by Peter Tonkin
‘So you killed them and have their heads outside? Now that I have established how little money there is and how great the demands for more have become, you want fifty thousand Attic drachmae, do you?’ he demanded bitterly.
‘No, Caesar. Under the circumstances it seemed wiser to bring them straight to you. So they are outside but still alive.’
‘Circumstances? What circumstances?’
‘The men are Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus and Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus, Caesar.’
‘Very well. Antony added their names. There are no special circumstances that I can see…’
‘Except, both men have suggested that an attempt is being made to have their names removed from the proscription list.’
‘An attempt? What attempt?’ Octavianus still had not worked out what was going on.
‘Calpurnia, the wife of Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus has accompanied the mother of Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus; both have apparently come in disguise to throw themselves on your mercy, Caesar. Calpurnia is Lucius’ sister of course, which makes the women mother and daughter…’
Artemidorus could see that Octavianus understood the full implication of his words now. But he continued, just to make absolutely sure. ‘Of course Lucius’ and Calpurnia’s father Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus died six winters ago. His widow remarried but clearly would still do anything in her power to help the children from her previous marriage. As their mother, you understand. Not as the wife of her new husband.’
Octavianus was pale, blinking rapidly. Artemidorus had never seen him so shocked. ‘Remarried!’ He whispered. ‘But she still thinks to come to me! Is she mad?’
‘That is a point currently being debated,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘But the immediate situation is one you can resolve instantly and easily. Clearing it out of your way and putting a stop to any negative rumours that might begin to circulate as a result. More stories designed to recruit more legions to the Libertores’ camp.’
This time when Octavianus glanced back at the door, his expression was one of absolute horror.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Write two releases, one for each man. Strike their names off the lists. Allow me to take the signed documents to the women and let them go to their men. They will not want to let this situation become any more widely known than it is already. I can arrange for Lucius and Messala to escape from the city in secret, while telling no-one, not even Antony; and ensuring silence from my men as well. You will be able to ensure silence from your praetorians and any temple priests aware of the situation, I’m sure. The women can go back to their lives as though nothing has happened – because nothing has happened.’
*
Artemidorus hesitated outside the half-hidden door. He felt almost as tense as if he was on a battlefield, disturbingly aware of Octavianus’ gaze on his back, like a dagger between his shoulder blades. There was a breathless, almost hysterical muttering beyond the portal, where Messala’s wife and her mother were clearly deep in disagreement. He hoped his hands weren’t sweating, because the pardons so grudgingly signed and sealed might all too easily smudge into illegibility. Like the proscription lists the priceless documents were designed to counteract. Hesitating for a heartbeat longer, he decided against knocking and opened the door instead.
The hissed argument was replaced by muted screams. He stepped forward, to find himself confronted by two figures, one behind the other. They were both fully dressed in featureless robes, impenetrably veiled – as mysteriously anonymous as it was possible to be. Except that he knew exactly who they both were, knowledge which in itself could prove fatal. There was a moment of silence. Until the figure in front, frozen with protective arms spread over the slighter figure behind, began to speak, her voice wavering with astonishment and the beginning of relief.
‘You’re not Octavianus! I know you, though. You’re…’
‘Septem, Domina. You know me as Septem. I came to your house regularly after the death of Divus Julius, a messenger between Antony and your husband. Not Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, of course. Your second husband. I also carried messages after you had left Rome and before your husband travelled east.’
‘Septem. Yes. I remember. What are you doing here? Does Octavianus know?’
‘Yes, Domina, he does. I bring the documents you have come here to collect. And I bring a message from both your son and your son-in-law. Who are outside in the Temple, waiting to accompany you home.’ He held up the pardons as the second figure gave a gasp of pure relief. ‘As they now may do with absolute safety, for they are no longer proscribed.’
The mother of Calpurnia and Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus raised her veil with an unsteady hand and looked Septem straight in the eye. How pale and sickly she looks, he thought. How fragile and yet how beautiful. How can he bear to be so far away from her?
‘This is like some kind of wonderful magic. How in the names of the Gods did you do it, Septem?’ asked Porcia Catonis, the widow of Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, the wife of Marcus Junius Brutus, leader of the men who murdered Divus Julius, commander of the army Antony was preparing to attack.
iv
‘You can see young Octavianus’ point, though,’ said Ferrata in an unusually forgiving mood. Probably generated by the vast amount of cheap Alban wine he had consumed. ‘I mean look at what he’s stuck with: Fulvia for a mother-in-law. How terrifying is that? And the child-bride Claudia for a wife. What age is she? Eleven? He probably has to teach her how to wipe her culus arse rather than how to warm his bed.’ He looked around the table, mountained with food and forested with cups and amphorae. ‘More than that, I hear that after the wedding ceremony, Fulvia took the poor lad aside and said, You lay one finger on my baby daughter and I’ll do to your mentula dick what I did to Cicero’s tongue.’ He pounded the table, weeping with laughter. Everything on it jumped, slopped and clinked. Some of the food toppled off the plates. All the others laughed as well, even Puella.
Everyone else in the taberna looked around at the noisy group – then most of them looked away quickly for all seven of them were wearing armour, swords and daggers. And the one making the most noise was a one-eyed monstrum of a man who looked as though he could bite the heads off babies. Their helmets were sitting on the floor at their feet. Which were shod in legionary caligae boots. Even though this was the favourite watering place of The Gaul’s murderous gang, Septem’s little command gave off such an air of menace that even the most ruthless gave them a wide berth. ‘Fulvia and her threats are enough to put anyone off, I’d say,’ continued Ferrata, ‘let alone a sickly weed of a…’
‘Tace! Shut up!’ hissed Puella. ‘Here they come!’
Septem and The Gaul were crossing the taberna, deep in conversation. As befitted a soldier whose main work was completed under cover, outside the rules of war and the twelve tables of the law, Septem had a wide range of acquaintance which included murderous gang leaders as well as all three Triumvirs, many of their most deadly enemies, their wives and families.
Septem’s narrow eyes swept round the active unit which was the heart of his contubernium of soldiers and spies, as The Gaul and he crossed the room. They made a traditional eight-man tent-group as though they were still in the legions – in numbers at least. In every other regard they were more like a Spartan crypteia death squad. They had license to kill even outside the proscription lists if the need arose. And it was only a couple of months since they had killed Cicero himself. It was Septem who had nailed the dead orator’s head to the Rostra.
Besides Puella and Ferrata, there were five others present. The soldiers who had made up the boar’s head formation which crossed the Forum and took Porcia’s children and son-in-law to Octavianus. Sitting beside Puella there was Quintus – Gaius Quintus Tarpeius late of the disbanded VIIth Legion and seconded to Septem’s command now that the legion was reformed. A sinewy gallus fighting cock of a man, he was the oldest, most experienced of the group – a trierius, most dangerously battle-hardened and best-e
quipped of legionaries. He had been the leader of the third rank in battle, the line against which attacking soldiers were doomed to shatter and die. Beyond him sat the gigantic ex-tutor to Lepidus’ children so aptly named Hercules, expert in all the military arts from wrestling to horsemanship, who had been a member of the group since soon after Divus Julius Caesar’s death. Soothsayer and haruspex Spurinna’s manumitted slave the golden curled, blue-eyed, quick-thinking Kyros was next. Like Artemidorus he was Greek by birth, and amongst the earliest to join the group. Then, finally, there were two further specialists. Both recruited more recently. Beside him sat his companion and perhaps lover Nonus – codenamed Notus Writer – seconded from Lepidus’ army, whose forte was secret communication; the creation and breaking of codes. And finally there was the aptly named Furius, the group’s carnifex interrogator.
There were another half-dozen more loosely associated with them. Spurinna the soothsayer who predicted Divus Julius’ death and warned him to beware the Ides; Antistius the physician who performed the dead dictator’s autopsy; Adonis, the Senate recorder who had witnessed the murder and recalled it in detail; his sister Venus; Crinas, Antony’s medical nurse and Glyco, Octavianus’ military surgeon. The number of medical men emphasised the danger of their work almost as forcefully as the absence of Mercury, their scout and messenger, killed during their attempt on Cicero’s life, Tyro, tortured and crucified for refusing to reveal their secrets and the beautiful but treacherous Cyanea who had done so. Who was still out there somewhere, plotting her revenge after Septem threw her naked to the rioting mob.
*
Septem and The Gaul eased themselves into the last two seats at the crowded table. The Gaul, a huge man in every regard, reached for a roast chicken and a handful of farcimina sausages. Then he sat munching, both hands busy as he and Septem completed their negotiations. ‘Two men,’ he said round a huge mouthful. ‘Out of the city and over to Dyrrhachium in secret.’
‘Two men to begin with,’ confirmed Septem. ‘I made a promise to their womenfolk.’ He reached for a grilled sausage while there were still some left. ‘In secret. No names. As far along the Via Egnatia as you can get them.’
‘Pity they’re not going to Sextus Pompey,’ mused The Gaul. ‘He’d pay for their transport I hear. One hundred thousand Attic drachmae for the pair.’
‘They want to go to Brutus. And you know you’d be charging up front no matter where they were going. Or who to.’
‘Bloody funny, though, Antony’s man smuggling Antony’s enemies out to Brutus’ camp.’
‘Nothing for you to worry about. Or even to remember. If you want to stay healthy. Take the money. Do the job. Forget it ever happened.’
‘All right. No need to get nasty…’
‘Not me. Octavianus himself has ordered it.’
‘Merda shit! Now that is a threat. All right. Pay the rate and they get the ride. Across the strait from Brundisium to Dyrrhachium and as far on into Macedonia as I can manage. Anonymous. In secret. They may have to wait in Brundisium, though. There might not be a calm sea and a following wind. It’s not even the sailing season for a month or so.’
‘Tell that to Sextus Pompey. He’s smuggled a fleet from Massalia to Sicilia through Decembris and Januarius by all accounts.’
‘Well, I’m no sailor but that sounds like a really risky business. Almost as risky as mine. But nowhere near as risky as the stuff you get up to. What’s next?’
‘I want you to get ready to take us. We might not be going – but then again we might. It’s up in the air at the moment and all down to Antony in the end. Once the first two are clear, there’s every chance we’ll be heading east as well. Without making too much of a fuss.’
‘Hercules’ mentula club! Are you going over to Brutus as well?’
‘You’d better hope not. If we were, none of your men with any knowledge of the fact would walk out of here alive. And neither would you.’
The Gaul hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to call Septem out. But he wryly decided the soldier was probably right. His lethal crypteia could almost certainly take every man in here, including himself.
Septem watched, reading his mind, his long, copper-chinned face slowly folding into a smile. ‘Now that we’ve cleared that up,’ he said, ‘let’s talk about the special rate for helping eight of us go east in secret. If and when it comes to that.’
v
Porcia Catonis Brutus considered herself in the polished metal mirror that stood against the wall of the caldarium. A slave worked assiduously, keeping the surface clear of the steam rising in wavering clouds from the hot pool behind her. The caldarium slaves had just finished oiling, massaging and depilating her. One of her women waited with a robe as she left the private bathhouse to return to her apartments. But she lingered, surveying the prize which that little blatta cockroach Octavianus had lost.
Her naked figure was tall, slim, unusually rosy because of the heat and the ministrations of the masseur. Breasts and belly that often brought dear Brutus to tears gleaming softly as the scented oil caught the lamplight. Or so his letters said. What he would do if he ever found out she had been willing to prostitute the body he coveted so constantly, she simply did not dare to guess. And to Brutus’ greatest enemy of all men! How could she have been so stupid? She considered the pale column of her right thigh, particularly the shadowed inner slope where she had even thought of strapping a dagger – until she realised that killing Octavianus herself would undo everything she was trying to achieve. And lead to her own death and Calpurnia’s death – and a renewed, more effective, search for Lucius and Messala. What utter madness had driven her to risk everything like that? Not even the unexpectedly painless success of her scheme could take away the horror that she now felt.
But the answer was as plain – and painful – as the weeping wound on that same thigh. Where, in another moment of madness, she had driven a dagger deep into her flesh to prove she was as able as any man to bear pain. And to bear therefore the weight of whatever had been troubling her darling Brutus so deeply. The wound had never healed, and still gaped slightly. Disturbingly similar to that other cleft close above it which her ardent husband loved best of all.
But the answer was simple. Her duty as a mother outweighed even her duties as a wife. Would Brutus accept that as an excuse? Or would he refer – as he did almost everything now – to Gaius Cassius Longinus. Cassius’ answer to her plea would be simple and immediate: whipping and divorce. Or, like a Vestal whose virginity was lost, living burial. Yes, she could just hear Cassius’ cold, unforgiving voice. ‘Bury the bitch…’
The thought made her shiver and she realised that the heat which soaked into her while she lay in the scalding water was all gone. The self-indulgent near-agony had been wasted after all. She was as icy inside as the evening was outside. She gestured to the slave and lost herself in the warmth of the robe. But, it only warmed her skin.
*
Together with the body-slave, Porcia hurried through to her chamber. The walls were hung with warmly coloured rugs and tapestries, further heated by the golden light of the lamps and candles all over the room. The bed was piled with coverings. But the floor was a mosaic of marble tiles whose chill seemed to burn through the soles of the soft leather slippers she was wearing. The mosaic itself pictured Amphitrite frolicking with mermaids and dolphins in an icy blue ocean. Two more slaves waited for her there, one she recognised as coming from her daughter Calpurnia Messala Corvinus’ household, re-established now the proscription had been lifted, even though Messala, like Lucius, had sneaked away in secret. ‘What is it?’ she demanded, pulling the soft robe more tightly about herself, in a fruitless attempt to dispel the chill.
‘Domina, my mistress sends her respects and deepest affection.’
‘Yes, yes. Get on with it.’ Calpurnia, like the absent Lucius and even Messala, for whom she had a soft spot, was currently an unpleasant reminder of the near disaster of her visit to Octavianus.
�
��It is the matter of the slave Deuterus, Domina. My mistress wondered whether you had finished considering his fate.’
Porcia’s eyebrows rose. ‘He betrayed my son and my son-in-law to the mob. He would have taken his silver and his freedom when they were slaughtered and beheaded. He dies.’
‘Of course, Domina. But you were considering crucifixion…’
Porcia was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘Well, he may be a traitor to our household, but he’s hardly Spartacus. And he’s served us since childhood I understand. Let us be merciful. Strangle him.’
‘Strangle him. Yes, Domina.’
‘Use the method Cicero used on that pig Antony’s stepfather during the Catiline affair. Do it with a bowstring.’
‘Yes, Domina.’
‘But don’t be too quick about it. I want him to have time to reflect on his treachery.’
The slave hurried out to oversee Deuterus’ lingering Ciceronian execution.
‘I am still cold,’ snapped Porcia to the remaining servants. I want more light, a writing desk and a brazier. Stoke it up really high. Maybe I can get some warmth into my body as I write to my maritus the dominus!’
As the slaves hurried to obey her orders, Porcia changed into a new, more formal robe that was warmer and dryer. Her mind was filled with what she was planning to tell Brutus in her next letter. The treacherous slave Deuterus’ fate didn’t even enter her mind. After all, what was a slave? – a possession that talked. However, Septem’s part in her salvation did linger in her memory; he was a soldier and of little more social account than a plebeian freedman. But he had managed to serve her and Brutus well. And there was something unexpectedly powerful about him. Something, oddly, that reminded her of Divus Julius himself.
*
The final item to be brought into the room was the brazier. As soon as it arrived, she dismissed all her slaves and pushed a rolled carpet across the bottom of the door to keep out the icy draught. Then she returned to the little desk beside the brazier and settled to writing her letter. This was something she always did alone, for even under normal circumstances it required her full attention. But the brazier kept distracting her with its brightness and its heat. It was a filigreed metal box on four solid legs, piled with charcoal that had, as she ordered, been well-stoked up. The main body of the burning mass in the metal container was cherry red but the top was a wavering crown of bright blue flames. The heat it gave off was fierce. Even so, Porcia found herself moving closer and closer to it as she settled to writing the letter. As one of the most educated women in the Republic, daughter of a famously eccentric father who educated her almost as though she were a boy, her handwriting was clear and fluent. She prided herself on the fact that she always wrote to Brutus herself – without having to insert an amanuensis between them. He too always wrote back himself – though his handwriting, in the Greek style after his education in Athens, lacked the simple flowing beauty of hers.
