whispered conversation between his guest and the Tribune to end. At last Felix came erect and stepped back. And, before Antony could continue with his sentence, Caesar began to speak.
‘I apologise for interrupting you, Antony, but my Tribune has brought something to my attention that bears directly upon the matter under discussion. Especially as both Tribune Popilius Lenas and Centurion Herrenius are technically under the command of my Legate Gaius Maecenas, and so under my command as well, therefore.’
‘If I have done anything to damage the authority of your Legate or yourself in my dealings with Tribune Lenas...’ Antony began, in an unusually conciliatory tone.
‘Not at all. I merely raise the matter because it might underlie something of greater importance that Felix here has just brought to my attention. Which I, in turn, believe I should bring to yours.’
v
‘Bearing in mind that Cicero was a man whom I held in respect and some affection,’ Caesar began after a moment of reflection, clearly choosing his words and ordering them with care. ‘Did you add any extra instructions to the order that he should be proscribed, Lord Antony? I ask merely for enlightenment, you understand. I seek to make no judgement.’
‘No,’ answered Antony, his face and tone reflecting genuine surprise. ‘Head and hands to me and that was that.’
‘Might the lady Fulvia have added any thoughts? Instructions?’
‘No,’ answered the lady herself, as surprised as her husband.
‘It’s just that my Tribune here suggests that certain threats might have been made immediately prior to Cicero’s death. Threats of mutilation. Torture. Rape, even. It does occur to me that rape would be a fitting punishment for a man who spent so much time accusing you, Antony, of selling your favours to a lengthy list of men. Young and old. Patrician or plebeian. Drunk or sober. And at the highest possible price.’
‘I did not order such a thing!’ Antony’s voice rang with truth and outrage. ‘I did none of the things he accused me of, so there would be no need to exact such a disgusting revenge!’
Caesar nodded. ‘But my Tribune seems certain that Cicero was placed in immediate fear that he was about to be mutilated, tortured and raped before his head was cut off. Fortunately none of these things occurred, as the men who oversaw the proper, respectful disposal of his corpse into the care of the local adile Lucius Verius Ancharius can testify. And it seems, we have one man to thank for the fact that Cicero met a dignified and painless end. And for arranging matters after his head and hands had been taken.’
‘Really? Your man Felix, I suppose...’
‘No. Felix says he was a mere observer to the most important events. The man you have to thank is Septem here.’
‘Septem!’ said Antony, astonished. ‘How so? He has failed in every aspect of this mission!’
‘Except, perhaps, for the most important ones,’ persisted Caesar. ‘Lady Fulvia, as you are already in possession of Cicero’s head and, I note, able to overcome the natural revulsion that your sex must feel in handling such a
thing, may I ask you to find on the forehead, a slight depression immediately above the nose and precisely between the eyebrows?’
‘I feel it,’ answered Fulvia, her fingers probing and her tone guarded.
‘Could you press your finger gently against this depression?’ asked Caesar, as though he was asking the wife of a friend to test the ripeness of a melon.
Fulvia obliged – fortunately with uncharacteristic hesitancy. ‘OH!’ she said. The single syllable full of revulsion. ‘It sinks in! The bones are shattered. If I pushed any harder my finger would pierce right into his skull! What is this?’
***
‘This,’ said Caesar quietly, ‘is the wound that killed Cicero. Acting precisely on your orders, Lord Antony, your carnifex executed your enemy. In doing so he saved him from fates that Cicero himself, with his well-known Stoic leanings, would certainly have counted as being far worse than death. Even though it was Tribune Popilius Lenas here who took the head and brought it to you, it was your Centurion Septem who actually killed our enemy. As you had ordered him to do. With one perfectly-aimed sling-shot. And my Tribune observed the entire episode. As well as those, later, which involved the proper, respectful disposal of the corpse, mutilated though it was. An act of clemency and decency for which I, for one, will always be grateful.’
Antony looked up at Artemidorus. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded. ‘I do not doubt Caesar,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I simply wish to check the accuracy of what Caesar has been told.’
‘Yes, General,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘What the Tribune has told the Triumvir and what they have told you is true in every detail.’
‘Then why did you not mention it in your report?’
‘For several reasons, General. To begin with, I believe your orders required me to bring the head and hands – not simply to cause the death. The fact that I had done so was therefore irrelevant. Further, I had no intention of detailing the treats made by Tribune Lenas to assault the senator before taking his head – threats which my sling-shot prevented from becoming reality. And finally, although I see now that the relationship between yourself and Caesar is amicable and open, I was at first reluctant to say anything to undermine the achievement of Tribune Popilius Lenas and Centurion Herrenius, acting under the direct orders of Gaius Maecenas here and therefore, as Caesar has said, under his direct authority. The continued strength of the Triumvirate seemed to me to be more important than the reputation of one soldier. Even if that soldier was myself.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Antony, his tone and expression inscrutable. ‘The Tribune Felix’ evidence changes everything. And your explanation adds weight to that change. It seems that I was too hasty to judge you, Septem. And far too quick to underestimate you. However, you do realise that this places me in a very awkward situation?’
‘How so General?’ Artemidorus was finding it hard to follow the rapid pace of events.
‘Because I will now have to give to you exactly the same sum as I have promised to Popilius Lenas,’ Antony explained. ‘The reward for killing Cicero was twenty-five thousand Attic drachmae. And I have just doubled it to fifty thousand!’
‘That’s a fortune beyond the dreams of most men,’ observed Caesar quietly. ‘Independently of the claim you now have for half of whatever Cicero’s entire fortune in money, villas, property, artworks, books and slaves is worth. Will you also have a statue of yourself made, Septem?’
‘No, Caesar,’ answered the stunned centurion, his mind racing, hardly able to believe the turn of events. ‘Everything I have will be invested in expanding, arming and training my contubernium of spies. Exploring the possibility of setting up a proper military intelligence service. So that we may better serve the Triumvirate, their aims and objectives.’
‘We’ll be going after Brutus and Cassius next,’ said Antony. ‘Head to head,’ he added without conscious irony. ‘You do know that?’
‘Two more heads to collect,’ suggested Caesar, picking up on the double meaning with some relish. ‘Two more for a start. For all the other so-called Libertores who murdered my father Divus Julius are hiding with them in the east. And I, for one, believe that I could do no better than to trust you and your associates with responsibility for gathering and reporting on every aspect of intelligence as we prepare for that final battle.’
Artemidorus drew himself up to full attention, scarcely able to believe the weight that had been lifted from his heart. Almost light-headed with surprise and relief at the utterly unexpected turn of events.
‘We will do what is ordered and at every command we will be ready,’ he said.
XV
AFTERMATH
i
Cicero’s slave and steward Philologus died screaming and puking. The last day of his life was unquestionably the worst. His final moments the worst of all. Even as a neighbour to Minucius Basilus in Formia, and an inveterate gossip who drooled over the details of the dead man’s excesses, he could never have imagined what would happen. Or ever dreamed in his wildest nightmares that it would happen to him.
To begin with Philologus was simply astounded by the speed with which his dead master’s property was itemised, catalogued transported to various urban centres, including Rome itself, and offered for sale. The villas went for knock-down prices. Even though Cicero had chosen to buy them because of their stunning positions overlooking shaded valleys, rolling Tuscan hillsides and beautiful sand-shored bays. Tiro and Atticus did their best to preserve his library – but they both agreed that his writings were more important than his other books – so these commanded the highest prices. As the proscriptions were still proceeding, Rome was awash with the kind of Greek art and statuary that Cicero favoured. Compared with someone like Minucius Basilus, whose possessions were being sold at the same time, Cicero’s furniture was as modest as his Stoic, almost Spartan, lifestyle might suggest. All in all, a disappointingly mean amount of money was made out of Cicero’s possessions.
The last offered were his slaves. Once again, interest was sparse and bidding slow. Philologus stood with the lesser household slaves on a rostrum in the Graecostadium Market south of the part-built Basilica Julia which was in turn located on the south side of the Forum Romanum in the heart of the city. The journey here from Formia had been the only part of the process that had seemed slow. Until now. The bidding was positively sluggish. The auctioneer seemed to be doing his best, but Cicero had manumitted his most intelligent slaves like Tiro longsince. And as a man of intellectual rather than physical tastes, there was little in the way of youth or beauty to recommend those who were still in his possession when he died. Many of whom had been retained out of a combination of affection, familiarity and laziness. Taking them all in all, they possessed fewer teeth than fingers; and some possessed no teeth at all. His cocus and kitchen staff went quickly enough – for he had some reputation as a host, but he was no Lucullus. Then the bidding seemed to stop entirely.
Philologus allowed his mind to wander as the auctioneer slowly worked his way round to him. In the best of all possible worlds, he would be purchased by an elderly widow to run a household which required almost no effort. Some of the other slaves working under his aegis would be young. Attractive. Willing. The mistress herself, though advancing in years, might still be acceptable in certain lights. Might be lonely enough to require some active, perhaps even sportive, company. Yes. That would be the answer. A nice-looking widow...
He got his wish. Then spent the rest of his life regretting it.
***
‘That one!’ The voice making the bid was a man’s. Philologus opened his eyes, not liking the sound of this at all. ‘My mistress wants that one.’
‘This one in particular? The steward? He is widely experienced. In many ways the late Marcus Tullius’ right hand. Able to run a household like a centurion with his legionaries...’
‘That one. For this price.’ The man – Philologus made him out in the front of the crowd as he held up a money-bag. A very small money bag. In a very la
rge fist attached to an arm that looked like it belonged to a gladiator. Attached in turn to a body which was every bit as brawny as the limb.
‘Well, I don’t know...’ said the auctioneer.
‘Take it or leave it.’ The frown on the gladiator’s bearded face was furious.
I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him – or of his mistress, thought Philologus.
‘Very well.’ The auctioneer acquiesced.
The gladiator came forward. The bag changed hands. Philologus exchanged a dead master for a living mistress. The deal was done. He didn’t know it yet, but the slave’s fate was sealed.
‘Who has bought me?’ he asked his massive companion as they strode northwards out of the slave market towards the Forum Romanum.
‘A rich widow.’
Philologus’ heart leaped. His dreams were coming true. ‘And she wants a well-experienced steward, does she?’
‘She wants you,’ said the gladiator. And that was that.
The pair of them hurried across the Forum, through the outskirts of the Subura and up towards the temple of Tellus, where the Senate had held meetings in the dark days after Divus Julius’ death. They crossed the open area in front of the temple itself, with the statue of the Earth Mother and the other of Quintus Cicero.
Even now, Philologus suspected nothing.
The gladiator led the way down an alley beside an imposing-looking villa, hammered on the posticum servants’ entrance and ushered Philologus in as soon as the door opened. Cicero’s ex-steward took two steps into a dark passage, warm and fragrant with airs from the kitchen and then someone hit him on the back of the head and knocked him senseless.
ii
‘Do you know me?’ The voice belonged to that of a woman and it seemed to come from a long way off.
Someone slapped him round the face. Hard.
