by Peter Tonkin
XIII
i
Mercury started it. He came riding full tilt into the camp in the last night watch of the twelfth of Aprilis. Lucky not to have been stopped or killed by Antony’s admittedly lackadaisical outer perimeter. Nothing had happened for so long that not even Antony could stop his legionaries getting lax and lazy. Apart from the men working the siege engines. And Artemidorus’ expanded contubernium of spies, codebreakers and secretaries.
The double agent was not motivated by his concern for Antony.
Or Antony’s legions, the IInd Sabine and the Vth Alaudae or the XXXVth. The other cohorts he still commanded together with more than a thousand Gaulish Cavalrymen. Or the bits and pieces of the VIth and VIIth the general seemed to have accrued.
Or his handler Artemidorus and his contubernium.
Or for the four thousand sestertii in gold the spies were holding for him.
His concern was all for the woman he loved.
He reined in his horse outside the much enlarged tent that now housed the contubernium of spies, together with their secretarial support, and leaped to the ground. Naturally he went to Puella first, but as soon as he started giving his garbled message, she took him to Artemidorus. Who in turn took him to Antony after the first few broken sentences.
The reputation of the undercover operatives was such that Artemidorus had instant access to the general no matter when he demanded it. Even in the middle of the night. And Antony came straight out of a late strategy meeting with his legates and tribunes to hear what his spies and their double agent had to tell him.
‘Caesar is on the move,’ gasped Mercury. ‘No. That’s not quite right Caesar is unwell and keeping to his bed. But his legions are on the move. Led by the Consul Gaius Vibius Pansa, who has just arrived from Rome. With the authority of the Senate – at last – to take direct action against you, Lord Antony.’
‘On the move?’ probed Antony, eyes narrow.
‘Straight up the Via Aemilia. The shortest, fastest, most direct route.’
‘But no one’s alerted Decimus Albinus. How will the two armies co-ordinate?’ demanded Antony. ‘I assume they will want to try a pincer movement – one in my face; the other at my back. Much as they handled things with Divus Julius on the Ides of Mars thirteen months ago.’
‘They will have warned him,’ answered Mercury breathlessly. ‘As soon as my message is delivered…’
‘I see,’ said Antony. ‘Well, forewarned is forearmed. When is Consul Pansa due to be in a position to offer battle?’
‘The day after tomorrow. On the fourteenth.’
‘We have time to make counterplans, then. Septem, look further into this and report to me.’
Artemidorus took Mercury back to the tent occupied by the intelligence unit. Who were all now up and very much awake. ‘Is the message for Decimus Albinus in writing or are you to deliver it in person?’ he asked.
‘In writing. As usual.’
‘Right. I’ll take it to him. As usual. But this time I think we’ll change the routine. Kyros. Can you copy the message in the same hand it was written in? So that Albinus won’t be able to tell it’s not the original?’
‘Yes, Septem.’
‘Good. Because there are one or two elements I want you to change…’
And so the contubernium went from recording and dispensing information to generating disinformation.
*
‘Triumphus.’ Artemidorus gave the password for the day and was ushered through the tiny door into Mutina’s flame-lit streets. During the weeks of his visits here disguised as Caesar’s messenger, he had seen even the brawniest of the legionaries seem to wilt. As starved flesh vanished from their increasingly scrawny bones. Whenever he caught a glimpse of the city’s residents – those few not directly involved in the defence of the place – their faces were gaunt and their eyes sunken and huge. The children’s bellies were blown up to enormous proportions. Their little faces skeletal.
Under other circumstances he would have felt pity for them. Perhaps even guilt at what he was doing. But he was Antony’s man. While these were Antony’s implacable enemies. And if Artemidorus or Antony failed here, then it would be Antony’s head spiked in the Forum. Rather than Decimus Albinus’, as was still the current plan. Or, indeed, that of his right-hand man Pontius Aquila, who was also one of the men who plunged a dagger into Divus Julius’ back on the Ides.
The main head in question was thrust out of the tablinum door. ‘The message?’ snapped Decimus Albinus.
‘Here, General,’ answered Artemidorus, handing it over. His heart was racing. His scrotum clenched. As though he was in the coldest frigidarium bath of a northern bathhouse in winter. While he might have become inured to passing messages back and forth, this was the first forgery he had tried to pass on. While the original message had given Pansa’s simple battle plan and asked Albinus to bring his men out of the main gate at dawn on the fourteenth, this new message asked him to mount an unexpected sally at noon.
By which time Antony planned to have engaged and defeated Pansa’s legions and be waiting to mop up Albinus’ men as well.
This time the spy was not asked to wait in the empty, unsupplied dining hall. Decimus sent an acknowledgement and agreement to the plan in one short, coded reply. Artemidorus was back in his tent by dawn and Mercury was off down the Via Aemilia with his lusts satisfied and his message secure. For the last time. It had to be the last time whatever the outcome. For Caesar Octavius was no fool, even if he was sick in bed. When Decimus Albinus came out at noon instead of at dawn, he would have given the game away. Caesar would know immediately that his messages were being tampered with. And the traitor Mercury would either be hiding with relative safety in the midst of Antony’s troops or hanging on a cross somewhere.
ii
The haruspex straightened, his arms red to the elbow from examining the sacrifice’s intestines and liver. It was a white bull and it had been offered, as was traditional, to Mars and Venus Victrix, deities of battle and victory. Divus Julius’ favourite deities in fact. Who were his companions in Olympus now.
‘The gods foresee a fortunate victory in today’s battle,’ he intoned. A wave of relief went through the assembled legions in front of whom the sacrifice had been made. The haruspex dropped his voice so that only Antony and his immediate circle could hear. ‘But they advise great caution.’
‘I’m going into battle against an army more than twice the size of my own. Of course I’ll exercise great caution!’ hissed Antony. Also keeping his voice low. Artemidorus kept a straight face. He had seen Antony in battle and ‘caution’ was among the last words he would have chosen to describe him. ‘So the odds are still stacked pretty high against us,’ continued Antony. ‘And I have to say that, as an augur, I do not like the look of those corvi crows either.’ He nodded at a black cloud of the birds hanging in the left quadrant of the sky. Above the little village of Forum Gallorum which sat on a low eminence above the marshy plain Antony proposed to use as his battlefield.
‘You know what they say, General,’ said Artemidorus. ‘“Trust in what the gods tell you – but always check for yourself.”’
Antony gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Well, let’s get busy,’ he said. ‘We all know what we’re expected to do today, so it’s time to get on with it.’ He clasped hands with his senior officers, legates and tribunes. The infantry commanders in charge of the legions of foot soldiers. The cavalry commanders. Antony always preferred to deploy and lead cavalry himself. And had brought several alae wings home with him from his campaigns in Gaul.
Other men brought gold and slaves, mused Artemidorus. Antony brought warriors and their mounts – two mouths to feed for every cavalryman in his velites units; alae wings. Perhaps that was why he was always in debt. His massive cavalry contingent was split into two cohorts today. Each of several hundred soldiers. One would be led by Antony himself. The other by Gretorex, his Gaulish legate. And that was important because Artemidorus and hi
s contubernium had been assigned to ride with Gretorex. The Gauls were all huge, blond warriors. They wore their hair and moustaches long as a sign of manliness. Used a range of weapons strange to most legionaries. Favoured brightly patterned trousers and tunics made of skin, lined with fur. Over which they wore chain mail. Sometimes – but by no means always. There was something cowardly about wearing armour, they suspected. Real men fought naked and berserk. Like the Ghost Warriors of Germania.
‘This is a woman!’ Gretorex had shouted in astonishment when he first realised Puella’s gender. ‘No woman has ever ridden with my horsemen.’
‘This one will,’ said Artemidorus. ‘And she will help you to a great victory. Put her to the test.’
Gretorex turned away in apparent disgust, pulling his horse’s head to the right with his left hand. While his right hand reached across his belly in one smooth movement to pull his long spada double-edged cavalry sword out of its sheath. And throw it at Puella.
Who caught it in mid flight with her left hand while drawing her gladius with her right. At the same time urging her mount forward using knees and heels alone. The horse obediently charged into Gretorex’ mount’s shoulder to shoulder. The grip of her iron-muscled thighs kept her safe. Thighs that only a few hours ago had been clasped almost as fiercely round Artemidorus’ hips. Gretorex was taken by surprise, even though he had started the test himself. An instant later, the Gaulish commander was on his back in the mud. A heartbeat after that, Puella was kneeling astride his chest with the spada buried in the earth a finger-width from his right ear and the gladius a finger-width from his left.
‘By Camulos, god of war,’ he boomed. ‘I thought for a moment this woman was going to cut my hair!’ He gave a great bellow of laughter – echoed by his men. He thrust his hand out and Puella grasped it as she stood, helping him to his feet. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘She rides with us. But I will not call her Puella – girl. This is not a name of due respect! When she rides with us she is Spiritum Bellatrix Ghost Warrior Woman!’
Artemidorus shivered at the name. For he had fought Ghost Warriors in the dark forests of the north. In Gaul and Germania. Warriors who painted their faces and bodies black and crept from shadow to shadow, silently and invisibly, spreading death and terror. But mostly death.
*
The mission Antony had given Gretorex, Artemidorus and their command was simple. But crucial. It sprang directly from what his secret agent had discovered and what he had done. As the general’s legions formed up on his chosen battlefield during the last of the darkness before the dawn of the fourteenth day of Aprilis, waiting to face Consul and General Pansa’s much larger army at sunrise, the cavalry unit rode silently and secretly into a hiding place behind the village of Forum Gallorum.
The men and women who lived in the tiny hamlet had no cause to love Decimus Albinus and his men in Mutina. Who had stolen all the food the village possessed in order to feed their starving garrison. The villagers were only still alive because Antony had given orders that his well-supplied legions should share their food. It was easy enough, therefore, for several hundred horsemen – and one black-faced Ghost Warrior woman – to hide themselves there. Those that could not be accommodated in stables and barns thronged the streets and hid behind the village houses. Gretorex and Artemidorus climbed to the top of the highest building, a modest temple to Apollo. From this vantage point, the pair of them had an excellent view of the battlefield, the road beyond it and the south-east quadrant of Mutina’s walls. Including both the little postern gate Artemidorus came and went through in his disguise – and the huge main gate leading out onto the via which had withstood even the largest of Antony’s siege rams for week after week.
The sun rose through a low mist, glinting off the armour and weaponry of Antony’s army. And off those of the seemingly endless snake of Pansa’s men as they came up the via from Arminium and Bolonia marching ten abreast to the beat of military drums and the howling of signal trumpets. Consul and General Pansa himself rode in the lead, with his senior commanders grouped around him.
‘No sign of Caesar,’ said Artemidorus, scanning the generals’ standards as well as the legions’ eagles.
‘Could he be bringing up more troops?’ wondered Gretorex.
‘My spy says he’s still too ill to fight,’ answered Artemidorus.
The solid target offered by Pansa and his immediate lieutenants suddenly split and scattered. As Antony’s slingers went to work. Followed almost immediately by his archers. It was impossible to see where the slingers were stationed. But the archers were in a solid group three rows back, with the triarii men looking after them. Men like Quintus. Antony’s army was experienced, battle-hardened and ready. By the look of things, most of Pansa’s troops were little short of being raw recruits. Quantity rather than quality. With the exception, a couple of legions back, of a thousand or so who marched with a confident swagger and looked disturbingly familiar as they approached. The legion called Martia.
Although Pansa himself had served with Divus Julius in Gaul, he was by no means an experienced general. And he did not control his men with anything like Antony’s steady grip. Pansa’s troops leaped over the roadside ditch and formed up opposite Antony’s army. Sinking to their ankles in the marshy soil. They left dead and wounded on the road and in the ditch as testimony to the effectiveness of Antony’s slingers and archers. But not in anything like sufficient numbers to make a difference. The aquilifers put their eagles at the front of their legions. The signifers put their banners in front of their cohorts. The officers took their places. Everything moved into place as though this were a parade ground. And stopped, like troops awaiting the general’s inspection. The pause became a hesitation. Even though Antony’s arrows clouded the sky and his invisible slingshots took their toll.
‘They’re wondering where Decimus Albinus is,’ said Artemidorus. ‘It’s dawn and he’s not where they expected him to be.’
But the hesitation lasted only a few moments. The cornicens sounded. Their trumpeting lost in a huge bellow. The Martia broke ranks, hurling forward and driving the raw recruits before them. The armies clashed together like a storm swell hitting a cliff. And the battle began.
iii
As the sun rose inexorably up the bright, frost-clear sky behind them, heading for noon, Artemidorus and Gretorex watched the slaughter. Wave after wave of Pansa’s inexperienced troops dashed themselves hopelessly against the iron wall of Antony’s Vth Alaude Larks and IInd Sabine legions. Pushed forward by the impatience of the uncontrolled Martia legion immediately behind them.
Antony held his own cavalry back until the crucial moment. As he was doing with Gretorex’ wing. The moment when, inexperienced though they were, Pansa’s troops finally chopped and stabbed their way to the third rank. Sheer weight of numbers threatening to overcome everything standing against them. And the Martia finally broke through to confront soldiers who were, at last, their equals. At that moment, just as the raw recruits found themselves trapped between the iron jaws of two great legions, finding out the hard way what real soldiers could do to them, Antony led several hundred heavily armed horsemen into the right flank of Pansa’s army. Many of the raw recruits had never experienced a cavalry charge before. And the impact of the horses, the sheer weight of them with their armoured breastplates, not to mention the sharp-edged, slicing spadas that the cavalrymen wielded, came as a massive shock to the beleaguered lines of inexperienced soldiers.
Which wavered. Almost broke there and then. But managed to hang on, steadied by the Martia men. Hoping increasingly desperately, Artemidorus’ intuition told him, for support from Decimus Albinus and his troops in Mutina.
But that support did not arrive until noon, when it was more or less too late.
The great gate of the city opened on cue and Decimus Albinus’ troops stormed out. There was no cavalry. They had eaten all the horses long ago. But they came bravely, like Pansa’s men, ten abreast and following the via. His cavalry running a
s fast as they could – charging on foot instead of in the saddle. A great bellow of relief came up from Pansa’s legions. Who saw in that flood of soldiers streaming towards the rear of Antony’s army, the prospect of immediate relief. And eventual victory.
But this was the moment Artemidorus and Gretorex had been waiting for. Even as the main gate creaked open, they were mounting their horses. And as Decimus Albinus’ men charged out of the city, they leaped into their saddles and began their countercharge.
Nearly five hundred heavily armed Gaulish cavalrymen followed that ridge of firmer ground on the south bank of the river which led round the northern edge of the battlefield towards Mutina’s main gate. And so they were able to hit Albinus’ legions side-on just at the moment they were about to attack Antony’s rearmost cohorts. From the IInd Sabine legion. Who, prewarned, turned and offered cold steel instead of confusion and surprise. The surprise and confusion swept through the betrayed legions under Decimus Albinus’ and Pontius Aquila’s command, therefore. Gretorex led the charge, as was his right. He insisted Ghost Warrior ride close behind him. Not so that he could protect her, but so that she could watch his back, he said. Artemidorus and Ferrata rode either side of her. Both coming close to being awed by the ease and dexterity with which she visited death and destruction upon their enemies. With a spada in one hand and a gladius in the other.
What had started out as a concerted charge by Decimus Albinus’ men, to surprise Antony’s army and support their comrades in arms, turned into a rout that not only failed to help but also shattered their morale. Pansa’s army began to retreat in confusion. Not even the Martia men could steady them now. And they, too, began to fall back. While Antony’s legions moved forward relentlessly like the Friendly Ones. As Gretorex’ cavalry rode straight through the column of shocked and all but helpless legionaries from the city. Artemidorus swept through and through the melee looking for Albinus or Aquila, keen to take a head for Antony. But he found no one of note. He began to wonder whether Decimus Albinus and Pontius Aquila had actually led the charge in person. Or whether, like Caesar Octavius, they had preferred to stay in bed and direct the battle from there.