The Ides Read online

  Caesar’s cousin Lucius Cotta, spokesman for the Quindecimviri, the Fifteen who oversaw the Sibylline Texts, translating and publishing their mysterious predictions, had pronounced less than a new week ago that only a king could conquer Parthia. And it was said he had more pronouncements in the same vein to lay before the Senate today. And even if Caesar had refused the coronet Antony offered him at the Lupercalia a month ago this very day, he nevertheless chose to wear personally designed triumphal togas, tunics, olive wreaths – and bright red caligae that only Kings of Rome had worn in the past.

  No. Only Antony could possibly stop Caesar on a day like today. And the only way to Antony lay through Enobarbus. Who, if the gods were in a kindly mood, must be at Antony’s villa on the Carinae on the lower slopes of the Velian Hill by now. Discussing what they had discovered with Spurinna and Puella. Ready to accept Cyanea’s further testimony and get the general to stop the dictator attending the Senate meeting. At least until they could find some way of ensuring his safety.

  But between here and the road to Antony’s villa lay the length of the Forum. Where Cassius would still be parading his newly virile teknon son, accompanied by Casca, Basilus and the rest. Where, unless Porcia was at the door of the underworld itself, Urban Praetor Marcus Junius Brutus must come to occupy the curule stool and pass judgement on any civil cases brought before him. Almost all of the men Artemidorus was preparing to warn Antony about were assembled in the Forum, between him and his destination. Perhaps as many as twenty of them. And, if Cassius was any guide, they would all be carrying hidden daggers.

  *

  But then, thought Artemidorus, very few of them knew his face, his occupation or his current mission. A few more might recognise Cyanea – Cassius and his visitors, for instance. But hardly any would see anything suspicious in a kitchen slave out at the morning markets. It would be bad luck indeed for the little band to run into anyone that knew who they were. What they were up to. And who wished to stop them. Or worse. And, of these few, if any of them actually used their hidden daggers even to threaten him or his companions, their whole secret conspiracy would be unmasked. Even if they managed to kill him, Caesar would be safe. While Artemidorus would cheerfully give his life to save Caesar, few of the conspirators would stand a realistic chance against a retired gladiator armed with a sword. No matter how long they had served as commanders of the legions. Or how sharp their eyes, their wits or their daggers.

  Thinking that this was an action he could not lose. Artemidorus strode forward once again, meeting the eyes of anyone in front of him with an insolent stare. No matter how white their toga or how purple its edges. And there were a good number of ceremonial togas in the Forum this morning. Even though he was never confronted by Cassius or his son, he was nevertheless glared at by Pontius Aquila, Casca, Turillius and Lucius Cornelius Cinna, conspirators all. Their cold glances were shot at him from the safety of their lictors. Had the bundles of fasces they carried contained ceremonial axes, as tradition dictated, then there might have been trouble. But there was nothing in the lictors’ fists other than long twigs. In any case, none of the patricians coldly eyeing him saw anything other than an arrogant gladiator who clearly had notions far above his station. So Artemidorus and his friends passed on unmolested.

  Until they met Minucius Basilis.

  The instant the skeletal senator saw them, his pallid face went chalk white with shock. His right hand sped towards his left armpit and only stopped as he realised what he was doing. His fist rested hard against the folds of a toga that was exactly the same colour as his face. He turned to the largest of the lictors accompanying him and spat an order. The man passed his master’s orders onto his companions and all of them came towards the four fugitives.

  Losing none of his belligerent swagger, Artemidorus walked straight towards them feeling Kyros and Narbo fall in at his shoulders as he did so. He eased the cloak on his right shoulder and put his right hand on the hilt of his gladius. It was a gesture subtle enough to be missed by almost everyone else in the busy Forum. But the leading lictor saw and understood it. As a man armed only with a bundle of sticks.

  And Basilus saw it. And realised that a fight between his men and Artemidorus in the middle of the Forum would put at risk the entire enterprise that turned upon the dagger beneath his left arm. And those beneath the arms of his fellow conspirators. His red lips twisted in a bitter grimace and he spat another order. The lictors stopped. With every sign of relief, they turned and reassembled around their master. Basilus swung away from Artemidorus and his companions. Stalking off across the Forum towards the Capitol and the Fontus Gate through the Servian wall. Which led out to Pompey’s Theatre. And the curia where the Senate would be meeting in full session. In a little over two hours’ time.

  Artemidorus followed, planning to exit the Forum at the far end. Turning at right angles, heading back up towards the Carinae, the Clivus Publius roadway and the big villa built by Pompey. Where, if the gods were continuing to be kindly, Antony was waiting to talk to them. Then spring into action. But just as he was approaching the far end of the Forum, another of the conspirators caught his eye. And the sight made him pull up his hood as he continued to swagger forward. For, just as he had suspected, Marcus Junius Brutus, the praetor urbanus, senior judge, was on duty. Seated on the curule stool on the raised tribunal platform. With his asseors assistants seated below him and his lictors ranged behind him. Calmly hearing civil cases too complex to be judged by the local aedile magistrates. On an average day, this would fill most of the morning, but today, reckoned the spy, pulling his hood further forward still, he would only be here for another hour or so before following Basilus and the others to the curia of Pompey’s Theatre.

  During his time working on Brutus’ roof and seducing away his slave Puella, Artemidorus had seen little enough of the senator’s family. Mostly Lady Porcia until she had taken to bed with her wounded thigh. But he dare not risk Brutus recognising him. For the senator must be aware now of what Artemidorus had done. And, as the senior judge in the city, Brutus would certainly be able to have him arrested on the spot. And, unlike Basilus, he would not hesitate to send his six big lictors to do the job.

  A prospect that suddenly became much more of a possibility. Basilus and Cassius appeared from the crowd, heading purposefully towards Brutus. One word from them and the praetor urbanus would detain the little group, strip away Artemidorus’ disguise as a gladiator and arrest him for being in possession of an illegal weapon. All without arousing any suspicion at all about what his plans were for later in the day. And slam him in the Tullianum prison, as likely as not, with those poor commoners condemned to die. And the Tullianum was a good deal nearer than the general’s villa. In reality as well as in possibility. By the time Antony was alerted to the situation and roused to take action and have his spy released, it would be too late to do anything further about the conspiracy.

  There was no alternative but to get out of the Forum as quickly as possible. So Artemidorus dived into the nearest side street and began to weave his way as quickly as possible back through the maze of alleys and lesser forums towards the Carinae, the Clivus Pullius and the relative safety of Antony’s villa.

  *

  Pompey had designed, furnished and provisioned the villa for his own use in the days before the civil war. Considering he was at that time known as Pompeius Magnus, Pompey the Great – one of the three most powerful men in the world – it was relatively modest. But by the standard of most of its neighbours it was palatial. Antony was rumoured to have drunk his way through the well-stocked wine cellar within days of moving in on the news of Pompey’s death. And to have sold off some of the choicest furniture rather than run up yet more debts when Caesar insisted he pay a fair price for it.

  Artemidorus knew the true facts behind the rumours. And that many had been started by sharp-tongued, quick-tempered unforgiving Cicero. But he always thought of them whenever he mounted the steps to the porticoed front of Antony’s R
oman residence, with the fore-sections of several ships built into the facade. He rather liked the image of Antony they portrayed. The general whose true spiritual home was the battlefield. In the command tent. Or at the head of his legions. Who took badly to civilian life with its petty political strictures and financial constraints. A bruiser who had grown up through a wild youth running with street gangs. Drinking. Fighting. Whoring. Some – probably Cicero once more – said thieving. Murdering. But maturing into a powerful force. A great leader. A generous heart who would give anything for a good friend or an old soldier.

  But who treated the Senate house as another battlefield. Constantly losing ground to those, again like Cicero, who understood the rules of committees just as Antony understood the rules of engagement. A general who could lead his men to the far side of Hades if he felt so inclined. A man too big for the city. With a heart too big for one woman. With a reach that still might prove too great for the world. A man, indeed, very like his so-called ancestor Hercules.

  With these thoughts swirling in his head, Artemidorus pounded on the huge, ornate door. Hearing the echoes of the blows repeating themselves down the length of the ostium and into the atrium. Before the last echo faded, the door swung open and the doorkeeper welcomed him. ‘Septem. You are in good time. The tribune is here and wishes to speak to you at once. He is with the haruspex and his companion in the peristyle.’

  ‘And the general?’ asked Artemidorus as he led his three companions into a passageway that in another house would have been wide enough to serve as a room.

  ‘The tribune will explain. He said I was to take you to him the moment you arrived.’

  ‘The tribune was taking a lot for granted,’ said Artemidorus, thinking how close he had come to not arriving on several occasions so far today.

  He was speaking to Cyanea but Kyros answered. ‘I don’t think so, Septem. You know your reputation…’

  ‘Do I?’ asked Artemidorus, surprised. ‘What reputation is that?’

  ‘You are Achilles,’ said Kyros, a strange tone in his voice. ‘Just as Antony is Hercules reborn. You are Achilles. With no weakness in your heel.’

  Cyanea choked on a laugh. ‘No weakness in other parts either.’

  ‘You are getting above yourself, woman!’ He snapped with mock severity.

  ‘In this house?’ she answered. ‘No woman could get above herself in a house where Fulvia reigns. They may not allow kings in Rome. But here is a queen!’

  The doorkeeper led them through to the spacious peristyle garden where Enobarbus was seated between Spurinna and Puella. As soon as he saw Artemidorus, the tribune held up his hand, stemming the flow of their conversation. And rose.

  The tribune Enobarbus carried an aura of restless energy. A compact, powerful body was clad in his soldier’s uniform, of breast and backplate and studded leather baltea skirt over his tunic. The studs of his caligae grated on the mosaic of the floor. Tight gold curls, cut short, ready for a helmet. A perpetual slight frown furrowing his high forehead. Startlingly blue eyes. Full mouth. Decided cleft in his chin. He walked towards Artemidorus as the spy, still surprised by Kyros’ flattering words, hurried to meet him. To report.

  But as they met, Artemidorus found that he had a question that preceded the information he had to impart. ‘Where is the general?’

  Enobarbus’ frown deepened. Artemidorus at once suspected that Antony had in some way failed to measure up to the image the tribune held of him.

  ‘Bathing,’ said Enobarbus.

  ‘At a time like this?’ Artemidorus, almost horrified, fought to keep the tone of his enquiry reasonable. It would not do to seem to question the general’s actions or decisions.

  ‘The moment he came home he went to Fulvia,’ said Enobarbus. Also fighting to keep his tone reasonable. ‘He spent the night with Cleopatra. Nothing improper took place, but the prospect of her departure has upset him deeply. The moment he returned, therefore, he went to discuss matters with the Lady Fulvia…’

  Enobarbus paused. Artemidorus briefly wrestled with the task of understanding a man so complex that he loved two women at once. Loved them in such a way that whenever he was with one, he could not stop himself from admitting his indiscretions to the other. And, indeed, of understanding women who both loved the man in question sufficiently to listen to his admissions without resorting to the poisons favoured by Caesar’s lover and Brutus’ reputed mother, the Lady Servilia.

  ‘They have gone through into the balinae.’ The villa had its own private baths. ‘The frigidarium is up and running. The tepidarium will be ready soon enough. It may take some time for the caldarium to heat up.’

  ‘And we can’t see him until he’s finished bathing?’

  ‘No. He and the Lady Fulvia have much to discuss. While he reinvigorates himself from the ex…’

  Enobarbus had clearly been going to say ‘excesses’. But he changed the word even as he said it.

  ‘…experiences of last night. And prepares for the Senate meeting.’

  ‘So Antony cannot be reached, even though he is at home.’

  ‘That is the case. Yes. The Lady Fulvia is very clear on that point.’

  Enobarbus was obviously going to say more. Perhaps unwisely. But Spurinna interrupted him. ‘Tribune. It is my duty as augur and haruspex to Caesar to be at the Regia within the first hour. I have to declare the auguries for the day. And, if need be, read the entrails for more precise information from the gods.’

  Enobarbus swung round to face the augur. ‘All the predictions will be bad,’ he said flatly. ‘Until we can get Cyanea to give the general the full report of what she and Telos have discovered and he has decided on the action he needs to take, Caesar must not leave the Regia or the Domus Publica.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Spurinna. ‘But Caesar has been hesitant to take all my auguries and predictions at face value. It may need more than my words to stop him going to the Senate.’

  Enobarbus nodded. ‘The only other element we have is Artemidorus. Septem, you must go with Spurinna to the Regia. Take Puella. If Caesar refuses to listen to Spurinna, you will have to see what you and she can do.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Artemidorus. A centurion acknowledging the orders of his tribune at the start of a crucial battle. ‘I will take Kyros and Narbo if I may. They are Spurinna’s men anyway. I will send the fleetest of foot back if there is any important news.’

  Enobarbus nodded. ‘An excellent idea. I have some of my men with me – they are in the kitchen eating at the moment. If I have news I will send the swiftest of them to you. His name is Hortensius. He’s a tiro – been with us less than a year. But he’s fast.’

  Artemidorus and Spurinna nodded understanding and agreement.

  ‘Your objective, all of you,’ concluded Enobarbus formally, ‘is to ensure that Caesar does not leave to go to the Senate meeting before Lord Antony comes and talks to him. No matter what!’

  VII

  With Kyros and Narbo escorting them once again, Artemidorus, Puella and Spurinna hurried back down the Clivus Pullius roadway towards the Forum. The first hour of The Ides was coming all too rapidly to a close. Caesar would be up and about. Enjoying his famously modest soldier’s breakfast. Probably consuming little more than bread and water. Dressing in his triumphal tunic with its golden palms; his bright triumphal toga and his regal red caligae. Choosing the victorious wreath that best concealed his receding hairline and thinning hair. Calling, no doubt, for his augur and haruspex to learn what fortune the coming hours might bring.

  The augur, however, was running late. He had eaten nothing. The sacrifice and the augury should be taken as soon as possible. And fasting. Though, if time and circumstance allowed, the sacrifice could be eaten as a sacred meal after the divination was complete.

  Spurinna’s altar was set up outside the Temple of Mars, beside the Regia itself and close to Caesar’s home in Rome, the Domus Publicus which stood between the Regia and the Temple of Vesta. The three buildings almost m
ade one continuous complex. This had been done at Caesar’s request. Spurinna usually sacrificed out on the Field of Mars itself. The sacrificial animal would have been cleaned and prepared. This being the month dedicated to Mars, his temple was among the preferred places for the auspices to be taken. It had been a bull at the Lupercal, in the Ara Martis, the main temple on the Campus Martius. It had been a boar on Dies Natalis, the first of the month. It would be a bull once more in two days’ time, to celebrate Liberalia – and the coming to virility of all the fifteen-year-old boys in Rome. Boys other than Gaius Cassius Longinus junior. That sacrifice would also take place in the Ara Martis on the Campus.

  Today it would be a white ram on an altar outside the temple in the Regia. And whereas many sacrifices to the gods were castrated or female, sacrifices to Mars were always fertile. Mars, god of growth and virility as well as of war and victory. Legendary father of Romulus and Remus. Protector of the city. But such sacrifices were sometimes difficult for anyone but the most skilled augur to handle. Mars was god of war and his sacrifices occasionally fought against the inevitable. Especially when wine and sacred vestal bread was scattered over their heads. But the augur’s assistants would be there. Strong young men used to handling fractious livestock. Who would have drugged the ram’s last meal if anything untoward seemed to threaten.

  A range of other priests and concerned onlookers also would be waiting. The white ram would be waiting. With another, part-prepared also in case the first sacrifice proved to be ill-omened. Caesar himself might well be waiting. All that would be lacking was the man himself.