by Peter Tonkin
vi
‘Right,’ said Antony three days later as the truce at last came towards its end. ‘It’s a bit underhanded, but this is what I want you and your contubernium to do, Septem. While I, my brothers, legates and tribunes conduct the battle on the wider scale, I want you to go in as a separate unit. Disguised in the armour we stripped from Pansa’s dead legionaries for precisely this purpose. Wearing their legionary badges. Pretending to be on their side. In the confusion of battle that shouldn’t be too hard to do. Then your mission is simple. Find the leaders of the enemy troops and kill them by whatever means you can. Pansa, if he’s recovered from that wound I gave him. Hirtius. Decimus Albinus and don’t forget his head. That slimy nothus bastard Pontius Aquila who you say is his right-hand man. Young Caesar, if he’s well enough to have got himself out of bed. His two bumboys Agrippa and Rufus. I don’t care how you get them. Stab them in the back if you have to – it’s what most of them did to Divus Julius after all. Consider yourselves cryptia Spartan undercover elite. The heart and soul of The Three Hundred at Thermopylae. Because if I’m not Agamemnon at the gates of Troy, then I’m Leonidas at the Pass!’
The only other person present at the briefing was Enobarbus. Even the general’s trusted brother Lucius was elsewhere. Both he and Artemidorus stared at Antony stony-faced. There was no doubt they would obey his orders. And both men understood the reference to the Spartan army’s secret super elite, who only became eligible to join the cryptaia after they had murdered in cold blood to prove their willingness to kill or die whatever the odds.
But neither man liked what the contubernium was being ordered to do. Though, to be fair, this was not the first time they had been commanded to put on their opponents’ armour and legionary identification badges. Each night since the battle, the spies had dressed in disguise and tried to infiltrate Hirtius and Pansa’s camp. Further visits to Mutina being out of the question now that Caesar Octavius and Albinus knew their correspondence had been tampered with. Albinus possibly knew the face of the man responsible for delivering the forged letters that almost got him and his entire command wiped out. Even though the face in question had been blacked each time they met. And if he did not, then Pontius Aquila almost certainly did.
The best they had been able to achieve was reports of guards’ gossip overheard. Which informed them that Pansa was still clinging to life. That Caesar Octavius was recovering – and had demanded that the truce be extended with no further attacks on Antony until he was well enough to lead his men in person. Hirtius had acquiesced. For the Senate was beginning to hand out honours and the promise of a triumph. And neither man wished to miss his chance at any of this. Each of them wishing their actions to be clearly seen and accurately recorded. So that the Senate’s gratitude could be precisely targeted and richly fulfilled. In the golden days that would follow Antony’s defeat, disgrace and death.
And as Antony had at last been declared hostis, his goods and possessions, villas and all that could be found of his personal fortune had been confiscated. Fulvia, Julia, Antyllus and the other children thrown out onto the street. And the word had gone out. The man who killed or captured Antony would be rewarded with every brick of building, every stick of furniture, every sestertius of the fortune that had been taken away from him.
In reaction, however, many people felt Antony was being shabbily treated by a Senate biased by Cicero’s Philippics into unreasoning support of Divus Julius’ murderers. Were beginning to wonder whether things had gone too far. Whether it was Cicero rather than Antony who was really the enemy of Rome. And whether the time had come to go to Antony’s aid. Men like Marcus Aemilius Lepidus Governor of Narbonese Gaul. Lucius Munacius Plancus Governor of Transalpine Gaul. Gaius Antonius Pollo, Governor of Further Spain.
Men like General Publius Ventidius Bassus with his three legions stationed in Arrteium.
XIV
i
Artemidorus, Quintus, Ferrata, Puella, Hercules, Kyros and Mercury eased themselves silently through the scrubby bush separating them from Hirtius’ camp. The night was dark but not black. There was no moon and a light overcast but the stars and the campfires of the opposing legions cast a little light. The contubernium spread out as they crept silently forward. But they did not separate so widely that they could not communicate with each other and keep control of the ground between them. Behind them, moving almost as silently, came a line of legionaries from Legio V who had been carefully prepared for this duty. The spies were the first line of defence against infiltration from Hirtius’ spies. The legionaries were the second. Any man coming from the Senate’s legions would die silently and be left where he lay. For, although it was still just after sunset, Antony’s attack was under way. The first ballista shot would announce the end of the truce at dawn tomorrow.
The briefing he had given Artemidorus and Enobarbus was one among many that the spy and his chief had attended – and participated in. Their role as disguised cryptaeia assassins was only one element of a much larger plan which was going into action now. As silently as possible, slowly and carefully, Antony’s siege weapons were being moved. Repositioned. Turned to face away from Mutina. Creating a field of fire centred on Hirtius’ camp instead. Antony and his artillery officers calculated that, although the ballistae, onagers, scorpios and slings had been of limited effect against the battlements of Mutina, they would be devastatingly effective against Hirtius’ stockade. Further, while the months of the siege had forced the men working the siege weapons to target them with increasing accuracy, the huge camp containing twelve legions’ tents was an objective they could hardly miss. Pinpoint precision coming a long way second behind the impact of an unexpected bombardment. In any case, the fires, as numerous as stars – which Hirtius calculated would sap the morale of Antony’s troop – provided a perfect mark to aim at.
But the plan depended on surprise. And Artemidorus was in charge of ensuring that surprise was total. Using the contubernium as a Spartan cryptaia ruthless killing machine to ensure no one from the enemy camp saw anything suspicious and survived. Employing a technique he had first seen used by Cilician pirates in his youth, Artemidorus clenched his dagger between his teeth. For once glad that he had given Brutus’ uncannily sharp dagger to Caesar Octavius. Closing his lips against the cold steel in case his teeth glinted. Hooding his eyes for the same reason. This freed both hands to crawl or fight, and kept the dagger ready for immediate use – far more accessible than it would be in its sheath. The only problem with the technique was the fact that, although not quite the equal of Brutus’, the dagger was razor sharp on each edge. As the pirates had taught him to do, he clenched his teeth on the ridge that ran down the middle of the blade. Which kept his mouth safe from being widened into a smile that might stretch from ear to ear. His face was black, as were his arms, legs and clothing. As were the others’. And, indeed, as were those of the line of legionaries crawling out into no-man’s-land behind them.
A low whistle made Artemidorus freeze. His contubernium and the legionaries supporting them had been warned against making any sound. And were relying on Antony’s artillerymen to go about their business equally quietly. The whistle had come from one of Hirtius’ men, therefore. He raised his head, scanning the stunted bushes. A black figure detached itself from the shadows in front of him, visible only as a darker shape in the darkness. Discernible only because it moved, slowly and stealthily, in a half crouch. Artemidorus waited without moving a muscle. A signal meant at least two speculatores, maybe more. And he wanted them all stopped. No one running back to camp and managing to raise the alarm. His patience was soon rewarded. Another figure rose into visibility. A third. A fourth. Hirtius’ men were doing exactly what Artemidorus contubernium were doing. Just not quite as well. When he was certain that his spies would have seen their opponents, he moved. Like a lizard on a warm stone, he raised his right hand and took his dagger from between his teeth. Tensed his whole body, but especially his legs. As the enemy soldier came closer, stil
l unaware that he was approaching danger, he rose up on his knees. The dagger went straight into the other man’s belly, just beneath his breastbone, driving upwards to his heart. There was a flood of hot liquid over his hand. The dead man deflated like a bursting bladder. Collapsing silently. Artemidorus looked around. There was no longer any sign of the opposing spies; and, in a flash of movement, the line of his own agents vanished into the black undergrowth once again.
*
Just before dawn, safe in the knowledge that no enemy speculatores had penetrated their defences, Artemidorus led his contubernium back through the row of backup legionaries and into the silent bustle that was the artillery line. Only the larger torsion catapults had been moved – the onagers and ballistae, both capable of firing bolts – huge metal arrows – or rocks and stones. Or, as soon a surprise was no longer a vital element, burning barrels full of Greek Fire. If they had time they might employ the smaller, anti-personnel scorpios later, either swung round and pointed at Hirtius’ men – or in their current position against Decimus Albinus when he sallied out to support his rescuers. But the plan was to start with the heavy artillery at dawn.
Artemidorus and his command reported to Enobarbus and then changed into the arms and armour recovered from Pansa’s dead soldiers. ‘You will not take part in the initial attack,’ the tribune confirmed, fresh from Antony’s final briefing. ‘You are to think of yourselves exclusively as a Spartan cryptaia unit. Licensed to kill outside the normal rules of warfare. The general wants you to wait in the camp here and join in when Hirtius’ and Caesar Octavius’ troops overrun it. Going in behind the enemy as they come past, driving our men back. The Thirty-fifth Legion will take the brunt of the first retaliatory attack. Which is likely to be fierce, as the general is also bending the rules of war with this unexpected and undeclared artillery assault. They will fall back until the Second Sabines can support them. But it is vital that they retreat in good order while seeming to break and run. They will abandon this camp with a maximum of apparent confusion but a minimum of actual resistance. Just enough to make it look good and give you a chance to seek and destroy anyone in an obvious leadership role as discussed.
‘The Fifth Alaude, Antony’s Larks, will be commanded as usual by the general’s brother Lucius. They will oversee the retreat up the Via Aemilia, which he and I have already scouted. Past Placentia and into the mountains if we make it. The plan is that Antony’s army will simply vanish, leaving Hirtius, Caesar and Decimus Albinus – if they are still alive – in possession of an empty camp, the dead and any wounded who are too weak to move.
‘If you do your work well, there will be further confusion among Hirtius and Caesar’s men because many of their leaders and senior officers will be dead. You will then use the cover of this confusion to run south. Gretorex will leave you an alae wing of his best horses in the woods a mile south of here. And will be there to escort and guide you if he can. You should be able to reach Ventidius Bassus within three days. And get him to rendezvous with us by early Maius if he is still willing to keep his word. We’ll be easy for you to follow and find. Antony has already agreed most of the route with Gretorex and the Gaulish cavalry who know the mountains – distantly if not intimately. All clear?’
‘They’ll be easy enough to follow if anything goes wrong,’ said Ferrata after Enobarbus left. ‘Because the Via Aemilia will just be one long line of dead Larks.’
ii
Artemidorus stood at the top of an east-facing watchtower, looking towards Hirtius’ and Caesar’s lines. The tower was part of the wooden wall of the palisade that marked the perimeter of Antony’s camp. He was dressed in full armour with the identification badges of a centurion in the Martia legion. In Antony’s camp behind him, the general’s haruspex was sacrificing another white bull. Antony had already made it clear to the man that, no matter what he saw when he studied the beast’s prophetic liver, he would pronounce the signs as positive. Today was going to be a good day no matter what the gods predicted. Artemidorus was put in mind of the Ides of Mars last year when Divus Julius also had paid no attention to what the gods were telling him. Or to what Artemidorus and his secret agents had discovered about the conspiracy against him, come to that. Which was why he was in Olympus now and they were all here. It was strange, thought the centurion, how the entire weight of history sometimes seemed to turn on one action or failure of action. Like a great gate turning on a hinge.
The centurion’s dark reflective mood had several causes. The main one of which was Antony’s order that he should kill his enemies while disguised as one of them. He knew well enough about Leonides’ Spartan cryptaia special troops. Had he been living several hundred years in the past, he would probably have been one of them, running forward in secret to try and murder Xerxes in his tent the night before the Persians threw their army at Thermopylae. But he was uneasy about emulating them here and now. He could see Antony’s reasoning, and the necessity for working outside the rules of war. A necessity dictated by the general’s desperate situation and the increasingly effective machinations of Cicero in the Senate. There had been thirteen so-called Philippics so far – and no sign that they would stop, even though Antony was now officially an outlaw. But what he had been ordered to do – like the unannounced artillery bombardment which would be under way in almost no time now – seemed to the brooding spy to signal a change in Antony’s character. The bluff, charming, inspirational leader – and occasional bellicose drunkard – was being replaced by someone much more cold and calculating. Someone more like Cassius.
Someone more like young Caesar Octavius.
‘Well, Septem?’ Quintus arrived at his side as he spoke. Recalling Artemidorus to himself and refocusing him on the scene he was looking down upon. ‘When the enemy comes over – or through – this wall,’ Quintus continued, ‘I will be removing all the badges that identify me as a soldier in the Martia legion. I will fight as an anonymous legionary rather than go to war as a lie.’
‘I was thinking of doing that as well,’ said Artemidorus. ‘We’ll brief the others. But our targets remain the same. I will not betray the general’s trust.’
‘Neither will I. But I will not follow his orders either. Not in this.’
The two men stood side by side looking down and waiting. During the last few heartbeats of peace.
The whole battlefield between their lines and the enemy’s was a milky lake of mist, just becoming visible in the gathering light of a spring dawn. The low fog heaved gently, like the surface of a calm sea, trapped between the stout wooden walls of Antony’s lines and those of Hirtius. There, as here, a watchtower stood every hundred paces. Rearing above the milky surface like the pharos lighthouse of Alexandria. Manned, as this one was, with guards. Guards who must surely understand precisely what the mist concealed at any moment now. For the light was growing inexorably stronger as the sun approached the eastern horizon. But the horizon – and the sun – was behind the enemy, casting a darkening shadow that served to further conceal what was going on between the two camps.
From their vantage point it was just possible for Artemidorus and Quintus to see dark figures and angular constructions sunk deep within the undulating haze. But they could only tell what was actually there because they knew. In the distance, the artillery. Behind it, the ranks of Legio XXXV. Behind them, Legio II Sabine. Standing as silently as they had arrived. Ready. Waiting. To their right, down a slight incline, even deeper in the mist, Gretorex and his alae wing of five hundred cavalry. And Antony would be up on the via – on their left – with the rest of the cavalry as soon as the pre-battle rituals were completed. In the ditches along the roadway, Antony’s slingers and archers waited for the enemy to show themselves.
The sun pushed its red disc up above the eastern horizon and the watchkeeper Antony had placed in the tower above the Temple of Apollo in Forum Gallorum gave the signal. And the battle commenced.
A cacophony of trumpet calls shattered the silence. Flames flared, making the
vapour glow like a sea of molten gold. The artillery opened fire. Suddenly the mist’s calm surface was torn by flight after flight of metal bolts, rocks and stones. The vague grey-brown wall of Hirtius’ wooden palisade shivered and began to give way under an assault designed to shatter massive city walls. Distant concussions echoing back strangely out of time with the twangs and crashes of the launching. And with the sights of destruction as the missiles hit their targets. The watchtower opposite Artemidorus’ was shattered with a rending crash! The men within it smashed to a red haze by a rock the size of an elephant flying faster than a pigeon. The next wave of iron bolts was followed by blazing barrels of Greek Fire. The smell of burning swept back towards them as the dawn wind began to stir.
During his boyhood in Greece, before he fell into the hands of Cilician pirates, Artemidorus had been brought up in the old-fashioned Spartan way. But in between the bouts of training he had managed to fit in many youthful adventures. One of which involved throwing a rock at a huge nest of enormous hornets he found hanging in a wild olive bush. The result of that experiment came into his memory now. As Hirtius’ legions reacted to Antony’s unannounced attack.
But, unlike the angry hornets, these legions did not boil out of their shattered camp and counter-attack as a cloud of individuals. Even as they ran out of their tents tightening their armour and settling their helmets, buckling their sword-belts and easing their gladii in their scabbards. They grabbed their pilum spears and scutum shields as they fell into their contubernium groups. Which coalesced into their cohorts as the decanii sergeants got them organised. Then the cohorts joined their centuries as the centurions arrived with the signifier standard bearers. These were with their legions in an astonishingly short time – even under the weight of Antony’s unrelenting artillery fire. By the time his Thirty-fifth Legion had marched through the line of war machines and began to approach the enemy encampment, Hirtius’ legions were almost ready to meet them, tribunes in place, aquilifers holding the legionary eagles high. The generals arrived then, attended by their legates and surrounded by the Praetorian Cohorts of their bodyguards. And all of them threw themselves into the battle.