The Ides Page 22

  The new ostiarius did not know him, but the dog did. Its growl was a resonant echo of last night’s thunder. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the new doorkeeper. ‘He growls at everybody.’

  Then Brutus’ steward entered the vestibulum behind him. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Artemidorus. Have you heard about the events of the night and the day?’

  ‘I know the city is in the grip of madness,’ Artemidorus answered. ‘They say Caesar has been murdered in the Senate. What else is there?’

  ‘One of our slaves escaped last night. Through the window you were mending.’

  ‘My work was not yet finished,’ said the undercover handyman, as though his expertise was being impugned.

  ‘But worse than that, the ostiarius who tried to bring her back was killed in the street!’

  ‘How dreadful! How did the Lady Porcia take the news? I know she has not been well…’

  ‘Oh! That is another story! She has been so worried about Lord Brutus that she seems to have had a seizure. She collapsed. At first we thought she was dead!’

  ‘Dead! How terrible!’

  ‘But we were mistaken. She had only fainted. She is recovering now. But in the meantime, what news from you? Is it true about Caesar?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And who would do such a dreadful thing?’

  ‘I fear Lord Brutus himself may have been among the ringleaders. If I were you I would barricade your doors and make sure the house is safe. Unless the Lady Porcia has a better idea. There may be civil unrest. At the very least. And if Caesar’s friends seek revenge…’

  ‘Thanks for the warning! We will make the house secure as best we can.’

  ‘Do. And if I were you I’d make plans to get out of the city as soon as you can safely do it. And take the Lady with you if she can be persuaded. Things are bad at the moment. But there is worse, far worse, to come!’

  *

  Oddly enough, in the midst of all that was going on, so much of it so tragic, the news that Porcia was not dead after all lightened the spy’s spirit. And although he was sworn to bring Lord Brutus to account for his part in Caesar’s murder, the thought of telling him his wife was still alive added further to the positive feelings. He had killed two men so far today with hardly a second thought. And found another he was fighting to keep safe slaughtered like a sacrifice. But the prospect of bringing news that someone feared dead was still alive seemed somehow to outweigh it all. He walked almost cheerfully back towards the Forum. And as he went, he pulled sections of the Samnite’s armour out from where he had hidden them. And began to put them back on.

  But then he came into the Forum once again to find it beginning to fill with people. And his positive mood began to dissipate.

  It seemed that Dolabella had been as good as his word. He or his acolytes had been round all the local brothels and the bars by the looks of things. Handing out bribes as he had promised. Paying a range of drunkards and whoremongers to come and hear Lord Brutus. Wastrels, bullies and cashiered soldiers into the bargain. But clearly not only Dolabella had been busy. There were some more respectable citizens doing their best to stay clear of the rabble. The range of different togas spoke of quaestors, aediles and praetors. Aristocrats. Senators. Those, he assumed, who should have been at the fatal Senate meeting but for one reason or another had stayed away.

  Distracted, he paused, looking for the one man so far remarkable by his absence. Marcus Tullius Cicero. But the great lawyer, orator and Republican was nowhere in sight. The reeking rabble and the patricians trying to stay clear of them milled around in front of the Comitium as though they expected Brutus to climb back up the Rostra. But that was not the plan. Murcus and Pasticus were trying to get the mob organised and heading up the Cursus Capitoline towards the Temple of Jupiter. Murcus and Pasticus alone, by the look of things. Like Cicero, Dolabella was not visible among the assembled mob.

  Emboldened by Dolabella’s absence and by his Samnite disguise, Artemidorus joined the fringes of the slowly moving multitude. And fortune smiled on him once again. He recognised one of the men he was walking beside. The man was one of the ex-legionaries currently filling Rome’s bars and brothels while they waited for Caesar to assign them the farms and smallholdings they were entitled to at the end of their service. This one smelt of sweat and drink. But he seemed fairly sober.

  Artemidorus lifted the hinged face mask of the Samnite helmet. ‘Soldier,’ he said. ‘Do you recognise me?’

  The legionary glanced at him. Was clearly just about to say No! But then he looked again. This time with recognition in his eyes. He stopped. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You were my centurion when I was in the legion. Are you back in the arena?’

  ‘No. I’m on a mission for General Antony,’ Artemidorus led the man aside so they could talk while the rest of the group walked on. ‘Do you know Lord Brutus?’

  ‘Served with him in Cyprus.’ The old soldier nodded.

  ‘Good. When you get to the Temple of Jupiter, find him and tell him his wife is well. He’s been told she is dead. But she just fainted. Tell him and he will reward you.’

  The soldier gave a grunt of laughter. ‘I doubt it. He spent most of his time in Cyprus raking the money in. I never saw him handing any out!’

  ‘This is the kind of news that is bound to be rewarded!’

  ‘Yes, Centurion. I’ll give him your news. But why don’t you tell him yourself?’

  ‘Because I’m not coming with you.’

  ‘I see. But what if he asks me how I know?’

  ‘Tell him a Samnite gave you the message.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ The soldier almost came to attention.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘Good luck to you, Centurion!’ He gave a creditable salute, rejoined the crowd and was gone.

  *

  Artemidorus closed the face mask once again. Instead of turning right to go further up the side of the tabularium, he ran straight ahead and, out of sight of the crowd and their leaders, swung left. He ran down behind old shops of the Tabernae Veteris until he reached the Vicus Tuscus road that led down to the bridge across the Tiber just south of Tiber Island. Following unknowingly in Enobarbus’ footsteps, he ran past the cattle market and out across the great stone bridge, glancing over his right shoulder at the galley-like bows of the island and the first of the temples behind them, the Temple of Aesculapius.

  His hurried strides soon brought him to the far bank of the river where he turned right and after a few more moments was running back over the Pons Cestius onto Tiber Island itself.

  The island offered scant space for proper army lines. It was busy with temples and buildings of all sorts. Many of these showed signs of recent military occupation. And what space there was between them was filled with legionary eight-man contubernium tents. But it was all as deserted as the curia had been when he had found Caesar’s corpse.

  Artemidorus ran across the marble-crowded space until he reached the Pons Fabricius. This narrower bridge spanned half of the width of the Tiber joining the east side of the island to the Field of Mars. It didn’t take much imagination for the spy to see that someone had taken the VIIth Legion at least part way to the city. Lepidus probably. With Enobarbus at his shoulder, no doubt.

  Artemidorus walked across the bridge, his mind racing. Trying to guess what the men of the VIIth would do when they heard that Caesar was dead. They would almost certainly want revenge. He could easily draw up a list of hotheads who would be all for invading the city, besieging the Capitoline and massacring everyone in the Temple of Jupiter on top of it. But by the same token, he could name a larger number of level-headed men who would want to wait for events to clarify themselves. Who would want to wait for orders from their commanders. There were a good number of men in the VIIth – many of them centurions like himself – who would understand the legality of their position and demand clear orders from someone with unchallengeable authority before they made a move. The only thing he couldn’t work out was which of t
hese groups would win out.

  He found the VIIth drawn up in battle formation on the Field of Mars. The soldiers standing silently in the warmth of the afternoon, helmets and breastplates glinting. Swords sheathed on right hips. He ran past the silent ranks until he found Enobarbus and Lepidus in consultation with all the other centurions of the legion. An intense knot of debate grouped beyond the front rank of soldiers. Just as he arrived, the group broke up. He was too late to influence whatever decision had been made.

  Frowning, he crossed to Enobarbus, who was now in full uniform like his men. Except that he was carrying his helmet under his arm. Its plume was almost as bright as the one that crested the Samnite helmet Artemidorus wore. He undid the laces, lifting helmet and face mask free as he approached the tribune and the magister equitum. ‘Ah, Septem,’ said Enobarbus. ‘You have arrived at an opportune moment. We need to find the general.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘The Seventh will return to Tiber Island and await events. Or orders from the general. Orders given in person. The centurions decided in council that as Caesar is dead, Lepidus is no longer magister equitum. With one consul dead, only the other consul can order them into action. And that consul is Antony, of course. So if we want the Seventh to act, we have to find him. Have you any idea where he is?’

  ‘No. He’s in disguise and in hiding. That’s all I know.’

  As this conversation went on, the VIIth, under direction of their centurions – Artemidorus’ century commanded by his deputy Oppius – wheeled around and marched back towards Tiber Island.

  ‘Antony is wise,’ Lepidus observed. ‘If I can’t command the legion, I think I’ll go into hiding myself. If I was Cassius, I’d be trying to pick off Caesar’s friends one by one before they could get organised. Our best hope for the moment is to stay out of sight. If you find Antony, tell him I’ll follow any orders he gives. Abide by any decision he takes. Back him to the hilt…’

  ‘Not a well-chosen phrase under the circumstances,’ observed Artemidorus.

  ‘But we’ll give him the message when we find him,’ agreed Enobarbus.

  ‘And we’ll stay with you and your lictors until you see what things are like in the Forum,’ added the spy.

  Things in the Forum were still eerily quiet. The Forum itself was deserted. Shops and stalls were shut, though some of them showed signs of the brief spell of looting that had happened earlier. Lepidus and his lictors hurried away eastwards, past the Regia and the Domus. Enobarbus and Artemidorus hesitated. ‘I think I’ll start at Antony’s house,’ the tribune decided.

  ‘I’ll follow you there so you know where to find me. Leave a message so I can find you. In the meantime I must see how things are doing at the Domus.’

  ‘Good idea. See you later. At Antony’s.’

  *

  The Lady Calpurnia met Artemidorus, dry eyed and enraged when the ostiarius showed him into the atrium of the Domus. ‘I told him,’ she said, with no preamble, recognising him at once. Even in Samnite armour with his helmet under his arm. ‘You told him. Spurinna told him. As far as I can see the gods themselves told him. But he just would not listen! It’s as though he wanted to die!’

  Artemidorus didn’t know what to reply. He had no idea how seriously to take the last comment. Could Caesar have wanted to die? In the unexpected, unlooked-for manner he had described to the treacherous Decimus Brutus Albinus yesterday evening? Was the falling sickness getting so bad? Was the man who wanted to control the world losing control of himself? Of his bladder? Of his bowels? It was too late to worry about it now. Useless to speculate.

  ‘And to make matters worse – as though they could be any worse, that young wastrel Dolabella has been here demanding the consular insignia! He was promised it he said. Forced his way in and just took it. Before even Caesar came home! Thank the gods I had already received the terrible news and knew what he was talking about. Imagine if I had found out like that! Been informed of my husband’s death by some young puppy coming in to take his badges of office!’ She stood, rigid with indignation. Then returned to her original subject. ‘He was getting worse, you know. With the sickness. Falling. Losing control. Very much worse. But he wouldn’t ask Antistius…’

  ‘Antistius,’ he said gently. ‘Lady Caplurnia, is he here?’

  ‘He’s with Caesar,’ she said. ‘In there.’ She gestured towards the nearest room. ‘The servants brought a table through from the culina…’ She took a deep shuddering breath as the implications of what she had just said hit her. Her eyes flooded. She turned away. Clapped her hands. Was instantly surrounded by solicitous slave women from her quarters. They led her away, sobbing.

  Artemidorus crossed to the room she had indicated. ‘Ah, Septem,’ said Antistius looking up as he walked in. ‘I’ve been expecting you. You found the body I understand.’

  Caesar was lying on the table, on his back. His wounded face pointed up at the ceiling. He was naked apart from a cloth over his loins. His eyes were closed. He had not yet been washed or prepared for funeral. He looked as though he had been covered in dull red paint. Or damp terracotta dust.

  ‘I was first into the curia, yes.’ The spy could hardly take his eyes off the corpse. The head, shoulders, upper body were covered in wounds that gaped like red-lipped mouths. The red-lipped mouths of infants seeking their nurse’s nipple.

  ‘Lying on his front?’ Antistius continued.

  Artemidorus shook himself – mentally as well as physically. He shivered. His flesh rose. ‘On his front,’ he confirmed. ‘And a little on his side. Not flat on the floor. Head turned to one side. Covered with his toga…’

  ‘Dying is a private business,’ the physician nodded philosophically. ‘Or should be. Even a death like this.’

  ‘…in a huge puddle of blood…’

  ‘That I already knew.’ The physician gestured to Caesar’s toga. It was draped over the back of a chair. Artemidorus crossed to it. Looked down surprised. In fact there was less blood on the garment that he had expected.

  ‘At the foot of Pompey’s statue,’ he concluded.

  ‘The gods having their little joke.’

  ‘Probably because he ignored all the messages they were sending.’

  ‘The messages that you, Enobarbus and Spurinna were sending, you mean. And such a range of messages. I found quite a few papers in the folds of his toga. Most of them were petitions of various sorts. But one was a list of names. Very interesting. And, from what I hear, very accurate. The names of his murderers.’

  ‘I gave him that.’

  The physician nodded. ‘I thought so. So the messages were not just supernatural ones that had been coloured, shall we say, by Spurinna and the rest of you.’

  ‘We didn’t make the weather last night. We didn’t make the doors blow open or Mars’ spears shake. We didn’t send the dreams…’

  ‘Of course not. And the Fates themselves must have had a hand in the fact that he carried the chance of salvation you handed him into the curia, unread!’

  There was a short silence, then the physician turned back to his patient. ‘I count twenty-three wounds. Head, shoulders, upper body. Arms. Face, of course.’ He lifted the loin cloth. ‘One in the groin…’

  ‘That was Brutus,’ said the spy.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He left his dagger.’ Artemidorus reached behind him and pulled Brutus’ dagger out of his belt.

  Antistius took it and placed it beside the wound at the top of Caesar’s thigh. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’d have said this knife made this wound. It’s Brutus’ you say?’

  ‘Mine now,’ the spy retrieved the precious weapon.

  ‘Well it missed the genitals. Missed the major vessels in the leg. Like most of the others, this wasn’t fatal.’

  ‘Most of the others? Not fatal?’

  *

  ‘That’s right. Oh, he’d have bled to death eventually if left untreated. And his love life might have gone downhill given the damage to
his face…’

  ‘Cassius did that, I think.’

  ‘… A miracle his manhood wasn’t damaged though. But none of the twenty-two wounds here was the killing stroke. And you can see why. Take this one. Possibly the first, I’m not sure. It’s come over his shoulder from behind. The dagger point has bounced off his collar bone. Cut the top of his chest here. But it’s a shallow cut. Not much damage done. Someone must have pulled Caesar’s toga out of the way or it wouldn’t have cut him at all.’

  ‘I’m sure that was Publius Servilius Casca. Caesar grabbed his wrist and stabbed his forearm with the stylus he was using.’

  ‘I knew he was fighting back at some stage. Some of the wounds on his hands and arms are there because he was trying to stop the daggers. Catch them, even.’

  ‘But there were more than twenty attackers, all grouped round him,’ said Artemidorus. ‘They all had daggers. But only Cassius and Brutus had daggers like this one. I’ve never seen a blade like it… He stood very little chance.’

  ‘True. But they weren’t doing much of a job of killing him. They were striking down from over his head. Hitting and cutting each other in all probability…’

  ‘I saw a few of them wounded…’

  ‘And striking downwards like that is not very efficient. Independently of the thickness of toga cloth on top of the shoulders. The bones of the chest, front and back, can act like armour when you strike down on them. The daggers mostly bounced off his ribs or his shoulder blades. Flesh wounds. Twenty-two flesh wounds. Even that one in his face. Gaius Cassius Longinus you say…’

  ‘Twenty-two. I thought you said twenty-three.’

  ‘That’s right. Twenty-two flesh wounds. And one killing stroke. A soldier’s stroke.’ He rolled the body over slightly and the spy saw what he meant. Low in Caesar’s side, below the ribs, but clearly slanting up into the chest cavity itself was a long, deep gash. ‘The section of the toga that this went through was preserved from your lake of blood,’ said the physician. ‘It must have been uppermost in the angle that he fell at. But the amount of blood that issued from this wound stained the toga. From chest to hem. And that makes me absolutely certain that this was the stroke that killed him. And I suspect it was quite an early blow. Third, maybe, after Publius Casca’s.’