After The Ides (Caesar's Spies Thriller Book 2)

by Peter Tonkin

  There were several carts in the increasingly lengthy military train in fact. Those containing the treasure. Several others containing clothing, equipment and camp necessities. And one containing the mortal remains of Gaius Valerius Flaccus. On top of which lay his armour, his helmet and several other items from among his personal effects. All released along with the body by Aedile Lucius Claudius Siculus.

  They made slow progress. Overnighting at Caesar Octavius’ insistence – and to Nobilitor’s disgust – in the tent beside his. Both of which stood at the heart of each evening’s camp. As though they were an invading army on enemy soil. So there was no need to change horses. But when they came to the mansio where, on the way down the Via Appia, Artemidorus discovered the matched brown geldings that had pulled the dead couple’s cart, he stopped and went to look for the stableman. The horses were still there. No one had come to claim them. He explained the situation to Octavius, and then he purchased them at once. And spread some of the load that had been carried by his little cohort’s’ three packhorses onto the backs of five.

  So Caesar Octavius’ growing army moved ever onwards. Finally coming past Campoverde where Quintus had bought the gladius and the pugio that Artemidorus had swapped for the one he took from Caesar’s body. Giving the latter to Octavius. After Campoverde they arrived in the little town of Aprilia, some ten miles inland from Antium where Brutus and Cassius still lurked. And still two days’ march from Rome itself.

  The day was coming to a close and the procession, as usual, had been halted by the overwhelming numbers of locals. Most of them come to catch a glimpse of Caesar Octavius. Some just to pass the time with some welcome strangers. And some, old soldiers, to join the growing army. Veterans who, on campaign in distant provinces, had dreamed of owning a little farm in Italy and settling with a wife. To keep some livestock, grow a few vegetables, grow fat and raise a family. Who were now bored with domestic and agrarian life and panting to get back in the action. For five hundred denarii a man.

  But in Aprilia, another sort of visitor arrived. A tall, elderly man in black mourning robes. White haired, erect, distinguished. Artemidorus first noticed him looking not at Divus Julius Caesar’s adopted son and heir but the livestock. His interest piqued, Artemidorus crossed to the old man, his mind racing. There was something familiar about him. But the spy could not quite pin it down. ‘Can I be of service, dominus sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Those brown horses,’ said the stranger, his voice gentle but carrying. His tone patrician. His eyes chilly and his face bleak. ‘The matched pair…’

  Artemidorus knew then. Not that the logic was difficult to follow. The black clothes. The matched pair. The lost carriage. The dead youngsters. But, just to be certain he said, ‘Would you follow me, sir?’ and he led the old man to the closed cart with Flaccus’ armour on top of it. With the bits and pieces found amongst his possessions piled beside it. Silently, the old man reached out and took a gold chain gently between his trembling fingers. Lifted it until the tiny gold figure of Juno, goddess of weddings, stood upright above the corpse of the man who had taken it from the murdered girl’s dead neck. ‘They were going to get married,’ he said. ‘He was taking her to Campoverde. To the market there. To buy gifts for the guests. As is traditional. They never came back.’ He turned his fierce gaze on the secret agent. ‘I have a son,’ he said, his voice bitter. ‘But he is away studying. And then he will join the army. She was the child of my heart. The promise of my old age.’

  ‘The man responsible lies dead in this carriage, if that is any consolation, dominus.’

  The old man straightened, his face setting like stone. ‘It is none,’ he said. ‘But it is all I shall get, I suppose. Now, if you would be kind enough, take me to Octavius. I wish to talk to him and, perhaps to accompany him.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘There is nothing to keep me here. Now.’

  ‘Of course I will, sir. But may I know who you are so I may introduce you properly?’ A man like this, he thought, should be surrounded by guards and clients. Probably preceded by lictors, calling his name and demanding safe passage.

  ‘I am Quintus Pedius, the late Julius Caesar’s cousin and closest living relative,’ said the old man. ‘A relative therefore of Octavius’ himself. I wish to offer him everything left to me by Caesar in his will. And my help. And support in the Senate and on the streets of Rome.’

  v

  By the time they reached the city to which all roads in the empire led, the army behind them numbered nearly two thousand. And word had reached the city of Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus’ approach, so that thousands more flooded out of the Carmenta Gate. Along the Via Appia. The beggars, hucksters, farmers and stallholders were all pushed aside. Inundated by the tidal wave of citizens rushing out to see Caesar’s heir. They flowed like naphtha amongst the tombs and the tall pine trees. Climbing on top of anything that would give a good view. They shouted their welcome and cheered with joy as he approached.

  Artemidorus rode just behind him, his place at Octavius’ side surrendered for the moment to Quintus Pedius. Who he knew now – though only by reputation. They had never met before their conversations beside the horse pen. And Flaccus’ bier. Pedius who wore, beneath his black toga, the armour in which he had led legions as general, praetor, and legate to Caesar. Which he had worn when Caesar awarded him a triumph for overcoming, at Compsa, Marcus Rufus and Titus Milo the rebels. For defeating Sextus, the last of Pompey’s sons. Appointing him Proconsul. Before he retired from public life to mourn his wife, educate his son, see his daughter married and raise his grandchildren.

  The old man’s back was as straight as a pilum spear, thought the spy. A masterclass in how to handle heartbreak. He glanced around the cheering crowd suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He associated heartbreak with Cyanea. And he associated her with the assassin who had missed him twice now. Who might well be taking advantage of the current situation to try for a third time. The third, being the first odd number. The first lucky number therefore, to superstitious Romans. But there was no sign of anyone in a long, dun-coloured, hooded cloak. No one with a lethal barrelled bow. Just Quintus close behind. And Ferrata behind Quintus with Hercules at his side.

  But then, just as they approached the gate itself, as Caesar Octavius himself was entering the city, there came a communal gasp of wonder from every throat there. For a thin skim of cloud swept across the face of the afternoon sun, framing the silver-gilt disk with a halo coloured like a rainbow.

  ‘It is a sign!’ called someone. ‘A sign! A sign! The gods themselves have blessed him! Long live Caesar! Long live Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus!’

  And the crowd went wild.

  V

  i

  ‘See him now?’ snarled Antony. ‘No of course I won’t see him now!’

  ‘It would only add to his inflated opinion of himself if my Lord answered his demands the very instant that they were made,’ added Fulvia tartly. ‘I mean, who is he? Really?’

  ‘He’s a boy with no experience,’ answered Antony before Artemidorus could speak. ‘A sickly child, scarcely bearded. With ideas far above his station. Because he has inherited a name. A name and nothing more!’

  ‘I could call myself Alexander,’ emphasised Fulvia. ‘But it wouldn’t make me ruler of the world!’ She gave a short, ugly laugh.

  The three of them were in the atrium of Antony’s villa. The atmosphere was unusually tense. Something of the excitement outside seemed to have seeped into the villa and then turned sour. The shouting and the cheering whispered on the restless breeze like the threat of distant thunder.

  The general and his wife were pacing almost apprehensively. The soldier stood at ease, his helmet beneath his right arm. His jaw set. His eyes narrow. The scar above his left eye pulling the dark wing of his brow upwards. Giving his set face a quizzical look. Which actually matched his inner thoughts. Disturbed that he had fulfilled his orders and brought Caesar Octavius directly to Antony, only to find the gene
ral’s door locked against him. Shocked to see these usually insightful people making such an error of judgement. But still unable to find a way of convincing them that Caesar Octavius was a force to be reckoned with. That even the name Caesar seemed more powerful than either Antony or Fulvia imagined. That a man called Caesar was at least deserving of courtesy. Understanding that he had, in fact, inherited a great deal more than just a name. And doing all this immediately. Before their time ran out.

  ‘He’s brought three thousand men with him, General. My Lady,’ he tried one last time. ‘They’re making camp on the Field of Mars now. While he is standing waiting right outside your door. Eager to make contact. To start planning an alliance to oppose the so-called Libertores. And when his men call him Caesar they mean it,’ he persisted. ‘They don’t see a sickly boy. They see Divus Julius reborn.’

  Artemidorus’ concern was growing into a dull certainty that he was losing this argument. Antony and his wife were relentlessly joining the numbers of people all too willing to underestimate Caesar Octavius without actually having got to know him. ‘He has two large wagons loaded with gold – taxes and gifts,’ he persisted. ‘And you know that money is power. He’s now promised his followers five thousand sestercii each if they stay loyal. They believe him. Many of them are Divus Julius Caesar’s veterans. Tried and tested. Armed and ready to follow him anywhere. Against anyone he proscribes. He has contacts with Lucius Cornelius Balbus – who has yet more of Caesar’s gold. And he has brought Caesar’s relative, the General and Triumphator Quintus Pedius along with him. Who has promised not only his support but the money Caesar left him in his will. And Quintus Pedius says the other beneficiary Lucius Pinarius Scarpus is willing to do the same!’

  He drew an unsteady breath. Persisted in the face of the ill-disguised hostility of his temperamental general and his wife. ‘Caesar Octavius may still be young but he is by no means the callow youth who accompanied the Divine Julius in Spain and went to Apollonia to study. He has grown in power and standing, General. And you need to understand this fact whether you like it or not. Your aims are the same as his, though his plans involve more direct action. The moment he arrived in Rome he came to see you, expecting a welcome and some sort of agreement between you. And he has been waiting outside your door for too long already. You must invite him in. Talk to him. Better to be friends than enemies.’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ snapped Antony. ‘If I didn’t know you better, Septem, I’d suspect that some of the gold the boy has stolen has found its way into your purse!’

  ‘As you say, General. You know me better than to suspect that. And, you may recall, that I am bringing him to you and suggesting that you see him under direct orders that you issued to me yourself.’ The soldier fought to keep the anger out of his voice. Not very successfully.

  ‘I, however, do not know you better than that!’ snapped Fulvia. ‘No matter what you think your orders were you have exceeded your authority! You are dismissed Centurion!’

  Artemidorus waited a heartbeat until Antony, frowning, nodded. He slammed to attention. ‘Faciemus quod iubet… We will do what is ordered and at every command we will be ready,’ he grated. Then he turned on his heel, putting his headgear back in place, and marched out of the atrium.

  On his way along the vestibulum entrance hall, he met Enobarbus who had just entered. ‘I think Antony is making a bad mistake, Tribune,’ he said in a half-whisper, pausing, apparently to lace his cheek flaps together under his chin. ‘You must convince him to see Caesar Octavius. Treat him with some respect.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Enobarbus as he strode past. ‘But I wouldn’t wager on my success. Particularly as the boy seems to have run out of patience with all this hanging around.’

  When the secret agent stepped into the street outside Antony’s villa he was struck at once by how quiet it was. When he entered to report to Antony, the broad via roadway had been crowded with boisterous supporters all grouped round Caesar Octavian Octavius, Agrippa and Rufus. They were all gone now. Frowning, he ran down the empty roadway until he reached the Temple of Tellus which stood nearby. And there, in the middle distance, he saw Octavius and his two friends walking swiftly at the side of Marcus Fulvius Nobilitor. On their way, no doubt, to see what sort of welcome Lucius Balbus would offer them.

  ii

  Some hours later, Artemidorus was seated in the tent he shared with the other centurions of the Seventh Legion’s First Cohort. Which he used as an office when they were out on duty. Bitterly nursing a sense of failure to which he was unaccustomed. Like a general who has lost a battle for the first time. He heard the approach of Tribune Enobarbus by the sound made by the legionaries he passed. As they crashed to attention, one after another, barking his name and rank. The noise growing louder and louder.

  The spy knew the news his tribune was bringing was unlikely to be good. Only something out of the ordinary would have brought Enobarbus here in person. He was rising warily to his feet, therefore, when the tribune raised the tent flap and stooped to enter. The movement of his head and shoulders made a leather bag swing clear of his hip. ‘So, Tribune,’ he said grimly. ‘I see one of us at least has joined the general’s speculator courier service. I wonder which it is?’

  ‘He wants you out of the city for a while Septem,’ said Enobarbus, standing erect and shrugging the bag off his shoulder.

  ‘He does?’ Artemidorus raised one eyebrow quizzically. The left one, which was already pulled higher than the right by the scar on his forehead. The effect was enough to make Enobarbus shake his head ruefully.

  ‘You’re right. She does. But the general’s happy to give you something worthwhile to do while you’re away.’

  ‘Carrying letters?’

  ‘Carrying very much more than letters, Septem. Looking like a speculator military courier perhaps, but using that as a cover, for speculators can also be spies, can they not?. Do you still have the pass he gave you directing anyone who read it to do anything in their power to help you?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Good. You may need it. But use it sparingly.’

  ‘That goes without saying if I’m working undercover. My name and rank are written in the first line. And my contubernium? My nest of spies?’

  ‘I’m keeping them here,’ said the tribune. ‘I have work for them to do. But you can take one companion. To watch your back.’

  ‘It will need watching, will it?’

  ‘From what you’ve told me about the stranger with the sôlênarion bow, Septem, I’d say it certainly does. And so do you. Back, front and sides.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll take Quintus if you can spare him.’

  ‘He’s the one I can spare most easily,’ admitted Enobarbus. ‘He’s the only one I can’t use for undercover work. It’s all too obvious what he is. He’ll never change. And at the moment I have no mission for a tough, experienced, bloody-minded, occasionally insubordinate triarius.’

  ‘But he might make the perfect companion for a courier,’ mused Artemidorus. ‘Ex-legionary. Bodyguard. Ten a sestercius. Unremarkable. As good as a gladiator. Better, in fact…’

  ‘Just so! Right. That’s settled then. Let’s sit down and I’ll brief you with the general’s thoughts and plans…’

  iii

  The bireme was called Aurora. She was a handy trading vessel. The crew, including the forty-eight oarsmen seated in two twelve-line decks, the twelve replacement oarsmen, ten deckhands and the militari officers who crewed her, were all freedmen. Like Lucius their praefectus captain. Earning varying quantities of the profits garnered from voyaging mainly in the Tyrrhenian Sea up and down the coast between Massalia and Neapolis. Occasionally venturing across the Bay under Vesuvio to Pompeii, as captain Lucius planned to do on this occasion. But rarely heading further south than that.

  Aurora’s home port was Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber. And that was where Artemidorus and Quintus joined her as she began a trading voyage southward. Promising to come to po
rt in Antium as well as Neapolis and Pompeii. Where many of the letters in Antony’s pouch were due to be delivered. And many of the messages passed on by Enobarbus during the briefing, were due to be discussed. The vessel was laden with Celtic cloth and jewellery as well as stone and other building materials – mostly wood from the forests in the north. The cloth and jewellery were destined for the markets inland behind Antium. The building materials were destined further south – Neapolis, Herculaneum and Pompeii, like Rome itself, were burgeoning. And in Pompeii they planned to pick up more building materials – mostly marble from the regions further south – that would be transported back to Rome. Together with anything else they could purchase and stow. Lucius was hopeful for some southern wines from the vines growing on the rich slopes of Vesuvio that he would take back on his way up to Massalia.

  The journey was among the first of the season, for the weather was only just becoming reliable enough to make commercial voyages possible. Even so, Captain Lucius Silus and his pilot Otho kept their vessel within sight of the shore at all times. Otho the pilot standing at the massive helmsman’s Herculean shoulder counting off the bays and estuaries where they could run for cover if the weather turned foul on them.