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

by Peter Tonkin

  Like most Romans, Quintus hated the sea. And with good reason. For, even in a near calm, he was uncontrollably seasick. ‘If he offers any more sacrifices to Neptune and Poseidon,’ observed Lucius Silus as he watched Quintus heaving over the side, ‘he’ll assure us of the calmest and most successful voyage ever.’

  Artemidorus grunted his agreement, unwilling to be amused by his friend’s distress. Or the wry humour of such a new acquaintance. He himself loved ships and sailing. He had spent some of his youth and young manhood aboard vessels ranging from Cilician pirate liburnian raiding galleys to the massive quinquiremes with their five banks of oars that Pompey sent to stamp piracy out in the days when he and Caesar had been friends. Not to mention the naval actions in which he had been involved as part of the civil wars that started when the two of them fell out.

  The breeze was gentle but persistent and from the north – as usual this time of year. So the labours of the oarsmen were soon replaced by the full belly of the big square-rigged sail. With its fanciful depiction of the rising sun as a beautiful goddess. And even though the oarsmen were able to take a welcome rest from their labours, Aurora was making as good time as a horse might, moving between a canter and a gallop. But her route was directly from port to port to port without the need to follow roads. Even ones as straight as the Via Appia. And, of course, courtesy of the system of faros lighthouses spreading southward along the coast, she would continue running at this speed through the night as well as the day. Allowing for rest periods for the oarsmen when they began to row again.

  But the distance between Ostia and Antium was little more than thirty Roman military miles. And even staying in sight of the coast, Aurora’s course was as straight as any Roman road. Having sailed with the morning tide soon after jentaculum breakfast, Aurora should be docked and unloading soon after prandium lunch. Which would put Artemidorus and Quintus – if he recovered in time – at their first destination by the early afternoon.

  Artemidorus and Quintus ran ashore as soon as the ship came into harbour and the work of unloading her began. The legionary recovering with astonishing rapidity the moment he stood on solid ground. Their destination sat on a clifftop overlooking the bay. They could have walked with little trouble – but the spy wished to arrive with the pomp that might be expected of Antony’s personal emissary. And so they hired a pair of showy horses and rode. They clattered up the paved approach to the villa, therefore, and slid to the ground at the foot of a wide flight of marble steps as an ostiarius doorkeeper came out of the porticoed entrance to greet them and discover their business. Followed by a couple of house slaves who ran forward to take their mounts.

  ‘I have come directly from Consul and General Mark Antony,’ said Artemidorus with all the impatient swagger to be expected of the character he played at Trebonius’ villa. ‘I bring letters and messages by word of mouth for the two senators and senior judges staying here. Your master Praetor Peregrinus Gaius Cassius Longinus and his guest Praetor Urbanus Marcus Junius Brutus.’

  ‘They are both at home,’ said the ostiarius, bowing. ‘Please accompany me and wait in the atrium while I advise them of your arrival and find out if they will see you.’

  ‘They’d better,’ whispered Artemidorus under his breath to Quintus as they strode into the vestibulum. ‘Unless they want to start a war at once.’

  iv

  Unlike Caesar Octavius dancing attendance on Antony, Artemidorus and Quintus were not kept waiting at all. Quite the reverse. No sooner had Cassius’ ostiarius doorkeeper whispered to the atriensis major-domo and the latter vanished into an adjoining room, than Cassius and Brutus both appeared. Their wives Tertulla and Portia beside them. And, indeed, Brutus and Tertulla’s mother, Caesar’s still-lovely ex-mistress Servilia.

  Servilia’s presence set off a chain of association in the spy’s mind. One that took him straight back to the conversation Antony had had with Marcus Tuillius Cicero about Caesar’s dying words. Here were Brutus and his mother. What had become of the legal case turning upon the possibility that Caesar himself was Brutus’ father?

  But then his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another unexpected guest. Another soldier and senator. Pontius Aquila. The solid-bodied, square-faced, senator who had taken offence when Caesar had divided up his estate nearby, giving some of it to Servilia. And then mocked him for his refusal to stand during a triumph. He had never forgiven the theft or the humiliation. And was, therefore, one of the most fervent of the assassins. He glowered at Antony’s messengers now from beneath one long, thick eyebrow, as though adding them to the list of men he wished to murder next.

  Artemidorus frowned as he met Aquila’s hostile gaze. But not through any emotion other than surprise. Aquila was supposed to be with Decimus Albinus up in Cisalpine Gaul. His visit here must be fleeting. And probably political in nature; bringing messages from one element of the divided Libertores to another.

  Cassius, his relatives and guests had recently risen from a late lunch in the triclinium dining room, by the look of things. Cassius stopped now, and stared, narrow-eyed at Artemidorus. His expression a match for Pontius Aquila’s. ‘Do I know you?’ he snapped.

  ‘I am a member of Consul and General Mark Antony’s staff,’ answered Artemidorus easily. ‘You may well have seen me.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it.’ Cassius didn’t sound convinced. Nor should he, thought Artemidorus. For he and Cassius had stood face to face before. During the hours after Caesar’s murder. But his closest dealings with the leaders of the so-called Libertores had been from behind another careful disguise. In that case, a thick, red, bushy beard. From beneath a freedman’s leather cap. His face occasionally further covered by the metal mask of a Samnite’s gladiatorial helmet. As he spied on the murderers in the Temple of Jupiter during the hours after their crime. And occasionally carried messages between them, Cicero and Antony. He had worked undercover in Brutus’ Roman villa as well. Not to mention kidnapping Brutus’ favourite body-slave the lovely Puella. But the family had been far too important – and preoccupied – to pay a mere workman much attention.

  ‘Come,’ snapped Cassius and turned. He led the family group, the messenger and his fully armed bodyguard through the tablinum office area and into the peristyle. Whose far wall had been removed so that the garden opened onto a veranda. Floored and balustraded with the sort of white marble the Aurora was due to bring north from Neapolis and Pompeii. While the family took their ease on cushion-covered benches, Artemidorus took Antony’s letters out of his bag. Then he passed them into the imperiously raised hands of Cassius and Brutus, who broke the seals. Unrolled the papyrus sheets and more or less laboriously read the beautiful script written by Antony’s secretary.

  As they did this, the two soldiers stood at attention while the women and Pontius Aquila talked quietly. Their conversation informing the spy that they had enjoyed a light lunch. That they were planning on bathing later. And that they were all due to visit Aquila’s villa, where Servilia was currently staying, later still, for a formal cena dinner. Servilia and Aquila clearly having come to some sort of accommodation over Caesar’s gift of Aquila’s estate to his long-time lover. While his ears were busy, Artemidorus let his gaze wander apparently innocently over the gathering frowns on the faces of Brutus and Cassius. Then out over the edge of the balustrade to the blue calm of the sea. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see the dock where Aurora was still being unloaded.

  ‘You know what is in these letters?’ demanded Cassius abruptly. His tone silencing the social chit-chat.

  ‘The basis, Praetor. Not the details.’

  ‘Antony says in my letter that you have further suggestions to add, which he does not wish to commit to paper at this time.’

  ‘Says that in mine, too,’ added Brutus.

  The frowns on both men’s faces spread to those of their wives. Portia, noted Artemidorus, still looked pale and sickly. Caesar’s murder had been almost as hard on her as it had been on the victim.r />
  ‘The general suggests that it is not yet time for you to consider returning to Rome…’ Artemidorus began.

  ‘But…’ spat Brutus at once.

  ‘Even though you both still hold the posts of Praetor Senior Justice,’ he persisted. ‘And therefore have many duties and responsibilities. Not least the Ludi Cerialis games which Tribune Critoinius is overseeing. And the Ludi Apollonaris Apollo’s Games for which you are personally responsible Lord Brutus, as Praetor Urbanus Senior Law Officer in the city. But which Lord Antony is pleased to inform you his brother Gaius will organise if it is still too dangerous for you to return to the capital in person.’

  Brutus and Cassius will be calculating on giving the most magnificent games they can, Enobarbus had briefed his secret agent on Antony’s behalf. And using them to gain the favour of the plebs. But the general thinks he can outwit them.

  ‘It is still some weeks to the Games of Apollo,’ said Cassius, as Brutus sat, white-faced with shock and outrage; almost as pale as his sickly wife. ‘We will have plenty of time to discuss the general’s generous offer. But there are matters of more immediate importance here…’

  ‘Crete!’ snapped Brutus. ‘He says they’re offering me Crete next year. After all the money I have invested in the games – which I won’t apparently be presenting in person – he says they’re offering me Crete next year! I’ll never come close to recouping my losses there. I need Syria! Macedonia!’

  ‘I seem to have a choice,’ added Cassius drily. ‘Sicily or Cyrene. Pirates or desert. Cyrene! They might as well have offered me Carthage! There’s nothing there but dust.’

  ‘No legions with either governorship! That’s the point,’ said Brutus angrily. ‘Precious little tax revenue and no legions.’

  ‘My general wondered whether you might like a little freedom to begin exploring your new responsibilities,’ said Artemidorus gently. ‘Though you cannot undertake them officially until next Januarius, of course.

  ‘General Antony has convinced the Senate that now might be the perfect opportunity to offer you the post of Corn Commissioners for Asia,’ he continued smoothly. ‘He suggests that these appointments might well suit you on several levels. Firstly, they are lucrative. Overseeing the shipment of grain from the East offers all sorts of profitable opportunities to experienced administrators such as yourselves.’ His gaze lingered apparently innocently on Brutus who was infamous for the rapacity of his administrations and governorships. ‘Also the appointment as commissioners, which you could take up at once if you so decide, would automatically make you free to travel out of Italy. With your families and households, should you choose to take them. Without further permission or interference. And at the Senate’s expense…’

  ‘Very generous, I’m sure,’ sneered Cassius. ‘Antony’s back is to the wall. He’s running out of money himself. In spite of the speed with which I hear he’s forging documents in Caesar’s name and selling posts or taking bribes. Going through the treasury as fast as he went through the wines in Pompey’s cellar when he moved into Pompey’s villa.’ He gave a dry, angry laugh. ‘The Senate is against him. At least Cicero’s letters say so. And they won’t turn a blind eye to his barefaced corruption for much longer. Moreover, they’ve formally appointed Decimus Albinus as Governor of Cisalpine Gaul – with three legions – and he’s already taken up the post I understand. Not even Antony could stop that! So Antony dare not leave Rome for any length of time in case our friend and ally Albinus steals it out from under him in his absence. Therefore, of course he wants us out of the way as soon as possible.’

  ‘And,’ added Brutus, ‘there’s the question of young Octavius. I hear he’s in Italy. What effect will he have on Antony and his plans I wonder?’

  ‘At the moment, Lord Praetor, young Caesar Octavius is putting together an army as quickly as he can. So that he can come after the men who murdered his adoptive father,’ said Artemidorus with some relish. ‘He plans to proscribe and execute them all.’

  ‘An army!’ Cassius shook his head with a patronising laugh as though he had only heard the beginning of Artemidorus’ speech. ‘And he’s a sickly boy, what, eighteen years old?’ Everyone on the airy balcony laughed, the sound of their merriment blending with the screaming of the gulls riding the air currents nearby. Only Artemidorus and Quintus remained straight-faced and silent.

  ‘So,’ said Artemidorus quietly as the patrician mirth died down. ‘What shall I tell Lord Antony?’

  ‘That we thank him for his letters and his generous offers,’ said Cassius smoothly. ‘And that we require a little more time to think them over and to discuss them. Amongst ourselves. And with our friends.’

  v

  Aurora came into the narrows between the barren island of Procida and the huge military port of Misenum on the mainland just before sunset. The north wind had strengthened as she left Antium and blew her southwards with impressive rapidity. She slid into the Bay of Neapolis as darkness fell. The rowers eased her towards the city dock while the deckhands furled the sail and got ready to heave the cargo out of the hold.

  ‘You have a choice,’ announced Lucius Silus. ‘You can either eat with the crew and sleep aboard at no extra charge, or I can recommend a hospitium in Neapolis where the wine is good and the beds are soft.’

  ‘And the women are clean,’ added Otho knowledgably. ‘For the most part.’ The pilot clearly knew about more than the local seaways, thought Artemidorus with an inward smile. Then he met Quintus’ agonised stare.

  ‘We’ll go ashore,’ he decided.

  ‘Well, be back bright and early,’ advised Lucius. ‘It’s not far to Pompeii. Ten military miles at most but we’ll be off down there as soon as wind and tide allow.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Swing up our baggage as soon as we dock and recommend somewhere we can hire good horses. I think we’ll leave you here after all.’

  ‘You’ve paid for the full passage. But it’s your money. What I’ll do is this. We’ll swing your baggage up then I’ll send a couple of brawny crewmen with you to carry your stuff and guide you. Men who’ll guarantee you a good deal with the locals…’

  As it turned out, they got two solid oarsmen from the relief team. And Otho the pilot. The three crewmen guided them through the city streets as the moon began to rise, on the wane now, but still bright. ‘I suppose you’re going to try and make it to Pompeii tonight,’ said Otho companionably.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Well, I can show you where to get the best horses to take you south from here. But I’d recommend that you eat here first. It can be a long trip by land. The coast’s by no means an even sweep so the coast road gets unusually twisty. Then I can recommend a good place to stay in Pompeii when you get there too. Cheap but clean – the hospitium and the girls. Well, it’s a lupanar rather than a hospitium. But this place is useful to know about. You can stay the night if you need to. And as I say, it’s reasonably priced. Which is unusual. Pompeii’s an expensive town. Rich man’s playground.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Quintus, more like his old self now he was back on dry land. ‘Where is this cheap, clean brothel, then?’

  ‘You’ll find it at the crossroads two blocks east of the forum. Ask for Restituta. Tell her Big Otho sent you…’

  *

  Under the steady light of a low moon the two soldiers rode southward on mounts from the stable Otho recommended, Quintus leading a pack mule. They were full of a tasty cena of fish, olives and figs washed down with water from the city hospitium’s own spring. It was drinkable, but contained a decided hint of sulphur. They pushed their mounts quite fast, for the road round the dormant volcano’s foothills was well maintained and wide. Though, as Otho said, it twisted in and out in a most un-Roman fashion. Artemidorus calculated they must be adding almost a mile going side to side for every couple of miles they made southward. There were villages every now and then, the largest of them the little port of Herculaneum. Wayside establishments with welcoming
torches ablaze. And a steady traffic, coming and going. As Otho observed, Pompeii was a rich man’s playground and it was served as such. Still, it took the two men much of the night to cover on land a distance that seemed almost twice the distance Aurora would cover after the sacrifices in the dawn.

  But as they finally rode through the outskirts of the town, the moon vanished behind a sinister wall of cloud that soon snuffed out the stars as well and hung low over mount Vesuvio. The wind swung round to the south and freshened, bringing a sprinkling of raindrops with a warm breeze whose gusts grew stronger and stronger. Pompeii had no walls. And, therefore, no gates. The road they were riding ran on south beyond the town. And another came in from the east that ran past this road and down to the docks. Where the two roads crossed, there was the forum. And the weary travellers turned east here and went two blocks, as Otho had advised. Artemidorus was glad to see a proper hospitium with stables attached just down the road from the lupinaria the pilot recommended. Which recommendation seemed, unexpectedly, to have caught the ascetic Stoic Quintus’ imagination.

  They went to the hospitium first. Stabled their horses and arranged a room. Otho’s advice about eating had been good. The culina kitchen was long closed. The bar was empty. The innkeeper who welcomed them had clearly been summoned from his bed. He was able to serve them wine, however, as their baggage was taken up to their room. Then Artemidorus dismissed the restless Quintus, and wearily followed the innkeeper upwards.

  As he prepared for bed, the tired spy reassessed his plans. He had hoped to get out to Minucius Basilus’ villa under cover of darkness and scout it out before delivering Antony’s letter to Gaius Trebonius in the morning. But the length of the road and the unexpected turn in the weather had frustrated that plan. On the other hand, he thought, the change in the weather was likely to frustrate Lucius Silus’ plans for Aurora too, for the vessel was unlikely to set sail straight into the teeth of a southerly storm. So, all in all, he had made the right decision in coming ashore – unless the intrepid captain made a really spectacular sacrifice to the gods and goddesses of sea and sky tomorrow. Something sufficiently powerful to make them change a gathering storm for more gentle northerly breezes. Artemidorus had reached this point in his thoughts when Quintus burst through the door. ‘Come with me, Septem,’ he said. ‘I really think you will want to hear this…’