by Peter Tonkin
Artemidorus and Quintus were joined by the rest of the contubernium then and they silently watched Antony’s plan begin to unfold. Even Puella was dressed in armour covered with the identification marks of a Martia legionary, her face set, eyes narrow. With Mercury close behind her, his face hideously swollen, the line of his wound a red trench held closed with a network of black stitches. The pain must have been immense, thought Artemidorus. But the depth of his infatuation with the beautiful spy outweighed it. She had not trained for this as the men around her had and it was difficult to assess how she felt about being ordered to break almost all of the normal rules governing military combat. ‘When the enemy breaks through and we go to work,’ he shouted, raising his voice above the increasing din of battle, ‘Quintus and I are going to remove all the badges that identify us as being members of their legions. We will fight as ordered. But not disguised as enemy soldiers.’
The others all nodded their agreement. Even Puella. And so the matter was settled.
iii
The Martia legion swept over Antony’s artillery line soon after the mist cleared. And Hirtius’ own men immediately set to swinging the machines into position so that they could return the damage to Antony’s lines. Not even the pincer-shaped intervention of the two cavalry wings could stop this. Although Antony and Gretorex appeared to be using all of their skill and power, they could not drive their enemies off the siege engines – or even do much to incapacitate them. They withdrew in apparent confusion. And the bolts, rocks and barrels of Greek Fire began to rain down on Antony’s camp instead. Under cover of this fire, the Martia legion moved forward, sweeping the XXXVth before them. The IVth joined them, and it became immediately clear that Caesar Octavius had joined Hirtius on the battlefield. At the same time, the great gate of Mutina swung open and Decimus Albinus led his men out onto the Via Aemilia in a full charge. Twelve full legions were now engaged on the Senate’s side. And those under Antony’s command were showing every sign of crumbling. Sensing victory already, the three columns of the Senate’s legions swung towards Antony’s encampment where the last of his forces seemed to be trapped with their camp-followers, slaves and wounded. The three generals, Albinus, Hirtius and Caesar Octavius, their legates and Praetorian bodyguards were to the fore. Where the danger was greatest. But also where the chances of glory were the highest. Of fabulous rewards from a grateful Senate. And of political advancement to ultimate power.
*
‘Here they come,’ called Artemidorus. He threw the dead Martia centurion’s identification badges on the ground, drew his sword, gripped his shield and prepared for battle. This was cut-and-thrust warfare. The disciplined lines of legionaries had broken up. In this section of the battlefield at least. Some soldiers still carried their shields but they had all thrown their pila spears and were using their gladii swords now. They came boiling through the ruined palisade as the last of the XXXVth and Second Sabine Legions fell back, still fighting fiercely, hand to hand.
In this sort of situation, the contubernium of spies had a distinct edge. More than one, in fact. Their opponents did not see them immediately as enemies, for they wore no legionary identification badges. They were in a tight group, offering protection and support to each other – while the units of Caesar Octavius’ army had split up long ago – or been whittled down by death. They were using the arrowhead formation they had used in Smyrna. But this time most of them carried shields as well as swords. The spies were fresh and focused. Their opponents exhausted and caught in the confusion of battle. That being said, Septem’s little command was still thrusting itself into the middle of a battlefield. And there was no guarantee of protection – even from the gods who were appealed to by the good-luck charms. Which were the only additions to the dead men’s armour they did not throw away.
Artemidorus had chosen their battleground carefully, however. They were fighting inside Antony’s camp which gave them several more elements that might be to their advantage. They knew the lie of the land. Every alley between every tent. Those still standing at least. Between all the supply wagons that were still left. Where the wounded were. Where the general’s command tent was. A list of advantages that meant they were likely to be safe from slings and arrows which would be difficult to deploy in the cramped space. They could be sure their feet would not be snagged by unexpected guy ropes or slip on unseen areas of mud. That, if the worst came to the worst, they knew where the best hiding places could be found nearby. That it would be difficult for anyone to bring much in the way of cavalry in here. Especially Praetorian cavalry – those bodyguard units that the leaders of the armies needed to surround themselves with. And yet the three generals might well need to come in here themselves. Even if they weren’t looking for Antony himself, they would want to know what he had left in his command tent, which, as with most other commanders, he shared with his quaestor paymaster general. In the way of expensive personal items. Gold. Coin. Battle tactics. Escape plans.
The contubernium of spies started out in their tight arrowhead wedge therefore. Artemidorus in the lead with his left side protected by his scutum, Quintus with his shield on his left – and Puella left-handed on his right shoulder – gladius in her right hand, a sharp-edged cavalry spada instead of a shield in her left, Ferrata and Kyros on theirs, Kyros also with a spada instead of a scutum; Hercules and Mercury at the rear. Though Artemidorus was as unsure of controlling the lovesick messenger as Pansa had been of controlling the Martia legion.
The first soldiers they met were the retreating Thirty-fifth Legion, and it was immediately obvious that removing the enemy legion badges had been a good idea. For the moment at least. Antony’s men were happy to retreat past them without getting involved in more sword-play. And when the next wave of his army came past there were even men from the old disbanded VIIth who recognised Artemidorus and Quintus. And from the VIth who recognised Ferrata. But the spurious peace could not last long. As Antony’s men worked their way back through the camp towards the northern arm of the Via Aemilia and the Vth Alae who were controlling it under Lucius’ command, so the first of their opponents arrived. The spies’ orders were clear – focus on the generals and their senior officers. And yet, at first at least, they had to deal with ordinary soldiers from the Martia and the IVth who were drunk with bloodlust and keen to slaughter anyone they came across. Especially after the way they had been attacked without warning. Subjected to an artillery barrage while in their beds believing themselves still protected by a truce. But bloodlust, like drunkenness, adds to self-confidence while undermining ability. The first soldier who threw himself at Artemidorus raised his gladius as though it was a sharp-edged cavalry spada. And raised his chin as he did so. The spy’s gladius stabbed straight through the exposed throat and the entire contubernium were blooded by the result.
iv
Artemidorus’ focus closed down after that. There was no more strategy; no more overall view. As he had observed to Quintus long ago – the first thing that died in a battle was the plan. This battle became one duel to the death after another. And he slowly became less and less aware of the men and woman fighting at his back as Caesar Octavius’ legions swept into Antony’s camp, already scenting victory. Single opponents became groups that challenged the tight squad of the contubernium. But there was always that fatal hesitation as the Senate’s men took a second look at the anonymous oncoming soldiers.
Then, behind the increasing numbers of legionaries, the senior officers began to appear. And the work of cutting their way through became harder. Artemidorus felt the tight structure of the contubernium begin to unravel as he found himself face to face with a grim centurion who might have been his own reflection. Quintus and Puella, then each of the others in turn also became involved in a personal conflict. Artemidorus defeated the centurion in the end by using a gladiator’s trick – letting go of his scutum, going down on one knee and driving the point of his sword past the edge of his opponent’s shield under the studded leather apron of h
is armour and into the top of his inner thigh. Destroying the tendons that kept the man upright and opening the femoral artery – which bled out in half a dozen heartbeats while he floundered helplessly in the rust-coloured mud.
As Artemidorus leaned on his shield and pulled himself to his feet, he saw the first horse. Which was a telltale sign that there were senior officers close by. Only Praetorian guards amongst the enemy would be riding horses into this restricted killing ground. And even then only to protect the men whose bodyguards they were. He glanced back and beckoned to the others to re-form on him. Half a dozen heartbeats later they were back in that tight wedge, and Artemidorus was back in the hunt for the enemy leaders as ordered.
Where the generals were in relation to their standards and their eagles would vary from man to man. Some, like Divus Julius and Antony, liked to be in the thick of things – on horse or on foot – close to their standard and the eagle of their favourite legion so they set the sort of an example men would fight and die to follow. Others preferred to hold back. Take a more considered view. This was Brutus’ style of leadership. Also, sometimes, Cassius’. And, apparently, Caesar Octavius’. There were even generals who used common soldiers who resembled them as doubles on the battlefield, sending the stand-in to the front line while hanging back themselves. Men who fought like this rarely progressed far – either as commanders or as politicians. But the whole point was that, even in the noise and confusion of battle, with soldiers and horses from either side charging this way and that, the eagles and the standards stood tall, offering rallying points to the men on one side. Offering targets to the men on the other.
The first standard Artemidorus saw was Decimus Albinus’. Which seemed as logical as any argument in Aristotle’s Analytics. After so many months of siege and humiliation, Decimus must want Antony’s head as much as Antony wanted his. Artemidorus began to hack and stab his way towards it, hurling himself at rank after rank of enemy soldiers as though he and his companions were a bolt from a ballista. Their opponents became more and more challenging the closer they came to Albinus’ standard. Thin and half starved they might be. But they were also desperate. Agonisingly aware of the alternatives before them – victory, starvation or death. Well led, they had used the time of their imprisonment behind Mutina’s walls, to train and train for this very moment. And, like any sensible leader, Albinus surrounded himself with his best soldiers – not even counting his special Praetorian Cohorts.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the stakes of the game escalated. Artemidorus found himself confronted by a tight-knit group similar to his own. And it was led by Decimus Albinus’ right-hand man legate, Senator and murderer of Divus Julius, Pontius Aquila. Aquila did not hesitate as many of his soldiers had done, for he was not looking at the spy’s armour. He was looking him in the face. And he recognised the man who had delivered the deceitful message that almost got his legions wiped out a week ago. The eyes beneath that one long eyebrow narrowed. The lips thinned back from yellow teeth in a snarl that would have done credit to a wolf. Aquila threw himself forward and his men all came with him. Like Antony’s soldiers, they were covered in the blood of the men they had slaughtered already. Unlike Artemidorus’ little command, they were backed up by a complete army. And, by the look of things, by a wing of cavalry from Hirtius’ or Caesar Ocatavius’ command.
As their leaders’ shields slammed together, so each arrowhead spread out until there was another line of hand-to-hand duels being fought in the middle of the mayhem. Both the centurion and the legate were too well trained and expert to leave themselves open to the classic upthrust their gladius swords were designed for. They were equally matched in size and strength, though the spy had some advantage in being the less exhausted of the two. Aquila, however, was incandescent with rage and burning to exact revenge. So every thrust was parried, every cut countered. Even as they were jostled by the duels being fought on either side of them.
Artemidorus fought almost mechanically, his mind detached, assessing his opponent’s strengths, which were many, and his weaknesses which were few. Then he began to go through the catalogue of feints and tricks that had kept him alive in the arena, and eventually earned him Rudiarius, and the wooden sword of honourable retirement.
Little by little he began to give ground. Moving back as though weakening under Pontius Aquila’s onslaught. Keeping his focus flickering between Aquila’s eyes and his gladius. The sword strokes started coming more swiftly as the enemy scented victory. The expression in the narrow eyes showed no suspicion. Showed nothing but gathering triumph. Aquila really thought he was winning. That he was within heartbeats of killing this enemy spy who had fooled him and his general and nearly destroyed them both. But he was mistaken.
As soon as he was free of the jostling line of one-on-one duels and had a momentary space on his left, Artemidorus let go of his shield and threw it aside. In the same movement, he snatched the pugio out of its sheath with his empty left hand as he stepped forward, smashing his breastplate against Aquila’s shield. Disregarding the shock and pain. The legate was too surprised to think of pushing back.
Instead, perfectly trained in legionary sword-play as he was, he drove his gladius upward. But even as he did so, Artemidorus stepped inside the blow so the blade slid past his ribs and missed him altogether. Their faces were so close that Artemidorus could smell the rank breath of the starving man as it came through clenched teeth over the top of his scutum. Could look deep into his narrowed eyes beneath the ridge of his helmet and the one long line of his brow, savouring the confusion dawning in them.
‘Vale, interfector! Goodbye assassin!’ He spat.
Then he drove the dagger in his left fist unerringly into Aquila’s right ear. Burying it to the hilt in his skull. Jerking it out and stepping back. As the dead man stood there for an instant longer, unaware that his battle was lost and his life was over.
‘Septem!’ bellowed a huge voice, and a leg clad in checked material astride a horse appeared as if by magic. A spada flashed down. And the murderer’s head, already assaulted by the spy’s pugio, was chopped in half. Gretorex’ blade sliced through the crown of Aquila’s helmet past the eye-ridge and split the face beneath it. For the first and last time in his existence Pontius Aquila had two eyebrows. Separated by the cavalry commander’s sword-blade as it sat bizarrely on the bridge of the dead man’s nose.
As Gretorex jerked the spada free, Aquila’s body toppled backwards beneath the stamping hooves of the Gaulish cavalry horse. And the already bifurcated face was crushed out of existence in an instant as it was trampled into the thick red mud.
All Artemidorus could think of as he sheathed his pugio, retrieved his shield and returned to the battle, was how angry Antony was going to be. Pontius Aquila was the second of Divus Julius’ assassins to die. And the general still didn’t have a clearly identifiable head that he could spike in the Forum.
v
Gretorex wasn’t here by accident. ‘Septem!’ he bellowed again. ‘We’ve been looking for you! Follow!’
Artemidorus glanced along the line of his contubernium. Those who hadn’t settled matters personally had been helped by the unexpected arrival of the cavalry. Aquila and his bodyguard were all dead. ‘Form on me!’ he bellowed, his voice almost as loud as Gretorex’. Then, ‘Where?’ he called to the decurio cavalry commander as they fell into the familiar arrowhead formation behind him. Speeded and protected by parallel lines of Gaulish horsemen, they ran through the battlefield. Across the wreck of Antony’s camp.
Gretorex answered, but the only word Artemidorus understood was, ‘Hirtius!’
Gretorex and his men took them unerringly to where the fighting was most intense. A section of the battlefield which seemed unnaturally well endowed with standards and eagles. Most of which were those of Antony’s enemies. And Artemidorus could see at once why Gretorex had called for him. The most intense fighting was on the entire width of the via itself. Where the three attacking armies were thrust up hard agains
t the steely hearts of the IInd Sabines and the Vth Alaude whose duty was to guard the road as an escape route for the rest of Antony’s army. Under the immediate command of another ex-gladiator, Antony’s brother Lucius. Thousands of men had died here – their corpses filling the roadside ditches and flooding out onto the fields beyond. The stones of the roadway were icily slick with blood and a range of other fluids. It was hard enough for men to stand. A slimy deathtrap for horses.
And yet, there in the centre of it all were the eagles of the IVth and the Martia, as well as Hirtius’ personal standard. It was clear that the Larks and the Sabines were fighting a solid defensive rearguard action. They were holding the line as they slowly retreated. And the line stretched from one corpse-filled ditch to the other. There was no sign of the dashing Antony’s maxim that the best form of defence is attack. The axiom Artemidorus had in mind himself when advising Antony several days since. But, he thought now, he and his contubernium had been specifically designed and detailed by Antony to make up for his legions’ orders. In the face of two legions falling back and twelve legions pushing forward, the six soldiers of his contubernium were under orders to attack. At all times. Under every circumstance. Like Leonides’ cryptaia.