The Ides Read online

‘Never outside Italy, then?’

  ‘I have travelled widely, Centurion, if that is what you are insinuating!’ Cicero strode on down the vicus. Past the opening of the Clivus Capitolinus and the untended slopes of the aquimelium.

  ‘As a scholar, sir. In comfort I would guess. Not as a soldier on campaign…’

  ‘So, by extension of your logic I am in no position to judge what men might be forced to do on the march. Starting with your general. Antony. Once again, Centurion, I find I may have underestimated you.’

  Cicero turned right and began to run up the hundred steps.

  *

  Brutus and Cassius were nervous. Perhaps even scared. Probably as much to do with exhaustion as anything else, thought Artemidorus. He watched them from a distance, locked in conversation with Cicero. They knew the soldier and spy too well now to allow him within earshot of their conference. Just to make certain, Syrus stood beside him, with the three who had held him yesterday. The Syrian swung his club. Easily. Threateningly.

  ‘You know our business isn’t finished, spy,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Priscus and the boy lie between us, no matter where you hid their bodies. We will have a reckoning, you and I.’

  ‘You and your three friends, if I remember correctly. Shall I bring three of mine too? Or will even numbers scare you and your little helpers away?’

  The Syrian fumed in silence. Not daring to go any further by word or deed for the moment. For Cicero, Cassius and Brutus were all looking at Artemidorus as they spoke.

  But although they made sure he could hear nothing, they couldn’t stop him looking around. Which he did. Pointedly ignoring Syrus and his empty threats. And as far as he could see, the number of Libertores had diminished even further. The gladiators were here, but he could no longer see their employer Albinus. Syrus and his group were here. But where was Minucius Basilus? At home, he guessed. With their families. In clean clothes. Bathed. Fed. Having slept in their beds. Who could have calculated that one moment’s madness on the morning of the Ides would lead to three sleepless nights and days hiding in a temple?

  Cicero broke into Artemidorus’ reverie. ‘They will only go down if there are hostages to guarantee their safety,’ he announced, walking towards the spy, dismissing the gladiators with a wave. Cicero’s lips were thin. He was clearly unhappy with this answer. Perhaps he had underestimated more than just Antony, thought the spy with a wry smile.

  ‘Will you take this answer to the consuls, or will I?’ he enquired.

  ‘We will take it together, Centurion.’

  As they walked back down the hundred steps, Artemidorus asked. ‘Have they named the hostages they want?’

  ‘They have. They want Marcus Aemilius Lepidus junior. And Marcus Antonius Antyllus.’

  ‘So it’s lucky for Publius Cornelius Dolabella that he hasn’t any children yet,’ said Artemidorus, frowning.

  ‘I see their reasoning. Their nervousness,’ Cicero fumed. ‘But I cannot condone it. Young Lepidus has yet to wear the toga virilis – unless he went through the ceremony yesterday. Which I doubt. And young Marcus Antonius is a mere baby. How does this make Brutus and Cassius look? Like frightened children!’

  ‘And the weaker they look, the stronger Antony looks,’ added Artemidorus. With some relish.

  Antony received the news in stony silence. Lepidus with simple fury. But their hands were tied. ‘Very well,’ said Antony. After a while. ‘Enobarbus, alert Marcus Aemilius’ wife to send young Lepidus here with a slave or two to keep him company. Septem. Go and tell the Lady Fulvia what’s going on. Make it fast.’

  Artemidorus ran into the Carinae at full speed. He was out of breath by the time he reached Antony’s villa and hammered on the door. He had just enough wind left to tell Antony’s doorkeeper, ‘I need to see the Lady Fulvia. At once.’

  Promus came into the atrium to see what the commotion was all about and went to summon Fulvia.

  ‘What is it?’ Fulvia demanded as she swept into the atrium a moment later. ‘Promus said it was important. Is Lord Antony all right?’

  ‘Yes, my Lady. He sends a message.’

  ‘And what does the message say?’

  Artemidorus could see no gentle way of breaking the news. ‘The only way to get Brutus and Cassius down off the Capitoline as the comitia demands is to give them hostages. To take their places. In the Temple of Jupiter where they’ve been hiding. They want young Lepidus. And they want Antyllus.’

  Fulvia looked at him with something close to horror on her face. ‘Antyllus! But he’s only a child. Scarcely more than a baby!’

  ‘There is no alternative, my Lady. It is the will of the people. The comitia has spoken. The Libertores must come down. This is the one condition they demand. Lord Antony and Lord Lepidus have agreed. That is the end of the matter.’

  ‘But Antyllus!’

  ‘Antony suggested that young Lepidus be accompanied by a slave he particularly likes and trusts. Is there anyone in your household…’

  Fulvia stood frowning for a moment. Then she turned and vanished into her quarters.

  When she re-emerged, she was leading Antony’s three-year-old son by the hand. ‘His current favourite is just collecting together everything he will need if he’s going to be up there for any length of time.’ She took a deep breath. Began to speak. Hesitated. Stooped. Picked up her son and hugged him to her. Pressing his cheek against her own. Staring at Artemidorus with an intensity he found a little unsettling.

  ‘Yes, my Lady?’ he said.

  ‘Septem,’ she answered, her voice low and vibrant. ‘You have done so much for us. For Lord Antony already…’

  ‘What is it you want me to do, Lady Fulvia?’

  ‘Go with them,’ she said, speaking in a rush. Aware that she was asking something difficult. Perhaps dangerous. ‘Go with them. Stay with them. Bring them back. Bring my little boy home safely to me.’

  ‘Well, my Lady,’ he began doubtfully. Quite apart from anything else, he was surprised that a matron such as Fulvia, with her reputation for propriety, would let him see beneath the social mask she usually wore.

  But before he could finish speaking, Antyllus’ current favourite came out carrying a bag of things he might need, when she accompanied him up onto the Capitoline.

  It was Cyanea.

  XV

  ‘I’m stuck there like you until things move on,’ said Cyanea. ‘I can’t sit around all day so I help out. And the child’s taken a liking to me.’

  ‘Better you than someone who’s never been through anything like this before, certainly,’ Artemidorus allowed, grudgingly.

  ‘And you’re going to be with us,’ she added.

  ‘Unless Antony has other ideas. He’s my commander after all.’

  They were part way down the Argentium roadway, heading for the Forum. Antyllus was riding on Artemidorus’ shoulders, playing with his helmet crest. The soldier had tight hold of the child’s ankles because the helmet’s prominent neck guard could knock him off his perch if they weren’t very careful.

  ‘Not likely, is it?’ continued Cyanea briskly. ‘He wants the best for the boy. And he does not want to upset the Lady Fulvia.’

  ‘It’s just that the people in charge up there are the people who were all waiting to rape you the last time you met them,’ he explained grimly. ‘And in the meantime I’ve killed two of their friends.’

  ‘You’ve been busy!’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it!’

  ‘And I probably don’t want to,’ she added. Because she already knew him all too well.

  They reached the Forum at the junction with the Comitium meeting area. Antony was waiting impatiently on the Rostra. Dolabella was talking to the crowd that formed the comitia. As soon as he saw his son, Antony came down. He lifted him off the centurion’s shoulders and held him gently against his breast. Even though it was covered with his armoured breastplate. ‘What did Fulvia say?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘That Cyanea should go wit
h him…’

  ‘Of course…’

  ‘And that I accompany them. Guard them. Bring the boy back safely.’

  ‘And are you willing to do this, Septem? There’s nothing but enemies up there.’ He spoke quietly and glanced across to where Cicero was standing. Apparently listening to Dolabella’s eloquence. His face folded into a critical frown.

  ‘Yes,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Unless you have another assignment you feel is more important or better suited to my skills. I gave my word to the Lady Fulvia.’

  ‘No, Septem. Looking after my boy is even more important than looking after me. And I can’t think of anyone I would trust to do the job more than you.’

  ‘We just need to wait for young Lepidus, then,’ said Artemidorus with a nod. And an unspoken promise to look after the boy better than he had looked after Caesar in the end.

  Then Enobarbus came shouldering through the crowd with young Lepidus junior behind him. Accompanied by a slave who looked like Hercules’ big brother. Antony gave a laugh of genuine amusement. ‘You might not be needed after all, Septem! This youngster seems to have brought a one-man legion!’ But then he quietened, his mood darkening once more. ‘But we’ll need brains as well as brawn. And you gave Fulvia your word…’

  Cicero accompanied them again. This time he led them up the road beside the tablinarium and onto the steep Clivus Capitolinus road. Perhaps as a gesture to Artemidorus, who had Antyllus on his shoulders. As soon as they entered the square in front of the temple, they were surrounded by the remaining Libertores. Cassius seemed particularly pleased to see them. ‘You see?’ he said to Brutus. ‘I said they would do it!’

  ‘I didn’t doubt they’d do it,’ said Brutus angrily. ‘I just questioned the necessity! If they’d given their word…’

  ‘They gave their word to protect Caesar!’ snapped Cassius. ‘Look where that got him! We don’t want to end up the same way.’

  ‘An interesting approach to logic Gaius,’ said Cicero. ‘As the man most responsible for the breaking of that particular oath. But we do not need to debate the point. Your conditions have been met. Lead us all down to the Forum so that Brutus and you can address the comitia before they all get bored and disappear.’

  As the Libertores followed their leaders down the roadway towards the Forum, the gladiators gathered increasingly tightly around the hostages and their protectors. Young Lepidus stood as close to his giant companion as possible. It seemed to Artemidorus that the youngster would have held his protector’s hand if his pride had allowed him to do so. He glanced at Cyanea as he lifted Antyllus from his shoulders. ‘You!’ she snapped at the nearest gladiator. ‘Clear the way! Antony’s son wishes to view the temple. This is an excellent opportunity to broaden his education! One is never too young to learn!’

  The gladiator fell back a little sheepishly. No doubt remembering his own mother or nurse. Cyanea swept through like a felucca under full sail and Artemidorus followed, with the child still in his arms.

  They were on the temple steps when the cheering in the Forum started. The applause went on and on. Artemidorus gently put the child down and straightened. That seemed to him to be a very bad sign indeed. Antony may have won the game yesterday. By cunning or by chance. But he seemed to be losing today. One roll of the dice after another.

  And on that very thought, an icily familiar voice said, ‘You just can’t seem to keep away from me and my trusty club now, can you? And how nice of you to bring your whore back too. We have so much unfinished business with both of you.’

  *

  Enobarbus had never seen Antony look so worried. Though to be fair he was doing a good job of masking his obvious concern. His tribune saw it clearly enough. Few others did. As the cheering went on and on, the Libertores gathered round the Rostra. First Cassius and then Brutus mounted the steps. To even wilder applause. Antony strode forward. Raised his hand demanding silence. But got no reaction. ‘Friends,’ he shouted. ‘Romans…’ But the ecstatic comitia just shouted him down.

  At a loss, he looked across at Dolabella, who also came forward to try and get himself heard. Again, to no avail. ‘Shake hands,’ bellowed a voice from the crowd. ‘Shake hands to show us you are friends.’

  At once the crowd took up the chant. They were neither angry nor threatening. But they would not be denied. The chanting went on and on. Antony at last swung round. With scarcely concealed anger, he shook first Brutus’ hands and then Cassius’. Under whose fingernails Caesar’s blood was still thick and dark. Dolabella followed suit. Then Lepidus did the same. The comitia continued to shout their approval.

  But when Brutus went forward to speak, the crowd quietened at once. Except for a hum of lively expectation.

  Antony walked nonchalantly to the Rostra steps. Descended as though he was simply giving Brutus more space to make his speech. Strolled across to Enobarbus. Stood, apparently casually, beside him. ‘We’re losing this battle a little too quickly for my liking,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘The war’s not over yet, General,’ answered the tribune bracingly.

  ‘Maybe not. But now is the time for an action to secure at least part of our retreat. Go over to Janiculum. Caesar’s villa. Make sure Cleopatra leaves at once. I know she has been planning to go. She has a ship waiting in the harbour at Ostia. But if she hasn’t started to move, then she must get under way. Now.’

  ‘But, General…’

  ‘Don’t you see? If this all goes against me, then she will be a target for the mob. They hate her. They only accepted her because of Caesar. Now he is gone she is naked. Defenceless. I could protect her if all goes well. But if it goes badly…’ He shook his head. His face a worried frown. ‘The risks are too great.’

  ‘Queen Cleopatra can protect herself, my Lord. She has her guards… her soldiers…’

  ‘Tribune! The only escape from this situation I can see is to find some way to turn the mob against the conspirators. It will be difficult and full of risk. If I fail, then I will be defeated and if she is still in Caesar’s villa she will be in danger from Cassius who hates her and who will have the power to destroy her. If I succeed then the mob will tear apart anyone they hate. Starting with the enemies of Caesar, certainly. But by no means stopping there. And they hate Cleopatra. Can you not see, man? If she is still in Caesar’s villa by the end of the Quinquatria festival, which starts tomorrow, then there is no end to the danger for her. Especially if Caesar’s new gladiatorial games on the next days after it get the people inflamed…’

  Enobarbus crossed the Forum to the Vicus Jugarius and ran past the Capitoline, under the shadow of the Tarpean Rock, and out through the Carmenta Gate onto the Campus Martius. He knew he would find here the only section of the VIIth Legion not camped on Tiber Island. A small cavalry detachment with fleet-footed Iberian horses from Hispania Ulterior province. A unit which would simply not fit on the temple-crowded island. Once he was with the cavalrymen, it took mere moments for him to have the fastest of the Spanish stallions saddled. Then, just as Caesar used to do, he vaulted onto its back.

  Gripping with his thighs, he caught up the reins and guided the animal over the Pons Fabricius at a brisk trot. He picked his way across Tiber Island carefully but easily and crossed the wider Pons Cestus at a gallop. The horse needed no urging to take the hill road up to Janiculum as though at the forefront of a charge. He pulled the creature to a halt outside Caesar’s villa and dismounted. The stallion stood quietly, nibbling the close-cropped lawn. The door opened before he reached it. A slave hurried out to take the horse’s reins. Another, bowing, waited to guide him into the capacious atrium.

  The whole of Caesar’s villa seemed to be bustling. Though there was nothing obvious. It was a feeling. A sensation. He turned to the slave beside him. ‘The Queen…’ he said.

  ‘… is here, Tribune.’ Cleopatra VII Philopator, Pharaoh of Egypt and the most powerful woman in the world, completed his sentence for him. Her voice somewhere between music and magic. Treating him as though
he was an intimate. A friend. As always.

  He turned and she stole his breath. She made the simplest attire look like a robe of incalculable worth. This one was a plain mourning gown. For Caesar. She was not beautiful. Her face, like Fulvia’s, was too strong for that. Her nose too pronounced. Her chin too determined. But her eyes were so dark it was hard to see where their black centres began. Her lashes so long there was no need for the kohl that lined them on ceremonial occasions. Her lips were full. Her mouth at once firm and yet alluring. Prone to twist into a smile at almost any occasion.

  And her voice…

  At twenty-five years old, she was in her prime. And the perfection of her prime. Yet she retained an irresistible girlishness. A lust for life. She ruled the richest kingdom on earth and yet she took joy in the simplest pleasures. And, it seemed, that everyone who knew her loved her. Every man, at least. Among which number stood Antony. Artemidorus. Enobarbus himself. ‘Your Majesty, Lord Antony counsels that you leave this place at once. Things are slipping out of his control in Rome and he fears for your safety.’

  ‘If things are slipping out of Antony’s control then he should be looking to his own safety.’

  ‘He will do that, Majesty. But only after he is assured of yours. Can you leave at once? I know your royal vessel is waiting at the harbour in Ostia…’

  ‘Much of the household has already embarked.’

  ‘Then leave, Majesty. Leave now. While the Via Salaria is safe and easily passable between here and Ostia. Or do you plan to use your barge and sail down the Tiber?’

  ‘I will take the road. It is less than twenty of your Roman miles. I can be aboard well before dark.’

  ‘Would you like me to accompany you, Majesty?’

  ‘I am tempted, naturally. But I have my household guards. I will be safe.’ She raised her voice very slightly. ‘Charmian! Iras!’

  Her two handmaids came immediately. ‘The tribune brings orders from Antony. We must leave at once. I wish to be safe aboard my quinquereme by sunset. Then we will leave on the first convenient tide. Iras, prepare Caesarion. Enobarbus, please assure Antony. We will be aboard by sunset and sail for Alexandria on the first tide.’