by Peter Tonkin
ii
Artemidorus held out his left hand, cupped. The servant poured a little warm, fragrant oil into it. The spy smoothed this over his stubbled cheeks, chin and throat. Then he used the dagger to shave himself. Watching his reflection in the bronze mirror held by the servant. Measuring the face reflected back at him with calm, calculating eyes. The bronze gave them a golden cast he knew they did not possess. They were grey eyes. Cyanea once told him they were coloured somewhere between smoke and steel. Her eyes had been bright blue-green. And it hurt him to remember them. The blue-green eyes of a liar and traitor he had loved. His were Greek eyes in any case. To go with the Spartan brain behind the high, clear forehead. Though his eyebrows and unruly hair were as dark as any Roman’s. As any Iberian’s in fact. And the red cast given by the bronze mirror simply emphasised what was already there. The unruly fringe fell forward in scarce-controllable curls. One of which at least covered the white line of a scar running like a military road straight from his hairline to his left eyebrow. Lifting it slightly into a permanently quizzical tension with the right one. The lean face beneath was all cheekbone and nose. The nose was long and narrow, like a blade. Tending towards the Roman aquiline as much as to the straight Greek. The nostrils, too, were narrow. Like an eagle’s. Apt enough for a man who followed the Eagle of the Seventh Legion, perhaps. There was no doubt about the straight slash of his mouth, though. Which, even at rest, looked brutal. Or the breadth of the jawline reaching into the square chin he was about to shave. A chin on which the stubble, like his hair, glinted with shades of red-gold.
But one glance was enough reflective introspection for today. He was in action almost immediately. Revelling in the way the cold steel seemed to glide across his oiled skin like a zephyr of breeze across a stream. Thinking that the edge was keener than any razor wielded by the legion’s tonsors. By the tonsors on the street corners in the city itself. Even by Antony’s own tonsor, who had been in charge of his shaving and barbering since he had removed the fox-red beard disguising him as a workman. Employed to fix some damage to the roof of Brutus’ villa. And to discover what the traitor was planning – and whether anyone in his household was witness to it.
By the time the sun was a dull silver denarius behind the thinning cloud above the pines of the distant Quirinial Hill, Artemidorus was shaved. Washed. And dressed in full armour. Casila helmet on his head. Blood-red sagum swinging from his shoulders as though he was one of Leonidas’ three hundred Spartan warriors. One of the Spartan king’s cryptaia cadre of deadly special agents. Like Caesar, he took his jentaculum breakfast as he went about his business. Sipping a cup of posca vinegar and water flavoured with rosemary and thyme. Washing down a mouthful of coarse lentaculum emmer bread still warm from the legion’s ovens. As he marched through the stirring camp, slave trotting at his side. Handing the cup back as they reached the riverbank and replacing it with a handful of dates. Then, alone, out onto the Pons Fabricius towards the Campus Martius. Pausing halfway across the bridge to eat the dates as he thought through his plans for the day. Spitting their stones into the green-black swirl of the Tiber.
On the Campus Martius Field of Mars, the cavalry alae division of the VIIth had their camp and the pen for their horses. Close by the massive funeral pyre that had been erected for Caesar near the tomb of his beloved daughter Julia. A pyre that had been dismantled because the dictator’s body had been immolated in the Forum itself. Between the horse pens and the vacancy left by the pyre there was an exercise area where the cavalry practised their manoeuvres. Or, when they were not occupying it, the legionaries used as a parade ground. And, beside it there was a wooden-walled area set aside for weapons training. Usually, this was where legionaries sharpened up their skills with the swords, daggers and spears they all carried. The archers practised their archery. Though the truth of the matter was that most Roman cavalry and the majority of their archers left much to be desired. Which was why generals like Caesar took auxilia auxiliaries into battle, the centurion mused. Alae wings of Numidian and Gallic horsemen. Cohorts of Cretan and Thracian archers.
Although the training area was his final destination, Artemidorus marched past it, heading towards Pompey’s massive theatre with its fire-damaged Curia. Burned by the mobs revenging the man who had been slaughtered there. Not far from the theatre another of the men who had fought so hard to keep Caesar alive was about his daily ritual. A man who, like Artemidorus, had warned the doomed dictator of specific threats against him. Too little, however. Too late. Spurinna, augur and haruspex, Equestrian and Etruscan both in his standing and bloodline, was assessing the auguries for the day. As revealed in the entrails of a ram. Particularly in its liver. The creature had already been blessed and sacrificed. Spurinna, red to the elbows, his toga tied back in the ritual Gabine knot, was sorting through the animal’s steaming viscera. As presented on a great gold bowl. Which sat on a stand at one end of the altar. Where the dead ram’s belly gaped emptily.
Around Spurinna stood his acolytes and priests. And, on the outskirts of the crowd, a strikingly beautiful young woman. Her figure, features, hair and colouring revealed Ethiopian ancestry. Her smile on seeing Artemidorus revealed a lot more besides. The young woman’s name was Puella. Girl. That was all she had ever been called in the household of Marcus Junius Brutus where she had been a slave. Until Artemidorus stole her and took her to Antony as living proof of the conspiracy against Caesar. Too late, as things turned out. She was currently in Spurinna’s household. The safest place to keep her as a runaway. Though, to be fair, Brutus currently had a lot more to worry about than the whereabouts of a missing slave.
iii
‘Ah, Septem,’ called Spurinna, looking up from the ram’s liver. ‘The day augurs well. Whatever undertakings you are considering are likely to prosper if you begin them before the sun sets.’
‘You know what I have been ordered to undertake,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘And how I propose to go about it.’
‘My villa would be a good place to start, then,’ said Spurinna. ‘Especially as your little aulus lark is sitting in a cubicula storeroom terrified out of his mind, explaining at length to anyone who’ll listen what Caesar’s last words were.’
Artemidorus nodded. Puella was not the only runaway hiding in Spurinna’s ample villa. A record keeper to the Senate and slave to the Censor Gaius Trebonius was also there. A Greek boy of disturbing beauty called Adonis. Who had been unlucky enough to catch Artemidorus’ eye as the spy ran into the Curia immediately after the assassination. The first to come into the murder scene as the boy was the last to leave it. Adonis had not been too hard for Septem’s contubernium of agents to track and kidnap. Without even alerting the boy’s owner, who was currently hurrying away from Rome, in any case. Like the rest of the conspirators. Soon to head eastwards planning to take up his promised post of Proconsul for Asia as soon as practically possible. And certainly in no mind to worry about a missing slave. The unfortunate youth was now languishing in Spurinna’s house, until such time as his evidence could be checked further and recorded in legal form. In case this ever brought Brutus to trial – as Antony clearly planned that it would.
‘If your duties allow you, come to me at about noon,’ suggested the soothsayer. ‘We will examine the boy Adonis further. Then we can eat and plan. I can send my slaves to summon anyone you wish to see. A couple of hours should be enough to set things in motion. And then we can bathe and dine at our leisure. Perhaps you might stay the night.’
‘That does sound like a well augured day,’ agreed Artemidorus, his gaze lingering on Puella’s wide brown eyes and shy smile. ‘And it does occur to me that our caged songbird may have a good deal more to tell us. If we apply a little further pressure. He heard Caesar’s last words. And I’d bet he may well have seen exactly whose dagger went where as they slaughtered him. Though of the two areas of knowledge, the latter is likely to be by far the more dangerous. As the boy will have realised, of course. Naming names. Especially names of incredibly
rich and powerful, deadly dangerous and deeply frightened men. That could be flirting with an untimely and probably unpleasant death. Remember poor Telos. Beaten to a pulp and crucified. Eyes and tongue ripped out. Before his throat was cut. All for getting too close to Brutus’ and Cassius’ plans for the Ides. In the meantime I have an appointment. And I do not dare be late.’
‘Until noon, then,’ said Spurinna, turning away. ‘Go to the Senate House and the villas of both co-consuls,’ he ordered his assistants. ‘Inform everyone that today is well augured…’
Artemidorus also turned away. And retraced his steps to the practice area. There were two strapping legionaries guarding the door through the rough wooden wall. Who snapped to attention and saluted their centurion with thunderous punctiliousness. But there turned out to be only one other person present in the training area as Artemidorus entered it. Gaius Quintus Tarpeius, the last of the triarii stood in full armour. Like the old-fashioned triarii legionaries, Quintus was older than the average. A slight, whip-strong gallus rooster of a man; with something of the fighting cock about him. A comparison emphasised by the bright red crest to his shining steel helmet. Artemidorus was momentarily distracted by the thought of the fearsome bantam-cock Quintus sewn in a sack with Brutus as the Poena Cullei was inflicted. Tearing his face off would be the least of it, he thought, with wry amusement. For Quintus had a fearsome reputation as a soldier. He had at one time or another served round all the edges of the empire as well as at its heart with generals like Marius, Sulla, Pompey, Caesar and Crassus. Some said that it was Quintus who had killed Spartacus himself. Face to face in a duel at the climax of the final battle near the village of Quaglietta. A battle that remained nameless because it had been fought against slaves. Just before Crassus crucified six thousand of the rebel gladiators all along the Appian Way. Beheading the nightmare that always arose when slaves turned on their masters. And, some said, venting his spleen after Pompey, as usual, came in at the end of the campaign and took much of the credit for other men’s work.
Quintus had joined the VIIth even before Caesar’s uncle Marius had reorganised the entire army. He was an enormously rich citizen of ancient Patrician Tarpean lineage. With no family to survive him. The legion was his life. And he committed everything he owned – everything he was – to his beloved VIIth. Though he had only been seconded to it twenty-two years previously in 689auc when Pompey raised it in Hispania. As a companion to the VIth Ferrata Ironclads. His armour was the best and most advanced that could be purchased. The best, but never the brightest or most ornate. Over the standard chain mail he habitually wore the overlapping steel plate shoulders, breast and backplates that were only just coming into fashion. The steel of his gladius and pugio was only fractionally less advanced than that of the dagger on Septem’s left hip. In battle, Quintus and his companions were traditionally placed in the third wave. Which was why they were called triarii. Thirds. This was because they were the most experienced. The best armoured. Best equipped. The shock troops who would break the weakening wave of opponents already flagging after fighting their way through the first two ranks. Or, if things were going badly, they would be the rock on which the rising wave of enemy warriors would founder.
It was Quintus’ place in the undercover contubernium that Artemidorus ran and Enobarbus commanded, to act as weapons instructor and equipment officer. And the armaments in whose use he trained Septem and his agents were every bit as advanced and exceptional as the arms and armour that he wore. His wealth of both money and experience meant that whatever was most likely to serve Artemidorus and his associates would be brought to the VIIth’s armoury. From the past and the present. From the ends of the empire and beyond. And then presented to the spies. Who would be trained in their use up to the highest possible level of expertise. Arms and equipment not only useful in whatever mission they were undertaking. But also in any assignment they might ever be required to undertake. This particular well-augured morning, Artemidorus observed, the practice was to be with sling-shots.
iv
Artemidorus liked the sling. It was a weapon that he thought was wrongly underestimated. Caesar himself found slings, their stones and bullets of every style and size extremely useful. From pebbles taken at random, through heavier, specially tooled lead bullets, to huge steel-tipped bolts, massive boulders and incendiary bundles hurled by huge ballistae and fundibalae catapults. Quintus was expert in all of these weapons too. Sharing ideas and experiences over the years with Lucius Cornelius Balbus, the praefectus fabricum chief engineer who became Caesar’s secretary, and the military architect Vitruvius. Unlike bows, slings were easy to carry. Unlike arrows, the projectiles they fired rarely ran out. There was always a pebble or a rock somewhere underfoot – even on the busiest battlefield. Like Marius’ pilum spears, but unlike arrows, the more advanced bullets could not be reused. They lost their form and edge on impact. They could easily be beaten back into shape but not in the midst of combat.
In the hands of special soldiers, trained in the skills of Thracian and Balearic slingers, slings were comparable to the bow and arrow in terms of range, impact and rate of fire. In some areas, indeed, superior to the bow and arrow. Arrows were slow and easily visible, for instance. He had seen testudo shield-covered tortoises formed by men waiting for arrows to fall. You didn’t know a sling bullet was coming until it hit you. Then it was often too late. Therefore he worked as hard to keep his skills with the sling as well honed as those with the bow, the pilum spear, the gladius and the pugio. And Quintus would train up the rest of the undercover operatives. For the battlefield was by no means the only place where slings could be lethally effective.
What Quintus had prepared today was something unusual, however. On a long table that almost stretched from side to side of the range, there were several slings laid out. Short, medium and long. A trio of simple slings of traditional design, each longer than the other, and a staff sling with a short piece of wood attached. And piled by each sling was a range of bullets, from simple stones rounded by agitation on riverbeds to leaden bullets of various sizes, weights and forms. In front of the table, down the length of the range stood four posts. One at fifteen paces, then thirty, forty and fifty. On each post sat a watermelon. Impaled on a spike. Just as Antony planned to do with the Libertores’ heads in the Forum when the time was ripe.
Each melon wore a legionary’s helmet. In front of each post stood a scutum shield. The area between the top of the shield and the brow ridge of the helmet was narrow. In battle, just wide enough to allow a soldier to see ahead. There was about the width of a palm between the shield rim and the helmet edge. ‘Target practice?’ wondered Artemidorus as he came level with the table.
‘A little more than that, boy,’ answered Quintus. Sounding, as ever, short-tempered. As though the spy’s simple observations were underestimating his plans and wasting his all too valuable time. ‘Try the first. The short Thracian. Let’s see if the last few weeks of undercover work have spoilt your aim. Notice the pouch is wider even on the short sling so that it holds the stone more firmly.’
‘Making it more accurate,’ suggested Artemidorus.
‘Obviously!’ snapped Quintus.
Smothering an affectionate smile, the spy placed a stone in the sling. The short sling was a shepherd’s weapon. This one was of Thracian design, as Quintus said. There was little more to it than a long piece of woven fibre with a pouch in the middle and a knot at one end. It was exactly the same as the shepherd’s sling that the Jews still saying mourning prayers for Caesar every night would recognise. From the duel between the shepherd boy David and the giant Philistine warrior Goliath of Gath. Which was recorded in the scrolls of the Nevim, second section of their Holy Tanakh.
With these thoughts running through his mind, he whirled it and fired almost casually at the nearest watermelon. The stone sped fifteen paces and over the top of the scutum faster than the eye could see. It hit immediately below the helmet’s ridge. If there had been a face there i
t would have shattered a septum or taken out an eye. On its way into the skull itself. Only the weight of the helmet stopped the melon from exploding.
‘Good enough, boy,’ allowed Quintus grudgingly. Who never called him by rank or code name when they were alone. Who stood on every ceremony in front of others. ‘Try the next.’
The second was the longer sling, as used by the lethal Balearic sharpshooters. It was a more substantial weapon altogether. Instead of a knot there was a loop at the end. Artemidorus picked it up as ordered. It was the first – shorter – of two slings of the Balearic design. He slipped the loop over his finger and took a heavy lead weight shaped like a big almond with sharp edges. It sat firmly in the wide pouch. Artemidorus whirled it expertly and fired. This time, at the greater distance, the bullet clipped the top of the shield, making the curved wood rock back and forth. But it shot up off the rim and smashed into the watermelon with such force and at such an angle that the helmet lifted and everything beneath it shattered. Red flesh exploding into red mist.
‘That’s some poor bastard’s face,’ observed Quintus approvingly. ‘And his brains, likely enough. But there’s something else I want to try…’
Quintus sped down the thirty paces – never a man to walk when he could run. He stooped. Produced another melon from behind the scutum and replaced the red mess on the stake. This time he turned the helmet sideways on. The cheek guards hung down like broad metal daggers. Joined to the bowl of the helmet itself by a couple of hinges at the top. The opening for the ear gaped in front of the scoop of the neck protector at the back. Satisfied, he hurried back again. If we’d been chasing Quintus instead of Cicero, we’d never have caught him, thought Artemidorus indulgently.
‘Don’t aim for the ear,’ commanded the bantamweight legionary. ‘Try and hit the cheek flap. As near to the hinge as you can.’