The Ides Page 28

  The old Ironclad’s voice rang out again. ‘Lepidus! Tell us what you think!’

  Artemidorus leaned a little closer to the magister equitum. ‘Take them back to the Forum,’ he suggested. ‘Talk to them there. Get them away from here.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Antony. ‘Artemidorus, take a detail from these guards and go with him. Twenty men or so should do.’

  And so the morning passed. Lepidus, surrounded by Artemidorus’ detachment, walked down to the Comitium and climbed onto the Rostra there. More and more people came pouring into the Forum. So many that Artemidorus soon lost count. The citizens who lived here, their families and slaves were being augmented by increasing numbers of old soldiers. Coming to the city to find out what was going on. All of them promised farms or smallholdings for their retirement. But promised by Caesar. And increasingly concerned now that whoever replaced him might be less willing to meet the dead dictator’s commitments.

  Lepidus found it hard to speak at first for he was overcome with emotion. Artemidorus climbed onto the Rostra. He stood beside Lepidus as he eventually managed to calm down and make himself heard. Artemidorus stepped back to let Lepidus speak. But he stayed on the Rostra. He was scanning the crowd. Hoping to link the familiar, often-raised, voice with the face of the old soldier from the VIth Legion.

  Lepidus had little new to say. Like Antony, he told the crowd that the main objective now was to maintain the peace. That he had sworn an oath to Caesar but would break his word and stain his honour for the good of the People of Rome. ‘Courage like that deserves reward,’ bellowed that familiar voice. Artemidorus strained his eyes to see who was speaking.

  ‘Like the Libertores, I seek no reward for any of my actions. Other than the good of Rome!’ Lepidus answered forcefully.

  ‘Perhaps you should be pontifex maximus. You seem well enough qualified to be chief priest!’ It was hard to tell whether the suggestion was meant ironically or not.

  Artemidorus had him now. Short dark hair. High forehead. Overhanging brows, thickly furred. Flattened nose. Deep-set eyes above strong cheekbones. Hard mouth in a short, dense black beard rising up olive-skinned cheeks. Medium build. Deep chest. He’d be the Cicero of his centuria. Up on everyone’s rights, starting with his own. Every inch a troublemaker. I could use a man like him, thought the spy.

  He climbed down from the Rostra. Paused, thinking. Lepidus was saying, ‘Thank you for that thought, citizen. Perhaps we should save the suggestion for later.’ It was obvious from his tone that he took the suggestion seriously. And was flattered. Pontifex maximus was an enormously powerful position.

  Artemidorus took off his helmet with its bright, distinctive crest. An excellent rallying point on the battlefield. A distinct disadvantage now when he wished to creep up on someone. He turned to two of the legionaries nearby. The nearest was the reliable Quintus. ‘Take off you helmets and follow me,’ he said.

  Lepidus was asking the crowd to disperse now. Because their presence was a distraction. Slowing down the delicate but vital negotiations they were all so keen to conclude.

  Fortunately, he was unusually long-winded. Probably because he was still so emotional, thought Artemidorus. The crowd lingered, waiting for him to finish. And by the time he did, the centurion and his two legionaries were standing behind the troublemaker. Unsuspected. But close.

  Lepidus turned and began to climb down off the Rostra. The crowd began to break up. ‘Ferrata,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’d like a word with you.’

  *

  The taberna tavern, like the lupanaria brothel next door was little more than a single room shop with facilities upstairs. Artemidorus and the Iberian ex-legionary sat at a rough wood table. Surrounded by clientele who looked to be little more than slaves. Each of them had a bowl of wine in front of him. The man Artemidorus had christened Ferrata, Ironclad, preferred thin, bitter posca, though the centurion was paying and was happy to supply something more expensive. He himself preferred Mamertine wine. Far more expensive. So much so that he was lucky the tavern stocked it. But it was Caesar’s favourite. And what was good enough for Caesar… thought Artemidorus. He sipped the rich Sicilian wine and looked the Iberian legionary in the eyes.

  ‘A spy,’ said Ferrata.

  ‘What I am. What I would like you to become.’

  ‘What’s in it for me? If I say yes?’

  ‘Twenty-five denarii a month. That’s better than the eighteen or so you earned in the legion. And I guarantee a bigger plot of land when you finally retire. Your choice of location.’

  ‘I was born in Iberia. On the coast. Between Barcino and Tarraco, the capital.’

  ‘If that’s what you want…’

  ‘And twenty-five denarii…’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘Paid up front?’

  ‘Paid when I know I can trust you not to whore it away and disappear.’

  ‘OK, Centurion I’m your man. Do I need to swear the sacramentum soldier’s oath all over again?’

  ‘No. We’ll assume the original one you took is still in force. What’s your name?’

  ‘They call me Otho.’

  ‘I’ll call you Ferrata. After the Ironclads.’

  ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘Septem.’

  ‘Because you’re from the Seventh. Clever. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Do what you’ve been doing. Go to the meetings. Listen to the speakers. Ask your questions. Tell me the answers.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s all for now. But listen, Ferrata, I need you to go to places I can no longer go to. Up to the Capitoline. What are they saying at the Temple of Jupiter? If they come down into the Forum and start making promises. What do they promise? How do the other soldiers or citizens react? Keep close to the Libertores. It’s them I want to know about. Understand?’

  ‘I understand. I can do that. Where and when do I report?’

  ‘Report at sunset. Consul Antony’s house on the Carinae. You know where it is? Come to the posticum side entry. It’s near the kitchen. You might even get fed if the report is good…’

  The Iberian tossed back the last of his wine and rose.

  ‘Oh, Ferrata…’ Artemidorus stopped his departure with a word.

  ‘Yes, Septem?’

  ‘Next time you want to roast a senator, ask me first.’

  *

  Mark Antony was in a good mood. He felt he had outmanoeuvred the enemies of Caesar who now seemed to have spread through the Senate like a plague. And he was more than willing to explain his cunning in detail over cena. Which was taken in the triclinum this evening. Artemidorus also felt that the day had been a success, though he was less willing to discuss the details than his ebullient host. While the men were still out in the early afternoon, Fulvia and her handmaids had bathed themselves and Antony’s sons. Antony and his men had bathed on their return. Artemidorus had been called from the laconium to hear Ferrata’s report – which had been good enough to earn the ex-legionary a loaf of emmer bread.

  Antony’s dark curls were still wet as he disposed himself luxuriously on the couch he shared with his wife. Lepidus had returned home to his own wife and family. So Enobarbus and Artemidorus had a couch each. The latter feeling a little like a poor relation in his often-mended, recently laundered outfit. Especially as he had missed out on the massage.

  ‘There were really only two propositions before the Senate,’ Antony was saying as he munched on a handful of olives. Spitting the stones into a bowl at his side. Into which, Fulvia was putting the shell of the egg she was peeling. ‘And the propositions were these. To brand Caesar as a tyrant – in which case his murderers had no case to answer. Or to accept that Caesar was not a tyrant but pass a motion to exonerate his killers. For the maintenance of peace. And the good of Rome.’

  ‘Under the laws of the Republic, a tyrant who seeks individual rule is by definition condemning himself to death. As the fate of Spurius Cassius attests,’ said Fulvia, knowledgeably. ‘It
was on the ruins of Spurius’ house that the Temple of Tellus was built. Spurius was executed in the early days of the Republic because he wished to become a tyrant. A king.’

  ‘Just so, my dear,’ nodded Antony. ‘And that is why it was so cunning of me to hold the meeting there. Everyone present knew that story. And knew the price of tyranny under the law. There was a powerful motion presented that Caesar be declared a tyrant. Many senators spoke in favour of the motion. Starting with Cicero who is already the voice of the Libertores. I just sat quietly and let them get on with it. One after another. They had no idea of the trap they were walking into. It was astonishing!’

  He paused as Promus and his acolytes removed the gustatio first course. The eggs, olives, mackerel and mint accompanied by honeyed wine were replaced by a selection of roast birds, carved at the table into manageable sections. There were chickens, ducks and geese. Larks for those preferring something more delicate. There were also beans and more salad of mallow and rue. With a Calenian vinum dulce wine.

  ‘I let them finish, and then I struck,’ he continued, gesturing with the drumstick of a goose. ‘I said that if the Senate wished to convict Caesar of tyranny, then they should do so. And I would personally oversee the reappointment and re-elections that would result. Because if Caesar was officially condemned as a tyrant, then every single appointment and office he had awarded must be null and void. Every bequest he had made must be returned. Every town and city throughout the provinces must send back the gold and silver he had lavished on them. A process made simpler, perhaps, by the fact that every governor and provincial official appointed by him must also return to Rome for reassignment. Every soldier placed on a farm by him must move off it and come back for resettlement.

  ‘And that’s where Dolabella started. He was up on his feet like a startled cat. I had let him share the dais with me because his appointment as consul – on Caesar’s authority – had begun with Caesar’s death. And he suddenly saw all that power and wealth slipping out of his grasp – after only a day! Poor boy. I thought he was going to burst into tears. Well, he convinced them in the end. His eloquence – and the fact that every man there would also have to give up his honours and stand for re-election all over again. So. The long and the short of it is that Caesar was suddenly no longer a tyrant. All his plans and appointments stand. But, for the sake of peace in the city, the country and the provinces, the men who slaughtered him are formally pardoned.’

  ‘The news went up to the Capitoline with astonishing speed,’ Artemidorus informed them, setting aside the fleshless thighbone of a duck. ‘Because, according to my man Ferrata, Brutus and Cassius had called a meeting outside the temple by mid-afternoon. There was another big crowd there to hear them. According to my man, Brutus did most of the speaking. He spoke eloquently and I’m certain he had asked Cicero to look over what he was planning to say. He said he and his associates would stay on the Capitoline through fear of the people. And described the attack on Cinna. He said, Yes, he had broken his oath to protect Caesar – or avenge him. But he had only sworn that oath under duress. This is the legal bit I think Cicero must have advised on. It has the Ciceronian smell about it. Because Brutus, like all the others, feared Caesar’s power. So his oath was by definition null and void.

  ‘And was he right to be frightened of Caesar?’ Artemidorus continued. ‘Yes. He described Caesar as a despot. He listed the number of people Caesar slaughtered in his conquests. Powerful people. Princes in their lands. Like Vercingetorix, Prince of Gaul. Brought to Rome by Caesar. Imprisoned for five years. Then strangled to death as part of a triumph. He also apparently mentioned Lucius Flavius and Gaius Marullus, both tribunes of the plebs, stripped of their office and exiled for removing diadems from Caesar’s statues! Who would not fear someone who behaved like that?’

  The roast birds were cleared away. To be replaced by a tray of fruit. One of Fulvia’s women came in with Marcus and Julius, their sons. A three-year-old and a baby. Fulvia kissed their cheeks. Antony ruffled their hair, clearly embarrassed at showing affection in company. The children went off to bed. The conversation continued.

  ‘But it was towards the end of the speech that Ferrata observed something I think is of vital importance,’ said Artemidorus. ‘He says that Brutus suddenly asked all of the old soldiers present to make themselves known. Even Ferrata was surprised at how many there were. Brutus started talking directly to them. He told them Caesar had instituted a purposely divisive policy to ensure that his old soldiers never had a chance to turn against him no matter what he did. Or what he planned to become. He explained that the smallholdings, villages and towns Caesar had promised them already for the most part belonged to local people. Peasants. Farmers. Villagers and citizens. Who already lived where the soldiers were promised their land. So under Caesar’s plans, the old soldiers would always find themselves at odds with their neighbours. Never really settled. Never able to leave their homes, their wives or families unprotected. Brutus said he had seen it happen in many of the provinces where he had worked. But now he and the Libertores were going to put that right. Whoever owned the land a soldier had been promised would be paid a fair price from the public purse. So old soldiers would be welcomed. Bringing riches and decent profits with them. Would settle comfortably. Live peacefully.’

  ‘And that went down well, did it?’ demanded Antony with a frown.

  ‘Ferrata says the soldiers cheered.’

  Antony’s frown deepened. He swore under his breath earning a glare from Fulvia. ‘That was clever. I was counting on the old soldiers to stay restless. Now I’ll have to think of some way to get them back on our side. Because, remember, no matter what I say or do, the objective remains to execute every single one of Brutus’ band of murderers. One way or another.’

  *

  But as the next day passed, Artemidorus saw the power to complete Antony’s revenge beginning to slip further and further from the general’s grasp. Soon after dawn, having consumed the briefest breakfast, Artemidorus, Enobarbus and the centuria which had been camped nearby, went down to the Forum. Artemidorus watched uneasily as the comitia of commoners formed. Called together by Antony to ratify the decisions that the Senate had taken yesterday. Lepidus arrived. He stood with Artemidorus, Enobarbus and the soldiers. Dolabella appeared and joined his co-consul up on the Rostra. Technically equal and as much in charge. His position as Caesar’s replacement having been ratified by the Senate yesterday along with everything else.

  Artemidorus immediately sensed the tension between the two men. But Antony’s trap for the Senate had also caught Antony himself. He and Dolabella disliked each other intensely. But the only way to remove Dolabella from the consulship was to condemn Caesar of tyranny. And that was the one thing Antony could never do. So the two enemies had to forge an uneasy alliance in the face of the greater threat.

  The general stood grimly silent therefore. While Dolabella seemed to give off a self-satisfied glow. Safe in his powerful position for the moment. Dreaming no doubt of the fortune he could make. Accepting payments for favours done. Bribing and being bribed. And the comitia of the People of Rome formed in the Forum at their feet. An overcast and vaguely threatening morning started to become more and more restless.

  Then, just as the spy began to hope that things would get no worse, Cicero arrived. As soon as the people of the comitia saw him, they started cheering. When Dolabella invited him onto the Rostra and asked him to speak, there was nothing Antony could do. Artemidorus knew exactly what the lawyer and orator would say. He was, after all, the voice of the Libertores. But there was no way that he could predict what the outcome of Cicero’s speech would be.

  By the time he had finished speaking, the orator had laid much of the blame for Caesar’s death on Caesar himself. On his arrogance. His thoughtlessness. His ambition. He further suggested that Caesar had been weakened by the falling sickness. Which, as everyone knew, was getting rapidly worse. So he could even have engineered his own execution. As a way of es
caping the horrible extremities that he feared were otherwise soon to destroy him. He explained what the Senate had agreed in yesterday’s session. But in such a way as to make it seem that they were being generous to the dead man. And that the Libertores had really done everyone, including the sickly Caesar a favour. The last few days, he suggested, were like the storms that had gripped Rome for two nights running. Terrible and destructive at the time. But over now. And soon forgotten.

  By the time he had finished, the hundred throats of the comitia were calling with one voice, for one thing. That the Libertores to come down from the Capitoline. Cicero immediately offered to carry the message himself. But as he came down from the Rostra, he noticed Artemidorus. ‘And the centurion here will accompany me,’ he announced. ‘He is already known to Brutus and Cassius. In one capacity or another.’

  Once again Antony was left with no choice but to agree.

  The crowd of the comitia parted for the two men as they walked south, towards the Capitoline. ‘Antony seems to be losing his grip on events,’ said Cicero, as though there was no one but Artemidorus there to hear him.

  ‘I wouldn’t underestimate the general,’ Artemidorus answered easily. He caught the eye of Ferrata. Neither man gave any sign of recognition.

  ‘Oh but he makes it so easy to underestimate him,’ Cicero continued. They were nearing the outskirts of the crowd. Entering the throat of the Vicus Jugarius. The Capitoline hulked threateningly above them. ‘What are his estimable qualities? That he can drink more than a centuria of normal men? Whore more widely than an entire cohort? Sit elbow to elbow with the commonest soldier at table? I hear on one campaign he drank horse urine and ate things that would turn the most intrepid gourmet’s stomach.’

  ‘Have you ever been on campaign yourself, sir?’ asked Artemidorus gently.

  ‘With Strabo, Pompey’s father. And with Sulla.’