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

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Where he has hidden the gold he brought out from Rome with him.’

  ‘He brought gold, Governor? I thought – the general thought – he was relying on the taxes collected by Governor Marcus Apuleius, the man he was relieving.’

  ‘That’s what Antony thought, was it? Unusually naive of him, I’d say…’

  Artemidorus frowned, trying to work out what Dolabella was driving at. But before he could even get his thoughts in order, the governor slapped his palm onto the tabletop beside Antony’s letters of commission. ‘I think you need to see the lady in question. Talk things over with her. Then you’ll understand.’

  ‘Understand, Governor?’

  ‘What I have done and why I did it. And you can report it all to Antony when you hand over Trebonius’ head. Which, in due course I will give to you. When I finally allow him to die.’

  *

  The guard Dolabella assigned to guide Artemidorus had no orders concerning his five companions. As they, like their leader, had been disarmed at the door, he allowed them to accompany him as he led them through the governor’s palace. In common with many other great official buildings, it was not furnished with dungeons. Which were reserved for the local carcer prison. Instead, there were storerooms with heavy doors secured by Greek locks that could be locked against people breaking out as well as against people breaking in.

  The six of them followed the legionary down steps into the lower floors of the palace, where the air was fragrant with the smell of cooking. Dolabella, Artemidorus recalled, always preferred a well-furnished table. Which seemed to have no effect on his lean, spare figure. Perhaps he was a regular visitor to the vomitorium, emptying his belly after each course – as some Epicurians were said to do. The guard led them past the culina kitchen itself and into the corridors beyond. Here, heavy doors secured all sorts of supplies – mostly vegetable, mineral, oleaginous and alcoholic – against theft. At the end of the corridor, a door stood ajar, opening out onto a rainwashed street and a small paddock full of fatted animals.

  The animals being outside, thought Artemidorus, made it clear what lay behind the last door – through which it was possible to hear movement and ragged breathing.

  With a flourish, the legionary thrust a massive key into the simple lock, turned it and threw the door wide.

  The occupant of the room came out like a wildcat, springing for the soldier’s face. It was more by luck than judgement that he stepped back – thus saving his eyes if not his cheeks. But the shock of the attack wore off almost instantly and he caught his assailant’s wrists and threw her back. Stepped forward as she staggered, still on her feet and ready for a fight. Punched her with all his strength immediately between her breasts. She crashed backwards into the darkness of the room. ‘You wait, bitch,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you pay for that in ways you can’t even imagine…’

  Artemidorus stepped past him. ‘That will do, soldier. You are dismissed!’ he said, pushing the door wide to allow some light into the place. Whose occupant was already rolling over onto her side, ready to pull herself onto her feet. As the enraged legionary pushed roughly past Puella and vanished.

  But when she saw Artemidorus she froze.

  ‘Salve, Cyanea,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle.

  v

  Cyanea shook with simple, scarcely controllable rage. ‘Why,’ she demanded. ‘Why am I always surrounded by men whose dreams and plans are so much bigger than their brains? So much greater than their reach?’

  Artemidorus was here to ask questions – not to answer them. And in any case, he realised that this question was rhetorical. Born from the frustration of defeat. The prospect of a truly terrifying death. The present state of her hair, which was a tangled mess. Of her clothing which was filthy and spattered with what looked like blood. Probably Trebonius’. Of her face – which was no cleaner than her clothing. And of her nails which were packed with skin from the legionary’s cheeks. She was not a vain woman. Especially considering how beautiful she was. But, cat-like, preferred to stay neat and tidy. Filthiness had always appalled her.

  However, he was having trouble putting the questions he wanted answered into any kind of order. So, logical to his Greek fingertips, he started with the most immediate. ‘What was Trebonius up to, Cyanea? What made Dolabella do these terrible things to him?’

  Cyanea’s eyes narrowed. Even so, they seemed to catch the light of the lamp Ferrata was holding. And gleam like blue-green chalcedony. ‘Up to? He was helping Brutus and Cassius of course. Trying to make up for the mistake they made in leaving Antony alive on The Ides of Mars last year. Specifically, he arrived with the huge cache of arms and armour Caesar left in Dyrrachuim to supply his Parthian Campaign. Then the moment he made contact with Governor Marcus Apuleius, who he was relieving here, he sent Apuleius south with the arms and the entire year’s tax revenue from Asia Province. When Brutus gets the money, and Apuleius as a new lieutenant, he will be better off by two hundred million sestertii!

  ‘And Brutus is on the move with Cassius, by the way. He has plans to recruit the men from Pompey’s army who escaped after the battle of Pharsalus and settled in Greece, Macedonia and Syria. While Brutus is working up in the north, Cassius may go as far south as Egypt on his recruiting drive. Though I don’t know how Cleopatra’s going to feel about that! The fact is, you can build a good many legions with two hundred million sestertii. Especially if the men you’re recruiting came from Pompey’s command. An army Caesar defeated. Who loved the man whose head he took. Some of whom, into the bargain, have had farms and townships raided by Dolabella’s legion as they made their way out here.

  ‘And Cassius, of course, is still amazingly popular with the men he led to safety after Crassus’ defeat at Carrhae just over ten years ago. There are thousands of them settled locally as well. When they hear the news about the money and the armaments he’ll have to fight them off, they’ll be so eager to join him. Almost at one stroke, Trebonius has turned the situation in the East on its head. He was enormously proud of that. Until Dolabella arrived, at any rate. Probably still is. All he’s actually said, even under torture, is “Civis Romanum sum! I am a Roman citizen!”’

  ‘But Dolabella’s concerns are even more immediate than arms and tax revenue, Brutus and Cassius, aren’t they?’ probed the spy.

  ‘Trebonius’ gold, you mean?’ shrugged Cyanea. ‘Yes. That’s the one thing I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘But you know where it is…’

  By way of answer, Cyanea changed the subject. ‘These are the spies you’ve replaced Telos and me with are they? I know Spurinna’s slave boy Kyros here. And Ferrata. Quintus, of course. I seem to remember the giant. And the girl you stole from Brutus. Is she your new mistress? She looks the part, I must say. You being Greek and her being dressed as a boy…’

  ‘I look more the part than you do,’ snapped Puella. ‘Even in armour!’ Artemidorus swung round. Puella was looking down her long nose at the bedraggled Cyanea. Her expression one of pure, aristocratic disdain. A few weeks ago she had been a slave. A possession; a thing. Hardly even human. Now she was using icy looks he had only ever seen displayed by Cleopatra at her haughtiest.

  *

  Dolabella agreed to accommodate them in the governor’s palace. There was plenty of room. And they were, after all, Antony’s emissaries. As his guests, they were welcome to use the baths, and while they did so, a messenger went down to the docks to summon their slaves and their baggage. Then, clean and appropriately dressed, they were invited to cena dinner. Only Artemidorus, however, was invited to the triclinium formal dining room. Here he found Dolabella, his tribunes, and several leading citizens of Smyrna. Nine guests in all, arranged in traditional threes on the couches around the central table. The others – even Puella – ate with the centurions in the officers’ dining room.

  Artemidorus was preoccupied, as he mentally wrote and rewrote the report he would send to Antony. Which he would take to
Antony in person if matters moved on as quickly as he hoped. Along with Trebonius’ head. He was sufficiently part of the conversation, however, to note that the local dignitaries were nervous on several counts. Who, they wondered, would take over from Governor Trebonius? Who would run their city when Dolabella and his troops moved on? How would the Senate in Rome react to what had happened here? And, perhaps most worryingly, how were the citizens of Smyrna going to react when the shock of their governor’s death began to wear off? There had been talk of riots…

  ‘If they riot, then we know how to settle things,’ answered Dolabella roundly, nodding at Artemidorus, and beaming with self-satisfaction. ‘We had enough practice in controlling riots last Mars in Rome.’

  After cena, Artemidorus excused himself and retired to the bedroom he had been assigned, leaving the other guests to philosophical and political debate. And amphora after amphora of Trebonius’ best wine. He had been assigned a sizeable chamber that contained not only a bed but also a desk. The bed, as with all Roman beds, was tall and ornate. The headboard and footboard were carved with intricate designs. The whole thing stood so high that there was a footstool at its side to allow the sleeper to climb aboard. The room was bright with a range of lamps and candles, smelling of scented oil. One of the palace body-slaves was waiting to help him get ready for bed, but he sent the man in search of an amanuensis secretary instead. After a while, the slave returned with a young Greek carrying a writing box, a stylus and tablets, ink and papyrus.

  Artemidorus dismissed the body-slave and began to dictate the report he planned to send – or take – to Antony. He was just putting the finishing touches to it when the chamber door opened and Puella entered, carrying a lamp. ‘I thought I’d never find you,’ she whispered. ‘This place is like the maze of Daedalus. And you will be my Minotaur; part man, part bull…’ Her eyes widened when she saw that they were not alone, but Artemidorus dismissed the scribe. Then, in spite of the temptation of the pleasant distractions she presented, he settled Puella in a comfortable chair and read the report to her.

  One read-through was sufficient to establish that he was thoroughly satisfied with what had been written. He put the papyrus scroll aside. She came to him at once and, with the practised movements of a well-trained handmaid, she helped him to disrobe. She herself was wearing a light tunic, and when he had been stripped down to his, he held her hand. Literally. As she was just about to lift the tunic over his head. She looked up at him, the faintest of frowns marring the perfection of her forehead. Wide eyes gleaming in the lamplight. But questioning. Then filled with sudden understanding.

  ‘You cannot leave her down there,’ she said. ‘You would rather let her escape than let her share Governor Trebonius’ fate. Despite the fact that she betrayed you. Caused Caesar’s death with her treachery. Even though, as Ferrata says, she wants to see you dead and burning. And is more relentless than the Friendly Ones and Nemesis combined…’

  vi

  Now that they were guests, their weapons had been returned to them. Together with all their personal items from their baggage. Which, in the spy’s case, included two pouches. One containing the Balearic sling he habitually carried nowadays. The other full of the keys with which he had broken into Minucius Basilus’ villa in Pompeii. Keys designed to open locks like those on the storeroom doors – in case the legionary with the scratched face had taken the key to Cyanea’s cell away when he stalked angrily down the corridor. Artemidorus strapped his sword-belt on, therefore, and fastened the pouch of keys to it. Beside the winged phallus good-luck charms Ferrata had given him. Beside the tiny pouch that held the sling. He took the largest of the lamps. ‘Come on,’ he whispered.

  Puella and he crept into the corridor side by side. Puella’s search for her lover’s chamber had the unexpected benefit of familiarising her with the maze of corridors they were passing through. Dolabella seemed dangerously overconfident, thought Artemidorus. Had the spy been in the governor’s place – with Trebonius crucified and slowly dying, scant pedes feet away – he would have posted guards inside the palace as well as outside. But there were none. And, in spite of the reputation of the legion and its lax commander, it seemed that everyone was in bed. Perhaps exhausted by all the pillaging, carousing and ravishing they had performed on the way here, he thought wryly. The only sounds the pair of them heard as they slid silently through the shadows was that of distant snoring.

  Even if Puella had not been so confident a guide, thought Artemidorus, he would probably have found the storerooms. Simply by following his nose. For the heady scents of cena still hung heavy on the air. Getting stronger and stronger as they approached the culina kitchen. After leaving Cyanea, he had subconsciously counted the number of storeroom doors separating her makeshift prison from the kitchen itself. And he counted them back now, knowing that there should be six. For some reason far beyond his understanding, he pushed his hand against each of them as he and Puella passed. They all remained solidly shut. Until he reached the sixth.

  The pressure of his palm against the cool wood made the door swing open at once. He froze. Puella, sensitive at his shoulder, froze as well. The door swung inwards through several pedes feet then stopped as it came up against something solid enough to halt its movement. Artemidorus slid his pugio out of its sheath – regretting as he often did the fact that he had given the dagger with the almost magical blade to Caesar Octavius. But this one was almost its equal, he consoled himself, as he stepped forward, following the brightness thrown by the lamp. Feeling Puella stirring into movement behind him, even as her left hand brushed his hip intimately. As she lifted his gladius out of its sheath. Then she was at his side. Armed and ready to face whatever was going on.

  The brightness of two lamps lit the whole storeroom. But neither the spy nor his companion paid any attention to the bales of herbs or sacks of grain that lined the walls. Their attention was taken by the head and shoulders of the body that had stopped the door from opening. It was dressed in a tunic. Lying on its back, facing upwards. The face was that of the legionary Cyanea had scratched. The red trenches still marred the skin of his cheeks. His left eye seemed to stare balefully at the intruders. But where his right eye should have been there was only a gaping red wound.

  ‘He must have come back to take his revenge,’ breathed Puella.

  ‘Underestimating his victim,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘And still wearing his dagger, the stupid bastard.’

  ‘Well, she’s got it now. And she’s out there somewhere…’ For the first time since the Ides of Mars, Puella sounded nervous.

  No sooner had she finished speaking than there came a pandemonium of shouting and screaming from somewhere up above them. ‘FIRE! FIRE!’ someone shouted. ‘Quick! The palace is on fire!’

  Side by side they turned and began to retrace their steps. As they did so, the sound of snoring was replaced by the noises of people stirring. Waking, beginning to react to the warnings. Even so, they made it back to Artemidorus’ room before they met anyone. The spy looked over the bedchamber and what was in it, making a rapid mental calculation of what he needed to save. But then Puella took his shoulder and he realised she had been speaking. ‘I hear the warnings,’ she was saying. ‘But I don’t smell the smoke…’

  Puella was right. Artemidorus decided to risk leaving the contents of the room just as they were. Together they ran out into the corridor again. And this time it was full of confused people milling about. Most of them looking for a fire. There was panic and puzzlement. Until, just as Artemidorus was about to take command and restore some sort of order, Dolabella himself appeared, accompanied by two boys and two girls. Slaves who had clearly been his bed companions, though they were scarcely more than children. ‘Down to the atrium!’ he ordered, his voice cracking with the strain of shouting over the disorder. Everyone obediently trooped off while the governor, proving what an effective leader he could be – commanded a series of slaves and soldiers to check for a fire and report back.

  While e
veryone went down to the atrium, Artemidorus collected his contubernium around him. ‘Cyanea has escaped,’ he said. ‘Keep careful watch. There is no telling what she has planned. Though, knowing her as I do, I suspect she will be after Trebonius’ treasure. Or as much of it as she can carry safely away with her…’

  ‘She won’t be coming after you?’ wondered Puella.

  ‘She will eventually,’ he agreed. ‘But I doubt she will tonight. She has other priorities. And as long as I’m alive, she can afford to wait. Knowing her and her appetite for vengeance, she’ll probably wait until I’m at my happiest, my most fulfilled – with most to look forward to. And then she’ll strike. Probably starting with my wife and children. Working her way towards me…’

  ‘That’s horrible!’ whispered Puella.

  ‘That’s Cyanea,’ answered Ferrata.

  vii

  None of Dolabella’s teams found anything to report. The whole thing had clearly been a false alarm. So after a while everyone was told to return to their rooms. Artemidorus and Puella returned to his. But they had hardly settled – had yet to start undressing – before a slave was knocking discreetly but insistently on the door. ‘Wait here,’ ordered Artemidorus as he followed the slave.

  Who led him to Dolabella’s bedchamber. And to the enraged governor. ‘Look at this!’ Dolabella shouted. ‘Just look at this!’ He was so angry that he hardly seemed to have registered that his catamites and little girls were huddled in his huge bed. Their eyes wide with terror. The footboard of the massive bed stood open. A secret panel gaped, revealing a hidden compartment. Out of which stuck a metal-bound strongbox. Its lid thrown back, to reveal that it was less than half full. Two bulging leather sacks were squashed into the bottom of the box. And clearly there had been at least two others on top of them. But the topmost ones were gone now.