The Ides Page 35

  Then Antony added, ‘And these are the names of the men who fought at his side, whom he supported, advanced, loved like members of his own family. Some of whom, indeed, he adopted into his family. And who also swore this great oath. Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus. Gaius Trebonius. Publius Servilius Casca Longus. Gaius Servilius Casca…’

  Artemidorus could see all too clearly what he was attempting. As they had discussed. Nothing he had said or done went beyond the remit that the Senate and the Libertores had agreed. If the People remained in this trance-like stillness. Trembling on the edge of riot but still taking no action. He could be accused of nothing. But the expression on Fulvia’s face was one of intense frustration. It looked as though it was time for Antony to dispense with subtlety. In her opinion at least. After all, she was only asking him to dare to do what she had already dared and done.

  As though Antony could read Fulvia’s mind, he finished reciting the names of the Libertores who had sworn the oath. And suddenly raised his hand towards the Temple of Jupiter crouching on top of the Capitoline. Blazing in the morning sunlight. Like a funeral pyre of unimaginable size. Shouting, as though overcome with emotion at last, ‘Jupiter, god of our ancestors, and all you other gods! For my own part I am prepared to defend or avenge Caesar according to my oath. But since it is the popular view that what we in the Senate have decided will be for the best, I swear to hold my hand! But I pray that it is for the best!’ The senators behind the Rostra were the only ones to react to this mannered and clumsy outburst. Their anger was palpable. And in the face of the crowd’s continuing refusal to take action, Antony was forced to change tack.

  ‘Well, friends,’ he said, his voice lower. Seeming to Artemidorus to have an undertone of defeat. ‘We must think about the present. And the future. Not the past. We are poised on a knife-edge. We risk falling into yet another civil war. So.’ He almost shrugged. ‘Let us complete the funeral rights. Then simply take this body to the pyre. And let his spirit join the gods who are his brothers and his sisters now.’ His voice broke on the last few words and he looked down. As though he was ashamed to let the people see that he was overcome.

  Antony stopped talking. Dashed his hand down over his face. Clearly wiping away tears. Moved to one side. His shoulder touching the white cloth hanging from the point of the spear that stood by the box behind Caesar’s ivory couch. The singers filed past the enraged, frustrated Fulvia and the wide-eyed Cyanea. Mounted the platform. Continued to sing their dirges. And then, while they did so, the actors came forward one by one. In ringing tones, they recited lines of elegiac poetry. By Archilochus of Paros and Pindarus, Quintus Ennius and Virgil. And speeches from tragic plays. By Sophocles and Euripdes. Gnaeus Navius and Lucius Accius.

  At last, Antony stepped forward again. Taking the place of the final actor. Somehow it seemed to Artemidorus that his whole demeanour had changed. That the hesitation had gone. He had run out of patience with prevarication. He was finally committed to a course of action. Come what may. This was how Caesar had looked when he decided to cross the Rubicon, thought Artemidorus. His breath shortened and his hair stirred at the change. Antony looked up at the Temple of Jupiter once more. Then down at the crowd. It seemed to Artemidorus that the general met every pair of eyes there. As his booming voice recited a line from the tragic playwright Pacruvius’ best-known and most popular play, The Contest for the Arms of Achilles. His intonation suddenly full of virile power.

  ‘And did I save these men,’ he bellowed. Voice echoing over the Forum. Like the thunder six nights since. Face streaming with tears. ‘So that they could murder me?’

  Fulvia’s cheeks went from red with rage to white with shock in a heartbeat. She staggered slightly. As though clubbed from behind. Cyanea held her steady. Artemidorus realised that Antony’s dramatic words were some kind of signal. That the general had just committed himself to the course of action he most feared. To all-out war with the Libertores. And if the people still refused to move, then he would find himself fighting that war alone.

  At Antony’s signal, Antistius appeared briefly behind Caesar’s couch. The mysterious box there opened. And it was as though the ghost of Caesar rose before their eyes. Women screamed. Some men too. The crowd staggered back. Then froze. As they realised what they were seeing.

  Standing at the head of Caesar’s couch was a life-sized model of his body. The wax model Antistius had told Artemidorus he would be making from Caesar’s corpse. But, unlike the masks moulded from his face, this was not smooth and perfect. It showed in bright and graphic detail every wound inflicted by the murderers in the Senate five days ago. Painted on with medical precision. And, from the look of it, with thick dark blood from one of Spurinna’s most sanguine sacrifices. Blood which ran almost black. Cascading down the pale but perfect model of the dead man. From the crown of his head. From his shoulders and arms. From his chest. From his cruelly disfigured face. From the great, gushing gash in his side.

  Antony said nothing. He simply pulled the white rag hanging from the spear-point wide. Revealing it to be Caesar’s bloodstained toga. The garment Antistius had carefully preserved at Artemidorus’ suggestion. A stark white sheet. With more than a dozen dagger cuts, all red-rimmed and gaping. Like little mouths. All seeming to scream.

  *

  The crowd ignited like Greek fire. At last.

  But all Artemidorus saw was Cyanea. Her face whiter than Fulvia’s as she turned and began to run wildly away. But not from the crowd. Or from the Rostra. She was running, terrified, from that waxen figure which stood there still spouting black blood.

  Then he was swept away himself. The senators ran for their lives. Calling no doubt for their lictors. And their litters. If they were doing so, no one could hear them over the howls of outrage that filled the forum and many of the nearby streets. The mourners, actors, and musicians fled. The torch-carriers dropped their flambeaus and disappeared. A couple of the soldiers caught them up and held them high. Still well ablaze. Suddenly the whole of the Comitium area behind the Rostra was empty. Then more citizens flooded into it. Taking the places of the fleeing senators. The crowd in the Forum surged forward. Artemidorus and Enobarbus went with it. They had no choice. And were lucky to keep their feet.

  With the help of the soldiers, six of the largest men ran up to the shrine. Shouldered Caesar’s couch. The wax model fell. Shattered. The purple and gold cloth fluttered to the ground, exposing the dead dictator’s wounded face. The men carried the couch back towards the steps. The baying of the crowd grew louder still. As the plebeian pallbearers brought Caesar back down from the Rostra. Into the Forum. Escorted by the soldiers who worshipped him. To the citizens who loved him. There was an instant of quiet. Artemidorus looked for Antony. He was nowhere to be seen. Fulvia, Promus and the house slaves had all vanished as well.

  ‘The Capitoline,’ someone shouted. ‘Take him to the Temple of Jupiter!’ With Ferrata and his men forming a kind of honour guard, Caesar was borne across the Forum and into the mouth of the Vicus Juagarius. Artemidorus and Enobarbus went with them. Only to find the path and the steps up to the temple blocked. The temple priests had put up with a lot recently. The Libertores all but desecrating the holy space for which they were responsible. The gladiators guarding them. The comings and goings of their friends. And those who were called to listen to their speeches. They were not about to see the most sacred space in the city turned into a funeral pyre. They took swift action to forestall the citizens. They might not be soldiers. But they understood well enough how to close a narrow pathway and an even narrower set of steps.

  Thwarted, the men bearing the couch turned once more.

  ‘Take him to the Campus Martius!’ shouted another voice. ‘To the pyre there.’

  ‘No!’ shouted others. ‘That’s where the legionaries are. Back to the Forum!’

  The whole of the crowd seemed to take up this cry and they surged back. With one intention. With one mind, thought Artemidorus. Almost with one body. When they got int
o the Forum once more there was no more hesitation. They placed Caesar’s couch outside the open doors of the Domus, then went to work. The five triumphal Caesars all joined in as well. Now distinguished by the golden robes they were wearing. Their wax masks long gone.

  Men and women alike were tearing apart the shops and stalls round the edge of the square. Chairs, stools and benches from the public areas in the old basilica along the south side. Wooden scaffolding from the as yet unnamed, half-built basilica beside it. In whose flooded foundations Priscus and the boy still lay undiscovered. Still more wood from the shops and law courts in the new basilica to the north. Artemidorus was certain he recognised tables and stools from the taberna where he had bought Ferrata breakfast this morning. There was even some bedding from the brothel next door. Well used and in urgent need of a wash. Greasy and easily flammable, thought the spy. All of it piled increasingly high before the Rostra with its empty shrine. Its empty box. And its shattered, blood-spattered wax mannequin. Even as he watched, the box and the shrine were smashed to kindling so that they could join the increasingly impressive pyre.

  It took surprisingly little time. Astonishingly quickly, the pyre was erected. Dry kindling of cloth, bedding and splinters shoved into the side of it. Caesar laid reverently on the top. Then the two soldiers holding the blazing flambeaus thrust them into the wooden sides and in a heartbeat it was all alight. The crowd gathered round the flaming pyre. Looking in simple awe at what they had done. Like men awakening from a nightmare. Or a bout of madness. Many still sobbing. Men and women alike. The flames licked up through the hillock of wood and cloth. Reaching hungrily for the ivory couch and the corpse resting on top of it. Like the Temple of Jove sitting unscathed on the crest of the Capitoline.

  Then one of the triumphal actors tore off the cloth of gold robe he was wearing and threw it into the fire. It writhed among the flames as though it was alive. Melting and vanishing. Instantly it seemed that everyone else there was emulating him. The other triumphal costumes joined the first. The triumphal decorations that had adorned them. The soldiers joined in. They had no legionary identification marks. But many of them were wearing personal decorations. For bravery. Long service. Badges of rank. First one and then another pulled these free and threw them into the flames. Lucky amulets. Neck chains. Women stripped off their rings. Necklaces. Bangles. Earrings. Pulled out silver and gold combs. Belts with gilded links. Ornate buckles from girdles and shoes. Buttons cast in precious metal. All of it went into the pyre. The crowd members at the back jostling forward to add their precious possessions to the fiery sacrifice. Sacrificers by the hundred. Sacrifices by the thousand. As the flames roared higher. And higher still. Wood hissing, splitting and sparking angrily. As the smoke boiled upwards, covering the sky like a mourning shroud. As the heat of the blaze drove the crowd further and further back. As Caesar finally disappeared into the heart of the inferno.

  And, watching it all, Artemidorus was suddenly pulled back in his mind to the night before the Ides. When he still believed he had a chance of stopping all of this. Running through the stormy darkness with Puella. Guided by the lightning that turned the roadway at their feet into a river of gold. For there was another river running out of the bottom of the pyre. Pumped out like blood from a wound as the structure began to collapse at its centre and settle. Trickling dazzlingly across the stones of the Forum. Only this time the stream of molten metal was not an illusion. This time the river of gold running down into the gutter was real.

  *

  The spy had no idea who first tore a blazing stick out of the fire, yelling, Almost inarticulate with rage and grief. But making his message clear enough. The echoes of his voice scarcely seemed to have died before there were a dozen more like him. Waving their burning torches and shouting. Not just citizens either, he noted. Several soldiers joined the mob in their quest for revenge. And as they ran past him, one stopped. A familiar pair of eyes regarded him from between tight-tied cheek flaps. Red-rimmed. Not quite sane. And a familiar voice said, ‘Septem. As agreed, I think I should warn you that I’m planning to roast a senator or two!’ And he was gone.

  ‘Ferrata!’ Artemidorus called after him. But he was too late. Like most of the rest of the hate-filled mob, he had vanished. Heading for the Carinae and the senatorial villas beyond it on the Esquiline. Leaving only a small number of weeping people and a few old soldiers round the pyre. And a range of wreckage, armour and weaponry on the ground. Helmets. Shields. The spear that had held Caesar’s toga. Artemidorus jerked himself out of his stasis. Went across to the front of the Rostra. Walking carefully clear of Caesar’s smouldering pyre. Picked up the spear. The toga was gone. As was the purple and gold cloth which had covered the body. Maybe as a sacrifice into the fire. Maybe as a relic, bound for someone’s household shrine. Caesar was, after all, a god now.

  Beside the spear lay the shattered, half melted figure Antistius had cast from the corpse. And, beside that, a legionary scutum shield. Covered in red leather. With a sharp metal boss at its middle. A design like four bolts of lightning joining the boss to the corners. Edged all round with iron. The centurion picked up the shield as well. Hefted it thoughtfully, assessing its weight and solidity. It was heavier than it looked, he thought. Stood it on the ground. It curved around his feet and covered him up to his belt.

  He exchanged a look with Enobarbus who was walking across the littered forum towards him. A look that bordered on bewilderment. That they should be here like this. Able to stand still. Amidst all this danger. Destruction. Emotion. It seemed incredible. Something that happened on the battlefield once in a while. To the victors at the end of a hard-fought engagement. As though they were in the still, calm centre of some terrible storm. Which was still raving madly all around them.

  But then events overtook them once again. Two events almost simultaneously in fact.

  Marcus Aemilius Lepidus led the first centuria of the VIIth Legion into the Forum at a full run. Obviously yet another part of Antony’s carefully planned power play. Which seemed in all respects to be going very well indeed.

  And Promus burst out of the mouth of the Argiletum roadway nearby, shouting, ‘Septem! Septem come quickly!’

  Without thinking, still in the grip of that dream-like moment, Artemidorus slung the shield over his shoulder and ran towards Antony’s servant. He hardly even realised that he still had the spear in his hand. He was dimly aware of Enobarbus following close behind. But all his attention was focused on Promus.

  ‘What?’ he asked as he came closer.

  ‘Cyanea! They’ve taken her!’

  He knew the truth at once. But still he asked, ‘Gladiators?’

  ‘Led by one wielding a club. She should not have run off alone. A kind of madness seemed to overtake her. They snatched her off the street. I saw it happening. But could do nothing…’

  ‘Don’t worry. I know where they have taken her.’ He swung round to face Enobarbus. ‘Minucius Basilus’ villa.’ He said. ‘I’ll go straight there. Can you borrow a squad of men from my centuria? Quintus will pick the best. Follow as fast as you can.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wait until we’ve organised a squad to back you up?’

  ‘No. It’s either a trap for me. Or some amusement for Basilus as they threatened. Or both. But whichever, they’ll have to work fast. Basilus is one of the senators Ferrata and his friends want to roast. He won’t want to stay in the city for any longer than he has to. Even for the pleasure of seeing us die as painfully as possible.’

  As he spoke, Artemidorus was on the move again. Running past Promus into the Argelitum. Following it round, through one smaller forum after another. Past the edge of the Subura towards the Clivus Pullius. Antony’s villa and the Temple of Tellus. And beyond that, the roadways that led past Spurinna’s more modest dwelling. And on up into the exclusive, expensive, patrician sections of the Esquiline. Where Minucius Basilus lived.

  As he ran, memories of his adventures of the last few days kept fla
shing into his mind. The forum where he and Puella saw Cassius dare the gods to strike him down. The corner where Cestus and the panther met. The scaffolding where Telos had been crucified.

  The memories were distracting. Dangerously so. For he was by no means running alone through a peaceful city. There was madness in the air. Gangs of men and women ran screaming from one place to another. Appearing out of side streets and disappearing into others. Sometimes warning of their approach with shouts and screams. Sometimes running silently. Like hunting wolves. Most of them armed. Many of them carrying flaming torches as they searched for any Libertores unwise enough to be out of their barricaded villas.

  But the fact that he was obviously a soldier went some way to protecting Artemidorus as he ran through the mayhem. Fortunately so. For the unrest was spreading rapidly. And brutally. It was the worst he had ever seen within the Servian walls. Worse than those half organised by Antony’s friend Clodius Pulcher. Worse than that organised by Fulvia on Pulcher’s death. Worse than those he’d heard tell of which happened during Sulla’s times and before. When the Gracci brothers had been lynched in the Forum. And those in which Saturninus and Glaucia had been stoned to death with tiles torn from their roofs. The year Caesar was born.

  Worse even than those he had experienced in Alexandria. Where the riots had been so bad they had nearly destroyed Cleopatra, Caesar and the four thousand legionaries trapped there with him.

  By the time he was running past Antony’s barricaded door, he had decided to treat the city as though it was a battlefield. He took the spear in his left hand and pulled his gladius free of its sheath on his right hip.