by Peter Tonkin
Artemidorus accommodatingly removed his own helmet, placing it on the table. Ran his fingers through his hair as he assessed the target and the distance. Then he took a heavy lead bullet and placed it in the sling. Whirled. Fired. Faster than the eye could follow, the projectile flew down the range. And hit the melon precisely where Quintus had told him not to hit. In the unguarded ear section. The melon rocked. A black hole appeared in the near side. A lumpy red mist exploded from the far side. ‘In one ear and out the other,’ said Quintus. His tone conflicted. ‘I told you not to do that, boy.’
v
‘I apologise, magister…’ said Artemidorus. His tone placatory rather than insubordinate.
‘It’s just a waste of my time and my melons,’ grouched the armaments officer. ‘Though it was an excellent shot. Let’s see if you’re more accurate with the long Balearic at forty paces…’
He doubled down the range and began to fiddle about with the third melon. Placed the helmet with a purposefulness verging on outrage. ‘HERE!’ he bellowed, slapping his hand against the cheek guard. Talking as though to a child. Or an idiot. ‘Hit it here!’
Artemidorus took yet another heavy lead bullet and loaded it into the third sling. The strings to this one were slightly longer again. Of woven fibre. The pouch of soft leather that seemed to cling to the keen-edged, sharp-pointed metal. The loop gripped the base of his finger snugly. He swung it, feeling the motion begin to possess the whole of his body. While he narrowed his eyes and focused on the distant hinge. As soon as Quintus was out of range, he fired, with all his strength. There was a loud CLANG! The helmet seemed to jump. The melon rocked. When everything settled, Artemidorus could see that the hinge was broken and the cheek guard was hanging at a slight angle.
‘Good lad!’ called Quintus. ‘Now come and look at this.’
Artemidorus ran forty paces down the range to where Quintus stood beside the damaged headgear. As the spy approached, he lifted the helmet gently off the melon. The green skin showed a decided dent where the hinge had been driven inwards by the force of the lead bullet.
‘Where is that hinge?’ demanded Quintus. ‘On your own head and helmet where is that hinge?’
Artemidorus accommodatingly indicated the side of his skull just above his cheekbone. Between the top of his ear and the edge of his eye. There was even a little indentation there from the hinge of his recently removed headpiece.
‘The bones there are not strong,’ Quintus informed him with all the authority of their colleague the physician Antistius.
‘I see…’ said Artemidorus, his tone making it clear that he didn’t.
‘Go to the melon. Push the tip of your finger against that little mark your bullet made when it hit the hinge,’ Quintus ordered.
Artemidorus obeyed. And as soon as he pressed his finger to the spot, the entire section beneath it collapsed. Red flesh dotted with black seeds burst out. ‘Even beneath the helmet,’ Quintus explained, ‘the bones simply shatter. This one would be just as dead as all the others so far.’
‘Interesting…’ said Artemidorus, looking around for something to wipe his hands on.
‘There’s a cloth on the table,’ Quintus informed him. ‘Beside the staff sling. While you wipe your hands, I think I’ll just…’ He took hold of the third stake, which was held erect by a cross of wood designed to sit firmly on the ground. And he dragged it right to the far end of the range. Where he stood it just in front of the wooden wall. The better part of sixty paces from the table with its slings and bullets.
Artemidorus returned to the table and wiped his hands. When they were clean, he picked up the staff sling. It looked like slings he had seen in Egypt. He knew how to use it. And was as accurate with it as he was with the Thracian and Balearic slings. But it was different in more ways than in simply having a length of wood secured to it. The wooden handle made it more powerful, somehow. In the past he had seen these fired and heard the string snap with a crack like a whip. The idea of whips made him briefly think of Minucius Basilus and what he had planned to do to the treacherous Cyanea. A picture of her pale nakedness lashed to Basilus’ whipping post flashed unbidden into his memory. But the spy drove such distractions from his mind with brutal efficiency. Focused on the sling in his hand. Whether it cracked like a whip or not, it certainly fired a heavier bullet. Faster. And across a greater range. Eyes fixed on the target fifty paces distant, he put the bullet into the pouch.
Aware of little besides its considerable weight, he began to swing the weapon. The technique was different. The balance too. He almost crouched as his thighs and knees joined his arm and shoulder to launch the weight while the sling snapped back on its staff with its distinctive whip crack. But the sling itself was not the only thing making a sound. For the bullet screamed a persistent, piercing, terrifying howl as it sped towards its target. It hit the shield which toppled backwards, allowing the missile to shriek onwards. It smashed into the stake in the centre of where the soldier’s chest would be. And buried itself in the wood. The impact was so powerful that the melon rolled back and fell to the ground. ‘Low,’ called Artemidorus apologetically.
‘True,’ answered Quintus. ‘But if that had been a legionary you would have smashed his ribs. Maybe done even more damage. If he’d just been wearing a leather breastplate you’d probably have killed him. Chain mail or fish-scale armour even. Only a solid steel one like mine would have survived that.’ He beat his steel-shelled chest in illustration of his words.
‘Always assuming the soldier didn’t die of fright at the sound the bullet made…’ added Artemidorus.
‘Yes,’ nodded Quintus approvingly. ‘A couple of hundred bullets coming screaming in like that is likely to unsettle even a well-trained cohort, I should think. Superior to arrows. Especially as you can’t see them. But just as deadly. I heard that in Gaul Caesar had some of the bullets made red hot and fired from special slings. Set whatever they hit alight. Or whoever, in some cases. And unlike arrows they came in invisibly. Particularly good for street fighting and besieging walled towns. Thatched roofs and wooden walls just burst into flames for no apparent reason. Most unsettling.’
As they talked, Artemidorus placed another bullet in his sling. Quintus stood the battered scutum up again, replaced the melon and stood clear. The spy swung the sling again, leaning into the movement, feeling the heft of the heavy lead weight in the straining pouch. When he fired, the bullet screamed away, its trajectory more accurate than last time. It was just possible to see the black dot as it whipped through the air. Just a heartbeat before his eyes told him it would hit, there was a CLANG. But before the sound arrived, the helmet had jerked back as though struck with a club. The melon fell off the post. ‘Always assuming you didn’t shatter his forehead, even through the helmet, you’d probably have broken his neck!’ called Quintus grudgingly. ‘Still, you don’t seem to have lost your touch. Think you can hit the far one? Better part of sixty paces. Quite a distance…’
vi
Quintus watched Septem placing the bullet into the big Egyptian stick sling and beginning to move. The old soldier smiled with simple pride and affection. But he was careful to do so inwardly. It would never do for the centurion to know that he was the best slingman Quintus had ever seen. That he was, in fact, the best soldier Quintus had ever seen. Had the old triarius been lucky enough to have fathered children, Septem would have been the perfect son. The Vestal Virgins, in fact, held a will formally adopting the boy, although Artemidorus had not the faintest idea of its existence, let alone its contents. When Quintus died, the centurion would find himself the head of the Patrician Tarpean family and one of the richest men in Rome. Something that would cause almost as much surprise and consternation as the fact that Caesar had named his sickly nineteen-year-old great-nephew Octavian as heir to his name and fortune in the will published after his murder.
These thoughts took Quintus through the moments before Artemidorus fired. The stone screamed down the length of the range and slammed
into the wall an arm’s length to the right of the target. It stuck there, its sharp lead point buried deep in the wood. ‘Again,’ called Quintus.
Artemidorus overcompensated. The next bullet slammed into the wall on the left of the target.
‘I thought today augured well,’ called Quintus brusquely. ‘Clearly not for your aim, boy.’
The third bullet smashed into the scutum. Wedged in the curve of hide-covered wood. Sending the shield skittering back to slam into the post. The melon rocked but did not fall.
‘A bit better…’ allowed Quintus. ‘Might have broken his shield-arm. Numbed it at the least, I suppose… Try again.’
This time the melon exploded. The helmet spun away like a child’s ball.
‘At last,’ said Quintus.
‘Not much use if it takes four shots, though,’ admitted Artemidorus. ‘That would have been no use at all if I’d been slinging against some charging Ghost Warriors in the north of Gaul.’
‘Ah, but you won’t be, will you?’ said Quintus. ‘Come down here and use your wits as well as your eyes.’
Artemidorus joined the old soldier beside the wall. Quintus began to work the first bullet free. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The shots are all level. Same height – just above the scutum. It’s just your lateral aim that’s off.’
‘I don’t see what difference that would make. A miss is a miss.’
‘Against Gaulish Ghost Warriors, yes. I agree. And against the bloody great Germans too unless they come at you in a Boar’s Head wedge formation. But you won’t be fighting any of them will you? Given what’s happened and given the mission we’ve been handed, you know you’re going to end up fighting legions. Brutus’ legions or Cassius’ legions. Or more likely both at once. And they’ll come at you in a wall. A shield wall. But still a wall.’
‘So if I miss the one in the middle, I’ll hit the man on one side of him or the other…’
‘Precisely! And even at sixty paces you’ll do some serious damage. Before you get down to sharpshooting at forty paces and less…’
Artemidorus tried to pull the lead bullet out of the wall to the left of the mess that the exploded melon had made. Failed: it was buried far too securely. ‘How much damage, do you think?’
‘It’s impossible to be sure,’ Quintus answered. ‘I tell you, though. I miss the old days when we could use slaves or criminals as targets. That way we’d know for certain!’ He paused, then added. ‘As it is, we’ll just have to wait for the war.’ His eyes almost vanished in his deep-lined face as he squinted up at Septem, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Not, I think, that we’ll be waiting all that long…’
vii
Quintus called the guards in and the four men swiftly put the range to rights, vacating it as the next group arrived, all armed with short, reticulated Parthian bows. ‘What,’ called Quintus cheerfully to their leader, one of the principales junior officers in the cavalry division. ‘Parthian bows – and no horses to shoot from? Or are you just going to practise running away and shooting as you go?’
‘We’re moving one step forward at a time, Quintus,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘First we learned to ride. Now we learn to shoot. I’m afraid I’ll be as old and grey as you are before they can do both at once and graduate into proper sagittariorae bowmen! Right, you lot. Line up behind the table. Raise your bows and nock your arrows. The standard form with this weapon is the Persian method. Pull back the string with the bottom three fingers of your right hand, steadying the arrow with your index finger and thumb. Finger along the shaft. Bow in the left hand. Level with your chins. At an angle which what I remember of Pythagoras and Euclid suggests to be about forty-five degrees. And pull towards your chest. Your chest! Save your nose for sharpshooting with the Egyptian longbow…’
‘I’ve seen them practising,’ said one of Quintus’ legionaries as the four of them trooped out through the door. ‘If they tried both riding and shooting, they either shoot each other or fall off and break their necks.’
‘Or both,’ growled his companion. ‘On the other hand they might do us all a favour and kill that principale. Too full of himself that one. Needs to learn some respect. Old and grey…’
They were Quintus’ men, so Artemidorus did not discipline them. He watched as they doubled off. ‘They’re good lads,’ said Quintus quietly. ‘They take pride in what they do and try to pull the rest up to their level.’
The two soldiers turned and began to stride across the Field of Mars side by side. ‘It’s a while since I’ve done much practice with the bow,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Maybe we should catch up with that next.’
‘As a matter of fact, I have a delivery of new bows coming. New types of bow. New types of arrow, bolt and dart. New techniques, therefore. To maximise range, accuracy and rate of fire.’
Talking about new and experimental types of armaments, the two soldiers walked towards the Gate of Fontus which stood astride the Clivus Argentarius main road leading in from the Field of Mars towards the Forum. Only because of the current state of emergency in the aftermath of Caesar’s murder could they continue across the line of the inner pomerium city boundary fully armed as they were. Even so, as with last night, their armour and carelessly displayed weaponry gave them an air of danger. So the pair of them walked alone. As the good citizens of Rome, their servants and slaves, shopkeepers, stallholders, ex-soldiers, street gangs and even the occasional sorceress and fortune-teller all gave them a wide berth.
*
It was Artemidorus’ plan to accept Spurinna’s invitation and assemble the contubernium of spies and secret agents at the augur’s villa. Where there was also the Senate scribe Adonis who he wished to question further. But between the Gate and the villa, there lay the Forum Romanum, showing clear signs of damage from the riots. Some of whose flagstones still showed gleams of the gold which had run, molten, from the ornaments and honours that had been thrown into Caesar’s funeral pyre.
But, more relevantly, just off the Forum on the way towards the Basilica Aemilia market there lay several tabernae taverns and lupanars brothels where Artemidorus planned to contact one of the members of his contubernium directly.
He and Quintus walked side by side into the first tavern which the centurion knew to be a favourite of the man he was seeking. And there, immediately, was their objective. A big square Iberian ex-legionary from the Sixth Legion, the Ironclads. Who was known to Artemidorus, code-named Septem as a member of the VIIth, by his code name Ferrata – Iron Man. The secret agent had stayed clear of Ferrata recently. Because it had been to the tender mercies of Ferrata and the rioting men behind him that he had left his treacherous lover Cyanea. Naked and lashed to a whipping post in the villa of Minucius Basilus. One of Caesar’s murderers. And a man noted for the perverse pleasure he took in the suffering of others.
There was a conversation there that Artemidorus was not yet willing to experience. But Ferrata was an excellent man. Cyanea had robbed him of too much to let her rob him of Ferrata too. ‘Ave, Septem,’ said the legionary, catching his eye as he and Quintus came in. Not a difficult feat. Every head in the room turned towards them as they entered, armour gleaming, helmet crests bright, swords and daggers on their hips. Ferrata was seated at a small table piled with eggs, dates and emmer bread. In the middle of a ring of wine goblets. In the midst of a larger circle of rough-looking, half-sober ex-legionaries. Caesar’s will had been read a good while ago now. Antony had the dead dictator’s notes and knew his wishes. But nothing had actually been done as yet. So Rome was still full of the men who had come to collect their final pay and discover where they were going to be settled. Which made the streets more dangerous than usual. The taverns immensely profitable. And the girls in the brothels permanently exhausted.
‘Finish your wine, Ferrata,’ ordered Artemidorus, with the authority of a man paying better than standard legionary rates. ‘We have a meeting we need to attend.’ Then he and Quintus turned and exited.
Ferrata caught up w
ith them moments later, juggling a cloth-wrapped bundle of olives and bread. One whiff of his breath confirmed that he had obeyed Septem’s order and finished the wine. ‘What’s up?’ he asked guardedly.
‘New orders,’ said Septem shortly. ‘More details when we get where we’re going.’
viii
The three men were admitted to Spurinna’s villa by his slave Kyros. Kyros was a quick-witted and decisive young man. So much so that Artemidorus was considering adding him to the contubernium – though the secret organisation was rapidly expanding past the standard eight-man command. As Kyros led the three soldiers across the atrium, he brought them up to date with what he had been doing. For it was directly relevant to their immediate mission. ‘Gaius Trebonius’ slave, the Senate record keeper, is called Adonis,’ he said. Artemidorus and Quintus exchanged glances. They knew the record keeper’s name. But there was an unspoken agreement between them to indulge the excited boy. ‘We have him locked in a storeroom and we have been getting him ready to answer your questions, Septem.’
‘We?’ asked the spy.
‘Puella and me. Augur Spurinna has given us permission. I know it is unusual for a woman to be involved in such work. But she is very good at it. Very good.’
‘In what way?’ The spy and centurion was intrigued. He knew the young woman to be intrepid and resourceful. But this was a new side to her.
‘It was Puella who suggested Adonis would be more amenable if we took his clothes. And tied him naked to the chair. All alone in a cold, dark storeroom. And it was she who thought of refusing to let him use the latrine. Then she suggested that she and I should stand outside the door and speak loudly enough for him to hear us…’
‘Discussing what?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Your techniques as carnifex. I said that you and Antistius the physician had been considering the most effective ways of getting answers quickly and accurately. And that you were surprised to learn that techniques such as gouging, chopping, flaying, burning and boiling were probably not as effective as you might suppose. Then Puella said No, it was apparently better to start with smaller things. Like nails. Fingers. Toes. Teeth. Then I said the most popular technique was still crucifixion. And she said, Wrong: if you’re going to hammer nails through bits of people, don’t think in terms of wrists, ankles and crosses… Think tables and testicles…’