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

by Peter Tonkin

  Decimus turned back to face the stranger. And realised in some vague way that the man by the fire was not a stranger after all. ‘I know you,’ said the governor.

  ‘I think “know” might be too strong a word. You have seen me on occasion, I’m sure. But you didn’t really notice me…’

  Intrigued in spite of himself, Decimus moved forward. Towards the fire, the table and the seat the half-familiar stranger indicated.

  ‘The last time you saw me was at the Battle of Mutina,’ said the gently flowing, softly modulated voice. ‘Just at the moment young Caesar reached Consul Hirtius’ body and tried to retrieve it. The eagle bearer beside him was dead. You stepped back, no doubt calculating that the boy would not survive such a dangerous moment. One less leader likely to challenge your position and your plans. One less Caesar in the world. And I must admit that I too had orders concerning him. But Caesar freed the eagle. And I found that, unlike you, I could not leave him to his fate.’

  The stranger rocked back slightly on his stool, watching Decimus with strange smoke-coloured eyes. The light gleaming on his stubbled chin as though it had been dusted with copper. ‘Before that, I delivered messages to you in rolls of lead. I swam the river outside Mutina carrying them and was allowed through your lines and into your city. Into your quarters, in fact. For I had the passwords. You were too interested in the messages’ contents to look closely at the messenger. Though, I’m sorry to say that the communications I brought you were by no means always accurate. And the replies bound for Caesar and the Senate often went to Antony instead.

  ‘But enough of this,’ he said, rocking forward again, as though tiring of a childish, painful game. ‘What you really need to know is the one truly important time you saw me and did not notice me. That was when I was standing on the steps of Pompey’s Curia as you led Divus Julius Caesar by the hand in to meet his murderers. I was trying to make Antony intervene, but you and Trebonius outmanoeuvred me.’

  The mellifluous voice stopped for a heartbeat or two. Then continued, changing the subject suddenly. ‘You may not be aware of this, but you have been the focus of some intense negotiations as we watched you wander through the mountains guided by my friend and associate Antony’s cavalry legate Gretorex. We, being Gretorex, me, my spies, Antony and the local chieftain. Whose son your legions killed and whose wife and daughter they dishonoured. Who wishes the fullest possible recompense, as you will easily understand. Messengers have been riding up and down the Via Aemelia at full gallop day and night. Antony and young Caesar want you dead. As does the chieftain. Cicero and the Senate want you alive. And, as always, in the end it’s come down to the matter of payment. Who will pay the most and soonest.’

  He hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘And you know the outcome of all that communication. Negotiation. Your life depending entirely on Cicero and the Senate acting swiftly and decisively. And generously. With bags of gold instead of volumes of words.

  ‘So. How would you like to die, Governor? Not like Pontius Aquila, with your head cut open to the bridge of your nose. Certainly not like Gaius Trebonius after two days at the mercy of Dolabella. His carnifexes with their racks, whips and red-hot irons. And we’re too late for you to go the way Divus Julius said he’d like to go at the cena dinner you gave him the night before you slaughtered him – “unexpectedly”. No. The best I can offer you is swiftly and relatively painlessly…’

  ‘Swiftly,’ said Decimus Albinus, raising his chin in an attempt at Patrician pride. Meeting the inevitable with a last show of soldierly disdain.

  The stranger moved with astonishing speed. Decimus Albinus felt a searing pain on the left side of his throat. A disturbing, penetrating sensation from one side of his neck to the other. An abrupt tug, which jerked his chin forward. His torso rocked to and fro. Apparently of their own volition, understanding far more than his stunned mind, his hands reached for his throat. Only to be covered in a burning, pumping liquid. Where they should have felt a column of flesh there was only a strange, gaping vacancy. They gripped his neck with a strangler’s power. But could not close the massive wound. Could not stanch the pulsing blood.

  He rocked back, unbalanced by the fierceness of the grip. Found himself on his back on the cold stone floor. He gasped with the shock of the fall, but found he could not breathe. His laggard brain began to understand that his throat had just been cut. There was a rhythmic, hissing scream. He wondered whether he was making the sound. Then realised he could not be doing so. Because he could neither breathe nor speak. It was the sound his lifeblood made as it came streaming out of his body like steam from a boiling kettle.

  As though the liquid fountaining out of him was falling directly onto its flames, the light of the fire dwindled. Above the failing rhythm of the throbbing squeal, he heard the stranger say, gently, ‘Swift, then. If not quite painless. Swifter than Caesar’s at least.’

  The last thing Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, Governor of Cisalpine Gaul and assassin of Divus Julius Caesar, saw was the blade of a heavy Gallic woodsman’s axe as the stranger hefted it with grim expertise. Swung it up into the shadows reaching from the last faint pinpoint of earthly fire to the top of the celestial aether at the feet of the gods themselves.

  iii

  Mark Antony was sitting at the map table in what had once been Lepidus’ command tent. A tent which was now Antony’s command tent. Even if he had been awarded Imperium by his lieutenants rather than by the Senate. He was sluiced, scrubbed, tonsured, strigilled, shaved, shining and sober. And, as usual, in his full battle armour. His Herculean lion skin on his shoulders. His helmet on the ground by his feet. Almost as much of a myth as a man.

  And in an exceedingly sunny mood, thought Tribune Enobarbus. In spite of the fact that he was still hostis an outlaw in the eyes of the Senate. For Antony was now the leader of a gang of outlaws. An army of outlaws. Several armies of outlaws, in fact. Their individual leaders, also all in full battle dress, sat round the table beside him. Lepidus, of course, at his right hand. Outlawed by the Senate at the insistence of his own brother. Inevitably with the vocal support of Marcus Tullius Cicero. In spite of the fact that Lepidus was still Pontifex Maximus Chief Priest of the empire. Beside him sat Ventidius Bassus, whose perfidy had yet to register with Cicero and his minions. Beside Bassus, still holding a warrant from the Senate – for the time being at least – sat Lucius Munatius Plancus, Governor of Transalpine Gaul, who had been commissioned to ensure Lepidus stayed faithful to the Senate. But had joined Antony himself instead. And, finally, Gaius Asilius Pollo, Governor of Further Spain who was also here to throw his hand – and his legions – in with the general.

  If this meeting continued to go as well as it had so far, thought the tribune, his general would, almost at a stroke, jump from being a fugitive in command of a couple of recently defeated legions and some hangers-on to the commander of the most powerful force in the empire. With the better part of twenty legions at his command. Fair enough, most of them were still encamped in Narbonese and Transalpine Gaul and Farther Spain. Though there were eight or so camped on either side of the river outside, resting, relaxing and gorging themselves on fish.

  It very much looked, thought Enobarbus, as if the general was certain to end up with an army of a hundred thousand men before the end of the day. Most of them battle hardened and ready for war. Especially against the men who killed their beloved Divus Julius Caesar and the politicians still supporting them, led by Cicero. Between here and Rome stood only whatever forces Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus still controlled and the eleven legions under the imperium (also unofficial) of the young, self-appointed General Caesar Octavius. Fifty-five thousand men at most, though word was that more were flocking in. And, as Caesar Octavius’ treatment of Decimus had shown already, if Antony was willing to make war on the men who murdered Divus Julius Caesar, his great-nephew and adopted son would be more likely to join him than fight him. No wonder there were rumours the Senate was trying to get a couple of legions over from Africa.


  ‘Well,’ boomed Antony. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we? The day is wasting and it’ll soon be time for a goblet of Falernian. But we have some final details to agree before then…’

  Before anyone could answer, however, a tall man dressed in Gaulish clothing was admitted by a rigid guard. His hair was wild and his chin lightly bearded. He looked threatening enough to make Plancis and Pollo at least reach for their swords. Not so Antony, who swung round, his bright gaze resting on the interloper as though he was now the most important man there.

  ‘Ah, Septem,’ said the general. ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Yes, General,’ answered the stranger. He lifted into view a roughly woven sack which he had been carrying.

  ‘Well, let’s have a look, man. Don’t be shy!’

  Septem put the sack on the table and opened it so that its contents were visible. He stepped back so everyone could see. Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus regarded the assembled commanders with wide, glassy eyes. His expression one of mild shock. As though the removal of his head had been a minor insult rather than a brutally efficient execution. ‘Have it packed in ice,’ ordered Antony. ‘The gods know, there’s enough ice and snow about, even now! I want everyone to recognise it when it’s spiked in the Forum. I want to send a message…’

  ‘That this is the fate awaiting anyone who had a hand in Caesar’s murder?’ asked Lepidus.

  ‘That this is what happens to anyone who dares to stand against me!’ snapped Antony.

  There was a tense moment as Antony’s notoriously volatile mood wavered. But Septem broke the tension by stepping forward again. Closing the sack over its horrific contents. ‘Packed in ice, General. Yes. Immediately.’

  He stepped back. And Antony, in his sunny mood once more, slapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. ‘That’s the first one I can actually put on display,’ he said. ‘Given the state of Trebonius’ and Pontius Aquila’s. First spiked in the Forum but third one down. Twenty more to go, eh Septem? Tribune? Three down. Nineteen to go.

  ‘But now that I have so many legions to support my actions, I think I might just go home to Rome and take you all with me. Yes. That would be the best move. We’ll all go back together. Pay a visit to Cicero and his friends in the Senate. Then I’ll happily let them watch me stick this first head up there in the Forum Romanum myself…’

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