by Peter Tonkin
*
Artemidorus led the little group down onto the dockside. There was stabling here for the horses they had ridden from the last mansio way station. Where they had swapped the mounts they picked up in Capua. They were planning to ride from mansio to mansio or township to township along the Via Egnatia, swapping horses at each one. Once they had requisitioned or purchased the best that they could find across the Mare Hadriaticum Adriatic Sea in the military port-city of Dyrrachium.
In order to facilitate this, Artemidorus was once again carrying letters of authority from Antony. Letters which included one manumitting the slave Puella. As the Consul of Rome had the legal power to do. And assigning her to the command of Iacomus Artemidorus, centurion seconded to the consul’s personal Praetorian Cohorts. And, amongst his other effects, the secret agent also carried a strongbox full of gold.
The military quinquireme was called Salacia in honour of Neptune’s queen. Her commander was a tribune called Vitus. He raised an eyebrow when a tall centurion ran uninvited up his gangplank but proved to be amenable enough. The moment Artemidorus showed him Antony’s order, he called the rest of the contubernium aboard and sent crewmen to help with their baggage. ‘We sail with the tide after our sacrifices are done,’ he said. ‘It’s a straight run over to Dyrrachium. We’re just carrying supplies to restock the warehouses over there now that Consul Dolabella has taken the last Macedonian legion eastwards to support him as Governor of Syria. The weather looks calm enough, given that it’s so late in the season – and the sacrifices will clarify that one way or another. I’m lucky to have an excellent haruspex aboard. And I’m an augur myself.’
And so they set off. Kyros watched the haruspex sacrifice a white lamb and read calm seas and prosperous voyage from its entrails before approving the fortunate sacrifice for roasting and consumption by the officers and their guests. The young spy was unimpressed by the man’s technique, however. It didn’t begin to compare to Spurinna’s.
He was just turning away from the bloody sacrifice, overwhelmed by the procedure of setting sail, when Artemidorus called him over. The rest of the contubernium were assembled on the raised afterdeck, near where Tribune Vitus was overseeing the vessel’s departure. The drum beat of the timekeeper ensuring the five banks of oars on each side rose and fell in unison. The deck crew scurrying around both here and high above as the great square sail bellied with the wind. The way the deck moved was a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt. The closest he could come was a vague memory of an earthquake he experienced as a child.
No sooner had Kyros staggered over to the group than Quintus and Ferrata ran for the siderails and looked steadfastly downwards. Seemingly fascinated by the way the long, sleek hull was sliding through the water. ‘We’ll be aboard overnight at least,’ Artemidorus said. ‘This is one of the few voyages where the ship goes out of sight of land and keeps going – though slowly – in the dark. And the crew have already started looking sideways at Puella. Women aboard ships are either out of reach, bad luck or fair game. I want to ensure Puella stays out of reach, understand?’
‘Yes Septem,’ said Kyros. Although he didn’t really understand at all.
‘So I want you and Puella to go through a series of training exercises. As though she is teaching you how to use both hands to wield your weapons in the same way as she does. Work hard. Put on a show with both gladius and pugio. I want every sailor aboard this vessel to have a clear idea of what Puella is capable of doing to them if they put one finger out of place. Understand?’
‘Yes, Septem,’ said Kyros. And this time he was telling the truth.
ii
Dyrrachium seemed eerily empty as they disembarked next day. There was an air of desolation about the place. Only a month or two ago, there had been five legions and all their ancillaries stationed here. Legions that had been in place for more than a year. Now they were all gone – four via Brundisium to the south bank of the Rubicon at Antony’s order. Ready to try and shake Decimus out of Gaul. The fifth with Dolabella heading ad orientem. That was thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Plus their support units. Often as not, their families. Certainly their camp-followers. Their needs, wishes, desires. But, most of all, their pay. Millions of sestertii gone from the local economy. The tabernae were deserted. The lupanaria brothels abandoned, she-wolves underused, bored and bellicose. The stalls and shops empty, their shelves bare; their holders and keepers fearing a long, lean winter. The augurs, divias fortune-tellers and strigae witches all unemployed – the future crystal clear to all of them.
Salacia’s crew, therefore, received the warmest possible welcome when they docked next day in the deserted port. For they brought not only goods in her cargo hold, but men, money and employment. Temporary though it might be. Kyros and the others in Artemidorus’ contubernium also could have made themselves free of the city. But the spy refused to be distracted. As their equipment was being unloaded, he came ashore personally to find the hospitium that best suited their needs. Quintus came with him, instantly rejuvenated when his feet touched solid ground. The hospitium they found was also able to supply a dozen good horses for hire and several pack animals as well. The reason Artemidorus selected it was simple. It was the start of the communication system that would allow his team to swap their horses at mansios and townships all along the Via Egnatia. As far as Philippi, at least. They planned, following Ferrata’s observations, to make the city of Philippi their next destination. It lay nearly five hundred military miles distant and at least three weeks’ hard travelling away, just inland from the port of Neapolis that served it. Where they would take ship one last time. Heading for the port-city of Smyrna, their final destination.
And so they proceeded as planned, over mountain and valley, from mansio to mansio, village to village, town to town – in the wake of Dolabella’s legion. Their welcome always curt – at the least – for Dolabella’s men had been almost rapacious. And notoriously ill-controlled. Their general infinitely greedy. Demanding extra taxes whenever he thought he saw prosperity. With gathering concern, they passed through the towns of Claudiana, Heraclea, Edessa and Pella, Thessaloniki and the local provincial capital, Amphipolis. In the end it took them more than a month to reach the soggy plain below the township of Philippi where they turned towards the coast and the port of Neapolis Orientalis. Where they found a ship willing to take them through the wintery seas to Smyrna. A neat little trireme called Triteia.
*
Like Dyrrachium, Smyrna seemed eerily deserted when they arrived there with the early days of the new administrative year 711 since the founding of the city. In the consulship of Aulus Hirtius and Gaius Vibius Pansa. This might have been explained by the pounding downpour that greeted Triteia as she docked. But as soon as Artemidorus stepped off the gangplank onto the quay, he sensed an unsettling atmosphere. Which was something more subtle than a mere atmospheric disturbance. More dangerous. The port, which should have been busy even on an overpoweringly wet mid-winter’s day, seemed deserted. Once their baggage had been unloaded into a dockside warehouse, leaving the well-armed slaves to guard it, Artemidorus led his contubernium up from the waterfront slowly. As though he was taking them into enemy territory.
There had been good reason for Dyrrachium to seem like this, Artemidorus thought. With five legions recently departed and the town yet to readjust to their absence. But Smyrna was a garrison town. There were cohorts stationed here permanently. Occasionally legions. And, as far as he knew, none of them had been reposted. It was just possible, Artemidorus reflected, that Dolabella, passing through Asia Province on his way to Syria with the last of the Macedonian legions, had borrowed some extra cohorts from Governor Trebonius. But even that should not have left behind this unsettling air of emptiness. Tension. Such as they had experienced along the Via Egnatia in the footsteps of Dolabella and his legion, as they came across looted villages and burned-out farmsteads. Towns with their gates closed and their walls manned as though besieged. Perhaps Dolabella was
after more than a cohort or two from the Governor of Asia Province. Whatever the reason, as soon as they were all ashore, he called to the others, ‘Form up!’
The long journey aboard Triteia from Philippi and Neapolis had been further lengthened by contrary winds and two storms from which they had sheltered in the lee of islands and the welcoming sanctuary of deep bays in mountainous shores. The extra time had allowed the little unit to hone and extend their skills. Not only with sword and dagger, right hand and left. But also with bow and arrow, slingshot and pilum. Though spears and arrows were tied to lengths of cord so they would not be lost overboard. When slings ran out of bullets, they raided the ballast for pebbles. The extra time allowed Quintus and Ferrata to find their sea legs. And finally it allowed some changes to the way the contubernium was constructed – especially when it was heading for trouble.
As his curt order still echoed on the deserted dockside, therefore, Artemidorus took the lead at the point of an arrowhead. Behind him at his right shoulder came Quintus, in the middle towered Hercules, and at his left shoulder Puella. This arrangement allowed Quintus to use his right hand to wield his gladius. And Puella to use her left. Hercules was tall enough to see even over his centurion’s crest. This also allowed each of them to use Artemidorus as a shield even as they guarded his back. For none of them carried a scutum. Behind them came Ferrata on the right and Kyros on the left. Guarding their backs in turn – but alert for the slightest sound or movement at their rear – at which they would whirl and form a circle of sharp steel. Almost comparable to the testudo tortoise the legions were trained to form with their shields. Kyros, who was beginning to share some of Puella’s ability to wield his weapons with either hand.
iii
But as Artemidorus led his tight-knit command up the hill from the docks towards the town itself – birthplace of Homer, whose poetry recorded the deeds of his personal protective deity Achilleus at the twenty-year siege of Illium, also known as Troy – the streaming vias remained empty. The threat he felt was in the air – not on the streets. For the moment, at least. Artemidorus’ eyes were narrow. And not because of the rain. He didn’t know Smyrna – except by reputation. But he knew cities. This was a commercial neighbourhood. The one closest to the docks always was. Merchants’ villas liberally interspersed with their warehouses and shops. Hospitae. Tabernae. Lupanaria. Serving the city and the travellers who came and went through the port. Not to mention the nautae sailors who transported them. But all he saw on either side were closed doors and fastened shutters. It was as though Smyrna was under siege like Troy. But that could not be – the seaways were clear and the docks were open. There was something else going on here that he didn’t yet understand.
Until he reached the city’s main forum. And found the Governor of Asia Province crucified against the door of the town hall.
Artemidorus could not identify Trebonius at first, for the body hanging against a wooden cross propped against the wooden doorway was so battered and bruised it was scarcely recognisable as human. Only the scantiest loincloth preserved some element of modesty. Above it, the belly and breast were a mass of welts and bruises. Open wounds and black burn marks. Below it, the legs, clearly disjointed and broken, reached down to crushed and blackened feet. Ropes had been secured round ankles and knees; wrists, elbows and shoulders. Though the outstretched arms and hands in no better shape than the legs and feet. At first glance, the rope holding the outspread arms seemed to be a kindness. But Artemidorus knew better. For, at the end of the Third Servile War against Spartacus he had seen six thousand men crucified by Marcus Licinius Crassus all along the Via Appia. And he knew that crucified men often died because they could not breathe properly. So the ropes were just a way of saving the tortured victim from asphyxiation – and so extending his agony. The head hung down, hair pulled forward by the weight of sweat and blood. For the door of the curia was protected from the rain by a formal colonnade that stretched across the width of the building at the top of an impressive set of marble steps. And, even as Artemidorus stood, stunned by simple shock, the head moved. Lifted. Revealing the smashed and battered face that, after a moment of utter disbelief, he realised he knew.
On either side of the cross, lines of legionaries stood guard beneath the colonnades. Armoured and fully armed. As though on parade. Artemidorus recognised their insignia at once. They were from the legion he had followed all the way down the Via Egnatia. The last Macedonian legion which Dolabella had brought with him from Dyrrachium.
Dolabella had done this!
Artemidorus’ mind reeled. That one governor should torture and crucify another governor. Both Roman citizens. Patricians. Generals into the bargain. It was scarcely comprehensible. Under Roman law, slaves could be tortured – could only give evidence in court if there was proof that they had been tortured. But to torture a Roman citizen was to declare war against the city and the state. And if anyone other than Cicero himself should be fully aware of this, it must surely be his ex-son-in-law. As these thoughts span through Artemidorus’ head, he was mildly surprised to find his gladius in his fist. And, beneath the relentless roaring of the rain he heard the hiss of five more swords sliding out of their soaking scabbards.
‘Forward!’ he ordered, and the tight little arrowhead moved across the forum behind him.
As his mind grappled with the horrific fate of Governor Trebonius, so he began to see the implications – and understand why the citizens of Smyrna were all in hiding. To begin with, they might well be terrified by the possibility that Dolabella planned that they should share the fate of their governor. Or simply that he proposed to unleash the legionaries on them. Or alternatively there was the very real prospect that the Senate would want to take revenge for the treatment of their duly appointed governor as soon as the news reached Rome. Vengeance not only on the people who did this to him – but upon the people who did not stop them doing this to him.
The moment Artemidorus’ foot went onto the bottom step, the centurion in charge of the guards stepped forward. Stood solidly in front of the dying man, just inside the warm, dry colonnade. Looking down through the relentless curtains of rain. ‘No closer,’ he said. ‘On pain of death.’ His face was set like marble. ‘And, as you can see, I do mean pain…’
‘I am here on the commission of Consul and General Mark Antony,’ said Artemidorus, so used to using the phrase that he forgot Antony had not been Consul since the calends beginning of the month. ‘I carry his seal and authority. I speak with his voice.’
‘You’d better speak to General Dolabella then,’ answered the centurion. ‘He’s in the governor’s palace.’ He gestured with his chin towards an imposing building on the right-hand side of the square.
But something in Artemidorus’ ringing declaration of his authority seemed to get through to Trebonius. The head beyond the centurion’s shoulder stirred again. The battered face came up. The swollen, blood-crusted lips moved. Trebonius shouted a message to the spy and courier. The words came out as a garbled whisper and were only uttered once. The head fell forward once again, overcome by the effort of communication. Artemidorus had turned and begun to lead his command towards the palace before he fully understood what the words had been.
‘My woman. Dolabella has her…’
iv
Publius Cornelius Dolabella was exactly as Artemidorus remembered him. A spare man with a long face and thinning mud-coloured hair. Cold, narrow eyes. A downturned, pouting mouth above a weak, receding chin. It was difficult to imagine what Cicero’s daughter Tullia had seen in him. Other than a political marriage to further her father’s ambitions. But it was easy to see why his ex-father in law found it so easy to dislike him now that she was dead and his ambitions lay in other quarters. But Artemidorus was still staggered that the man was capable of such unbelievable cruelty.
‘So…’ Dolabella raised those cold, calculating eyes from his perusal of Artemidorus’ letters of authority which lay spread across the table in front of him. ‘Wha
t exactly is it that Antony wants you to do, Centurion? You and the five companions waiting for you outside?’
‘To establish precisely what is going on in Smyrna – was going on before your arrival at any rate. To prepare a report for him. And to bring him Trebonius’ head if he has been involved in any actions against the general and his interests.’
‘That’s quite an assignment. For a centurion and five helpers.’
‘Catiline sent Centurion Gaius Manlius north to raise an army.’
‘And look what happened to them. Courtesy of my revered ex-father-in-law. But I take your point. Centurion Manlius raised a considerable army. On his own. We should never underestimate what a centurion is capable of.’ The Governor of Syria stood up. The whiteness of his toga cast a bright reflection over Antony’s orders. ‘Well, I am prepared to help Antony, even though the calends of Januarius has passed and we are replaced as co-consuls by Hirtius and Pansa. It so happens that the foolish ex-governor of Syria Province not only refused to give assistance and support me and my legion as we passed through his territory. He also put his trust in a woman.’
‘Really?’ grated Artemidorus. ‘What woman is that?’
‘Some canicula bitch of no account. Who, when I put the case to her forcefully enough, was happy to recount all the pillow talk the stultus fool shared with her.’
‘Forcefully enough…’ Artemidorus’ voice was husky. His throat dry. How he wished he had been allowed to wear his sword or dagger in here. Or even to bring his five companions into the room with him.
‘Making her watch the beginning of Trebonius’ questioning was enough to break her down. In every regard except one. Which is why she is awaiting my pleasure. When I have finished with her ex-lover.’