Caesar's Soldier

To Mum, for all her love and support, and for reading all my novels when I specifically told her not to.

And to Abigail, finally an adult.

Prologue

Kalendis Sextilis DCCXXIV Ab Urbe Condita AUC (1 August 30 BC), Alexandria

‘Cleopatra is dead.’

Antony stared at his slave, Eros, the bearer of the news, in disbelief. It could not be.

Eros bowed his head. ‘She is already in the mausoleum. I am so sorry, master.’

Cleopatra? Dead? Not that enchanting, vivacious, intelligent queen. The one he had loved more than any of the other many, many women in his life. His partner, his lover, his best friend.

He slumped back into his chair and put his hand to his brow. It was the end of everything. He had thought that, even after the defeat of the navy, he could hold out with Cleopatra in Egypt indefinitely just as Cleopatra’s ancestor, the first Ptolemy, had done after the death of Alexander the Great. He had hoped that Cleopatra and he could still enjoy the fruits of their struggles. Feast, drink, dance, watch their children grow up.

But that cursed Octavian would not leave them alone, even after his victory. The man who had once been Antony’s ally, with whom he had shared the Empire, was merciless. And cowardly. He refused Antony’s challenge of single combat. He refused Antony’s offer to kill himself, if only Cleopatra would be spared.

And now she was gone. Despair welled up within him. Life would be nothing without her.

He drew his sword and handed it to Eros. Eros took it gingerly, not a man used to handling weapons.

‘Kill me.’

‘Master,’ Eros gasped. ‘No. You can still surrender. Octavian will treat you honourably.’

Antony let out a humourless chuckle. ‘That man has no honour. He will humiliate me, and have me publicly executed to show his absolute power. And even if he spared me, what sort of existence would I have?’ He shook his head. ‘My mind is made up. You must do this last service for me, Eros. Kill me.’

Eros held the sword before him in a trembling hand. Antony focused on the tip of the blade. His flesh had tasted steel often enough. He knew there would be pain. But then there would be release.

‘Do it,’ he hissed.

‘Master,’ said Eros, tears streaming down his face. ‘I cannot. I am sorry. Forgive me.’

And then, to Antony’s horror, he reversed the weapon, then threw himself onto it. A long groan came from deep within him and he toppled sideways. Antony leapt up and caught him before he hit the floor. He cradled the body of his dying servant, holding him until the last signs of life faded.

Then he picked the weapon up. He would have to do it himself, then. He weighed the sword in his hand, tested its balance, looked down the blade to see if it was straight. It was well-maintained. It suited him just fine.

He looked around the chamber, deep in the heart of the Royal Palace in Alexandria. The plush furniture, the lavish wall decorations, the expensive, gaudy marble statuary, all were grey and drab without his beloved. He choked back a sob. The silence, the emptiness seemed to mock him now. He, who had come from nothing to become the ruler of the greatest empire the world had ever known, had nothing once more.

So this was how it ends.

How had it come to this?

Chapter I

Kalendis Quintilis DCLXXXIII AUC (July 71 BC), Rome

Forty-one years earlier…

The young boy recoiled in disgust as the man with the missing leg lurched towards him. He was scarred, liberally dotted with pox marks, and a long, jagged white line bisected one cheek, nature and humanity conspiring to ruin his face. To his horror, the man grabbed him firmly by the wrist. The boy tried to pull away but the grip was surprisingly strong and he could not break free. The ghastly creature drew the boy nearer, then peeled his lips apart in a dreadful rictus, revealing a mouth full of brown, broken stumps. A fetid smell of rotted cabbage and putrid flesh wafted out of his mouth and made the boy gag.

‘Ssspare a coin, young sssir,’ he said. ‘Jussst a sssestersssius for one of Sssulla’sss veteransss.’

Spittle showered the boy as the man spoke, words lisping and whistling through broken teeth. He became acutely conscious of his purple-bordered white toga praetexta, the toga he had to wear until he was old enough for the plain white toga virilis of a man. The carts and pack animals that congested the filthy streets had already splashed the clean wool with mud and manure, and now he thought it was about to be contaminated further by the miasma emanating from this demon. His mother would kill him.

A deep laugh came from behind him.

‘Oi mate. Take your mucky ’ands off ’im. Don’cha know ’oo you’re molestin’?’

The man flinched and the boy snatched his arm back, rubbing his wrist where the fingers had dug in deep enough to bruise.

‘Your pardon, fine sssir. I’m jussst an old man, crippled for the honour of Rome, looking for a coin to ssstop from ssstarving.’

‘This,’ continued the young man who had spoken, ‘is the son of Marcus Antonius Creticus. ’ero of Crete, conqueror of the pirates. This is Marcus Antonius. Remember the name.’

The young boy flushed, looking down at his feet. He was being mocked. His father had been given an extraordinary command of the navy to defeat the pirates that were plaguing the Mediterranean, but had been singularly unsuccessful, not to mention outright corrupt, plundering the provinces he was supposed to be protecting. The most recent news Rome had received was of a disgraceful defeat at the hands of the pirates and Cretans, and with most of the fleet sunk, Antony’s father had only been able to escape with his life by brokering a humiliating peace treaty. The harsh-tongued Romans had promptly dubbed him Creticus, the type of title usually given to a triumphant general, but in this case clearly ironic, not least because as well as conqueror of Crete, the words also meant Man of Chalk.

‘Clodius, leave him alone.’

‘What’s up, Curio? Worried your little toy boy might cry?’

Antony’s other companion, Gaius Scribonius Curio, two years older and on the cusp of manhood, was much shorter than Clodius, unsurprising since Clodius had ten years seniority on him. But he stepped up to him and gave him a hard punch in the upper arm. Clodius laughed and clipped Curio round the side of the head, sending him into a rage, flying forward, fists whirling furiously. Clodius, chuckling, held him at arms’ length until the storm blew itself out. Curio stood, chest heaving, blowing heavily, face stony.

‘Apologise, Clodius. To me and him.’

Clodius regarded him, eyes twinkling, then bowed low to them both.

‘My apologies, masters Antonius and Curio, for my low ’umour.’

It was the best they would get, Antony knew, and following Curio’s lead he nodded acceptance.

‘And as for you,’ Clodius said, rounding on the beggar who had been watching the exchange in bemusement, ‘I’ll teach you to lay ’ands on a boy of senatorial rank, you scum.’ He shoved the crippled veteran hard in the chest, sending him toppling over backward, his crutch flying, arms windmilling in a vain attempt to keep balance. He landed flat on his back in a pile of donkey manure, which at least cushioned his fall. Curio and Antony laughed as young boys always will at the sight of the two funniest things in life, falling over and shit.

Clodius stepped up to the beggar and kicked him hard in the ribs. The beggar let out a yelp and curled up, arms over his head. Curio and Antony stopped laughing. Clodius kicked him again and again, and the beggar cried for mercy. Antony heard bones crack, and the cries grew weaker. Antony stepped in front of Clodius and looked up into the flawless face. His cognomen was Pulcher, beautiful, and for a moment, Antony felt lost, paralysed as he gazed upon the Adonis. Smooth skin, clean-shaven, piercing blue eyes blazing out from beneath a furious furrowed brow that sullied his perfection. Eleven-year-old Mark Antony stood between twenty-four-year-old Publius Clodius Pulcher and the broken man he had nearly killed. He said nothing. But it was enough to dissipate the anger that had overcome the older man.

Clodius looked from Antony to the prostrate derelict, then smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth, in such contrast to the beggar’s foul dentition. He reached down and tousled Antony’s hair affectionately.

‘Come on, lads, it’ll be dusk soon, and I’ve barely begun to show you round the Subura.’

Clodius’ accent grated on Antony. He couldn’t work out why the highborn nobleman, scion of the aristocratic Claudian family, whose direct descendants numbered many consuls and even a censor, whose brother-in-law Lucullus was having huge success commanding the legions in the war in Asia against Mithridates, would mimic the speech of the common man. And mimic it badly, too. Antony, though he boasted a famous orator in the person of his grandfather, and though his family claimed descent from Hercules via the demi-god’s son Anton, would have killed for Clodius’ pedigree, especially now his father was in disgrace. Clodius even insisted everyone spell and pronounce his name in the vulgar dialect, though the name he was born with was Claudius. Antony was sure he had his reasons, though couldn’t think of any that made sense.

Clodius scared Antony. He was wild and unpredictable, as the incident with the beggar had shown. He could be mean and vicious in his words and deeds. But he could be thrilling to be around. Curio idolised him.

And Antony idolised Curio.

So here they were following this wonderful, capricious, mercurial aristocrat who pretended to be lowborn, through the poorest, dirtiest, most disreputable part of the city, in search of adventure. Antony wasn’t sure if the tingle in the pit of his stomach was from fear or excitement. Probably both.

Clodius stopped them at a tavern with the sign of a cockerel painted on the wall. Antony didn’t know why he had picked that particular one out of the dozens they had passed that seemed identical: stone benches against the walls and three wooden chairs around a table on the street, a counter with three large pots slotted into depressions in the surface, filled with steaming, sloppy, strangely delicious-smelling stews and broths, a room inside with more seating, and a couple of backrooms. But Clodius threw himself dramatically onto one of the chairs and put his feet up on the table, his shoes smearing filth across the table-top. Curio and Antony sat either side of him and waited expectantly.

The tavern-keeper emerged from behind the bar, looked pointedly at Clodius’ feet, then took in the fine clothing that all three youths sported, and pressed his lips together.

‘What can I get you, masters?’

Clodius looked at an old man sitting on the stone bench with his back to the wall, taking small sips from a clay cup.

‘What’s ’e drinking, mate?’

The tavern-keeper raised an eyebrow at Clodius’ accent, then said, ‘Lora. But that’s for slaves and poor people. I have some lovely Setinum out the back, fresh in from Latium. I don’t usually stock anything that good, but I got a special deal…’

‘Three cups of lora then, mate. And no water.’

Antony exchanged a glance with Curio. Both were well used to drinking wine, but usually it was heavily diluted, as it was for all children. Even adults who drank their wine neat were looked down upon – Antony remembered his mother vociferously chastising his father when he had returned home from a banquet drunk out of his wits, telling him that he would never make his way up the cursus honorum if he couldn’t stay sober. But the two lads wouldn’t dare show weakness to Clodius by turning down the strong drink, and moments later, Antony found himself looking down into a sticky red liquid, bracing himself for the taste as Clodius watched on intently.

Curio went first, downing the cup in one long draught, then wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. They both turned to Antony, whose palms had become suddenly damp. He put the cup to his mouth, feeling the rough surface against his lips, then tilted his head back.

It was the foulest thing he had ever tasted. It was as sour as neat vinegar, but with a warm, sickly aftertaste that burned his tongue. He leaned forward and sprayed the drink out forcefully, showering the tavern-keeper, whose face turned purple in barely restrained fury. Clodius broke into howls of laughter, and Curio chuckled and clapped Antony on the shoulder sympathetically.

Once more, Antony’s cheeks burned in shame. Curio reached out to take the cup away, but Antony moved it out of his reach. He would not be beaten by a mere beverage. He took a breath, wrinkled his nose, then took another large drink. This time he swallowed hard, and the fiery liquid made its smouldering way down his gullet into his empty stomach. He paused, making sure the lora would stay down, feeling his guts rebelling, heaving. When he was confident, he drained the rest of the cup, and turned it upside down, empty, on the table.

Curio and Clodius laughed and clapped. Clodius drained his own cup and ordered three more. Antony felt a strange sensation as the warmth flooded out of his centre to his extremities, and it felt oddly like his nose was glowing.

When the next round arrived, Curio asked, ‘How long are you staying in Rome for?’

Clodius shrugged. ‘Not long. My enemies are plotting against me already. I’ve only returned briefly, to see my sister mainly. I’m off soon to join Lucullus in Asia. Time to show Rome what I can do when I am given men to command.’

Clodius’ accent was often less coarse when talking privately to his close friends, Antony had noticed.

‘Your enemies?’ Antony felt a shiver of excitement that Clodius was important enough to have made enemies so young in life.

‘Catiline and Cato,’ said Curio.

‘What did you do to upset them?’ asked Antony.

Clodius pursed his lips. ‘A couple of years ago, Catiline was prosecuted for sacrilege because of his adultery with a vestal virgin, and was cleared.’

This was news to Antony. Clearly his parents had not thought it a fit subject to discuss with their young son.

‘Clodia told me all about it,’ said Clodius. ‘How Catiline and Fabia, Cicero’s sister-in-law, were caught doing the deed by a temple slave, who told all the other slaves so that it was common knowledge. Plotius brought a prosecution. But Piso defended him, and Catulus was the judge, and he got off. It was a clear fix. I pressed for a retrial, and was roundly condemned because of it. Cato in particular wouldn’t leave me alone. He hounded me until I had to leave Rome.’ Clodius sounded hugely aggrieved, and Antony wondered if it was his exile or a genuine concern for Rome’s morals that wounded him the most. The murky world of politics was still opaque to him.

Antony thought of the trial, and wished he had seen it. He wondered what it would be like, prosecuting in the law courts, making a name for himself as a lawyer. Would it be more exciting than soldiering? He hoped he would find out one day. He started his second cup of the sour wine. This time he found he could tolerate it more, though he had no idea why people drank it for pleasure. He was sure Curio was pretending to like it too, and even Clodius, who was trying to be one of the common people, was clearly making an effort not to turn his nose up at the poor-quality fare. But he couldn’t deny it was having some effect on him. A little lightheadedness, a feeling of well-being radiating out from his centre.

Clodius stood up abruptly. ‘Come on, Curio,’ he said.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Antony.

‘Young Curio here’s nearly a man. He’s old enough to enjoy manly pleasures.’

Manly pleasures? Gambling? Wrestling?

‘Hi, my man,’ said Clodius to the tavern-keeper. ‘What’re your girls like?’

Oh. That manly pleasure.

‘I have an Armenian for two copper asses and a beautiful Gaul for four. Oh, and a new Greek boy for eight.’

Clodius fished out eight copper coins from his purse and handed them over. ‘Let Curio here have the Gaul,’ he said. ‘But make sure she doesn’t break ’im. ’e’s delicate.’

Curio gave Clodius a soft thump in the shoulder, but followed him inside. Antony found himself suddenly alone, with dusk falling, in the roughest part of the city, while his two friends did the deed inside. His hand reached inside his under-tunic and took hold of his gold bulla, his constant companion since his mother hung it round his neck as a baby. It hung from a strong gold chain and inside its two convex plates, hinged together like a clam, was the tiny phallus-shaped amulet that brought him luck and protected him from evil spirits. A strong urge came upon him to open the bulla, to hold the amulet in the palm of his hand.

Someone sat down at the table with him. He looked up into the eyes of a plump, matronly woman, dark hair streaked with grey. She gave him a kindly smile.

‘Your friends left you?’

‘They are… busy,’ said Antony uncertainly. ‘They are coming back.’

‘I know, deary. If I guess right, that younger one won’t be long at all. Your older friend though…’ She looked off into the tavern and then seemed to suppress a shudder.

‘Do you work here?’ asked Antony. Her presence lessened the fear of being alone in this scary quarter, and he felt a sudden urge to engage her in conversation, to make sure she didn’t leave, at least until his friends were back.

‘Not anymore,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘But I’ve done my time behind the bar. And on my back.’

Antony fought the urge to look down in embarrassment at her frankness. Instead, he kept his eyes on hers, and continued the conversation as if she had just told him nothing more shameful than her favourite chariot team. ‘So you are just a customer here like me?’

She chuckled, a deep laugh that seemed to well up from her chest, a sound that Antony found as comforting as a lullaby. ‘No, not a customer. I own this tavern.’

‘You? But I thought…’ Antony looked to the man who had served them, and who was now scrubbing hard at a particularly resistant patch of solidified garum.

‘My husband’s name is on the deeds, of course. It’s much simpler that way. Rome isn’t fond of successful women. Something you won’t have to worry about.’

‘But you said you worked here once?’

‘I was a slave,’ she said, and Antony marvelled at her matter-of-factness. Yet, young as he was, Antony was astute enough to look a little deeper and see the pain behind the statement. He decided not to press, but she volunteered the information anyway.

‘I worked hard. I was good at my job. All aspects of it. So I saved enough money to buy my freedom. But I didn’t do that straight away. What is the good of being free and destitute? So I kept going until I had saved enough to set myself up in business.’

‘Did it take a long time?’

‘A very long time. Although a customer who was particularly fond of me left me a little money in his will, which was just enough to reach my goal. I paid for my manumission and bought this place on the same day.’

‘And you met your husband later?’

‘Actually, no. He was another former customer. He was bereft when I stopped working, and used to hang around the tavern all day, just for my company. He proposed half a dozen times before I gave in. But he has turned out to be quite useful. Even if his initial ardour has waned.’

Antony looked across at him, the barman’s lined face weary, his hair receding, and found it hard to imagine the young man in love, pursuing the lady who sat opposite him now. In fact, he couldn’t even imagine being as old as either of them.

‘Do you have children?’ he asked. A shadow passed across her face, and he realised immediately he had said something wrong. ‘I’m sorry, I…’

She reached out a hand and held his, squeezing gently.

‘We have had three,’ she said softly. ‘All boys. None made it to their fifth birthday.’

Antony sat quietly for a moment. He had two younger brothers. As far as he knew, his parents had lost no children, either at birth or later, to one of the many diseases or accidents that could befall the youngest members of society. Although it was possible that they had in fact stoically endured losses that they had never told him about. Still, his mother and father, in Mark Antony and in his brothers Gaius and Lucius, had what this woman had lost. After experiencing the Subura, Antony realised that this was just one of the many ways in which his family was fortunate, despite his father’s yearning for the wealth, power and recognition he felt he lacked.

‘I think maybe they would have turned out like you,’ she said after a moment. ‘Not rich, of course. But brave. Strong.’

Antony looked at her in surprise. He felt he had anything but those qualities. Yet her approval, for a reason he couldn’t understand, meant a lot to him. He sipped his drink and wrinkled his nose involuntarily. She laughed again, and he smiled back. ‘It’s foul, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Don’t worry. Not liking lora doesn’t make you less of a man. You will find other vintages to your taste, I’m sure.’ Antony nodded and put the cup down gratefully.

At that moment, Clodius came swaggering out of the back of the tavern, his arm around Curio, who appeared to be in something of a daze, eyes wide, staring into the middle distance. Clodius ushered Curio to a chair, smirking broadly, and then sat down himself.

‘Your friend is now a man, Antony,’ he said.

Antony glanced at Curio, who said nothing.

‘Don’t worry,’ continued Clodius. ‘Your time will come.’ Then he seemed to notice Antony’s companion for the first time. ‘Or maybe it already ’as. What are you like? I leave you alone for a few moments and you immediately pick up a woman. A man after my own ’eart. Although, I ’ave to say, I’m not sure about your taste. Bit fat and old for me.’

Antony bristled, feeling a sudden fury rising inside him at this cruel way Clodius was dismissing his kindly companion. He started to rise, but her hand clamped on his, and she gave him a wry smile. She stood, bowed respectfully to Curio, studiously ignored Clodius, then said to Antony, ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, young sir. May I ask your name?’

‘Antonius. Marcus Antonius.’

‘My name is Eucalia. I hope we will meet again, young Marcus.’

She walked slowly back into the tavern, her plump backside swaying elegantly, and all three youths watched her go, Clodius clearly admiring the view despite his words and umbrage at the way she had snubbed him.

‘Well,’ said Clodius, to Antony. ‘If you have finished chatting up the locals, and Curio has got his breath back, shall we go?’

‘Where?’

‘To find some more fun.’

The next fun thing Clodius suggested was to find a homeless beggar and toss him in a blanket. But of course no one had thought to bring a blanket with them, and the first beggar they found that had his own was surprisingly heavy. Much as Clodius yelled and berated the two younger boys, they did not have the strength to get the struggling, yelping man more than a few inches off the ground. Clodius eventually gave it up as a bad job, and stalked off in a sulk, Curio and Antony hurrying after him, feeling ashamed that they had let the handsome patrician down. But Clodius soon recovered his good humour when they came across a sculptor’s workshop. The doors were barred for the night of course, but Clodius had spied a first-floor window that was unshuttered.

‘Why don’t you shin up there and steal us something?’ Clodius said to Antony.

Antony was genuinely confused. ‘But why?’

‘Because I said so,’ snapped Clodius. Antony felt a moment of defiance, despite his awe of the older man, but Clodius softened.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Occasionally we need to break the rules. Sometimes because we think it’s necessary. Sometimes just for the sheer enjoyment of doing something that someone else ’as said is forbidden. Now is one of those times.’

Antony looked up at the open window, and something stirred within him. It would be a challenge. A way to test himself, not just to impress his friends but to satisfy an urge within that he couldn’t quite define. ‘How would I get up there anyway?’

‘We’ll give you a boost,’ said Clodius. ‘Then it’s up to you.’

Antony looked at Curio and his friend nodded encouragement.

‘Fine. I’ll do it.’

Curio and Clodius linked hands, and Antony stepped on. On a count of three, they heaved him into the air, and Antony pushed hard with his leg, so he was propelled several feet upward, high enough to grab onto the window ledge. For a moment he dangled by his fingers. If he let go, he would not fall far, though maybe far enough to twist an ankle. But it would be a failure, a humiliation. He had been given a task, and it was now his duty to follow it through.

Fortunately, he was strong, possessed of an upper body strength that few of his age could boast. He hauled himself upward, scrabbling and clambering, feet digging into cracks in the loose brickwork, until he could hook one foot over the sill. From there it was straightforward to pull himself up and roll through the window.

He fell into the room with a quiet thump. He froze on all fours, straining his ears for sounds of movement or alarm. After a few moments he felt reassured that no one was coming, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he looked around him. The tiniest amount of illumination came from the moon through the open window, just enough for him to make out charcoal shadows against a black background. Still on hands and knees, he felt his way along the floor. A large figure in his peripheral vision startled him, but when he turned he realised it was just a life-size marble statue, though he could barely tell its gender let alone its subject.

He groped around for something to steal, some trophy to prove his success. After all, by the terms of the dare, he hadn’t really completed his task until he had broken a law, and he doubted a simple trespass would be sufficient to satisfy Clodius. Nor, truth be told, to satisfy himself. His outstretched fingers touched a statuette, and he explored it with his fingertips. About a foot tall, a male figure, muscular, with a club. A Hercules no doubt, maybe destined for sale outside the temple of Hercules Victor in the forum boarium. It was fitting, since Antony’s family claimed descent from one of Hercules’ sons, Anton. He grasped the figurine around the waist and lifted it. It was weighty, and a little awkward to manoeuvre when he was on all fours. He shuffled round, back towards the window, and as he did so, his foot connected with another statuette, a lighter clay model. He looked round, and held his breath as he saw it tilt, reaching an angle from which it was impossible to recover. It toppled over, crashed into the solid floorboards, and shattered.

The noise in the dark and quiet was like the roar of the crowd in the arena as a gladiator struck the killing blow. It would be heard in the floor below, the street outside, even the neighbouring buildings. His only hope was that the proprietor did not sleep on the premises. It was a vain hope. Of course the sculptor slept here, probably with his family. The workshop gave him shelter, a home, and living on site meant he could provide his own security.

Even as the sound of the crash was dying away, Antony heard a shout from below, steps ascending a staircase at the far end of the upper floor that he was only now able to see in the flickering light of the oil lamp the sculptor was carrying. A head appeared at the top of the stairs, eyes staring around wildly, then a torso, arms, the lamp in one hand, a hammer in the other.

‘Who’s there?’ cried the sculptor, his voice full of anger and anxiety.

Antony grabbed the Hercules figurine tight, and scrambled towards the window, knocking over more statues in his haste to get away.

‘Hey, stop.’

Antony didn’t turn round, but he could hear the sculptor’s footsteps on the boards behind him, a shuffling gait made necessary by the low ceiling that caused him to stoop. Antony grasped the edge of the window, looked out, and hesitated. He could see Curio and Clodius looking up at him, Curio worried, Clodius grinning fiercely, excited, and they seemed much further down than he expected.

‘Come here, thief,’ growled the sculptor, and Antony felt a tug on the hem of his toga.

‘Catch me,’ he cried, and clutching the figurine tight, threw himself out of the window. He fell, face first, one hand outstretched in a futile attempt to break his fall. Something checked him, jerked him to a halt, and he almost let go of the little statue. He looked up, and saw the sculptor was gripping tightly onto his toga, bracing his feet against the windowsill to stop himself being pulled out behind Antony. For a moment Antony dangled, caught, the ground a few feet away, but completely out of reach. He fumbled at his toga, attempting to unwrap it, but it was wound around him tight, and his one free hand could do little.

Then there was a loud rip. The toga tore at the point it rubbed against the window ledge, and the sculptor fell backward, a large chunk of material clutched in his hand. Antony found himself falling once again, but before he could even take a breath, he landed heavily on Curio and Clodius, who had made a cradle with their linked arms to catch him. All three collapsed to the floor, Curio letting out a groan, while Clodius giggled like a child. Antony rolled onto his back, staring up at the tall wooden buildings tightly packed along the narrow street and the starry night sky. He held the figurine to his chest, proof of the success of his mission. It bounced in time with his thumping heart.

From the window above appeared the furious face of the sculptor. He shook the hammer at them and yelled something incoherent, then hooked his leg over the windowsill and began to climb out.

‘Come on,’ gasped Antony. ‘He’s coming.’ He sprang to his feet and held a hand out to haul Curio upright. Clodius slowly got himself upright, chuckling to himself as if laughing at a joke only he understood. ‘Hurry,’ urged Antony.

Clodius stood with his hands on his hips, watching the cursing sculptor awkwardly clambering out of the window, feet scrabbling against the loose brickwork, searching for a foothold. Antony grabbed Clodius’ hand and dragged him away. Reluctantly, Clodius broke into a trot, following along behind Antony and Curio as they fled the scene of the crime. It suddenly occurred to Antony that Clodius might be armed, might have a concealed blade about him somewhere. If so, he was even happier he had persuaded him to run. Antony already had a ripped toga to explain to his mother. He could do without it being soaked in blood, too.

He glanced back. The sculptor had reached street level and was chasing them, waving his hammer above his head and yelling for them to stop. He was a big man, with broad shoulders and excess belly fat, and he was quickly out of breath. He had no realistic chance of catching the three fit young lads. But Clodius deliberately slowed his pace, taunting the craftsman, pretending to be tiring, simulating a limp. The sculptor knew he was being teased, roared his frustration, but could do nothing about it. The few people stupid or drunk enough to be out at that time of night wanted nothing to do with any disturbance. Before long, the sculptor gave up the chase.

Clodius stopped a score or so of feet away and turned back, and Antony and Curio, who had put much more distance between them and their pursuer than Clodius, also stopped. Antony put his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. Clodius faced the sculptor with a big grin on his face, and saluted cheekily, which set the sculptor off cursing again. Antony grabbed Clodius’ tunic and tugged him away. After a few moments, Clodius gave in and swaggered down the street, still chuckling.

‘I need to get home,’ said Antony. ‘My mother will be worried.’

Clodius gave him a contemptuous sneer. ‘I told you we shouldn’t have brought him, Curio,’ he said. ‘He’s just a child.’

Antony waited for Curio to defend him, and when nothing was forthcoming, thrust out the figurine of Hercules towards Clodius. ‘Well, a child just stole this,’ he said, defiantly.

Clodius cocked his head to one side, then ruffled Antony’s thick, curly hair in an affectionate, if patronising, manner. ‘You did well. Fine, let’s take you home.’

He walked the last part of the journey home alone. The Antonii were not a rich family by the standards of their class – the families of Curio and Clodius possessed many times their wealth, but of course these things are relative, and Antony lived in a fine domus on the Esquiline hill, a reputable part of the city, the well-to-do neighbourhood starkly contrasting with the slums of the Subura that he had just left. Not that there was a guarantee of safety anywhere in Rome at night time. Muggers, badly driven carts, detritus thrown from upper-floor windows, all of these could bring a premature and fatal end to an evening out. Antony felt no fear at the thought. Excessive timidity had never been part of his character, and he felt a certain exhilaration at the possibility of the danger that could be around any corner.

But he did have a knot in his stomach, and a sick feeling at the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the poor quality, undiluted wine he had been given. His anxiety was entirely due to the fact that, with the time somewhere around midnight, with scraped knees and a ripped