by Peter Tonkin
‘Well, let’s hope they are hiding somewhere safe and sound,’ concluded Puella.
*
Artemidorus was woken by a scream that choked almost instantly into silence. He sat up and discovered that his dagger was already in his hand. And that Puella was sitting beside him, also armed. The door of the room they were sharing with Furius and Ferrata stood ajar. Enough lamplight came through it to define a figure that could only belong to the Spanish soldier. He glanced over his shoulder, revealing the source of the scream and the reason for it. The landlord’s daughter stood in the corridor holding a lamp in one hand while the other, closed to a fist, was pressed against her mouth. She had knocked gently and woken Ferrata who had answered the door at once and without thinking. And without his eye-patch. The ruin of the left side of his face was enough to make anyone scream. ‘I thought I’d got lucky there, Septem,’ he whispered. ‘But Acilia here wants you.’
Artemidorus eased himself away from Puella and stood. Both, like Ferrata, were dressed in underclothes, too stiff and sore for love-play. Even so, he caught up his tunic and shrugged it on as he crept across the room, still with his dagger in his hand.
‘What is it, Acilia?’ he breathed.
‘Come,’ she answered. ‘Quietly.’
‘Where to?’
‘You’ll see. Come!’
‘A woman of few words,’ observed a shadow close behind him. He stepped out into the corridor, Puella at his back.
They moved silently through the hospitium’s upper floor, their shadows huge and grotesque on the walls and ceilings around them. Artemidorus had assumed without much thought that the inn would share the same basic design as the vast majority of villas, tabernae and hospitiae that he had stayed in during his life. But after a while he realised that Acilia was leading Puella and him into corridors and levels he had never imagined. Like Theseus and his shadow following Ariadne through the Minotaur’s maze, they went deeper into the unknown. Until they came to a ladder. Leading up to yet another level – which must be immediately under the eaves, he thought. He looked up. There was a square hole cut in the ceiling. And where he might have expected it to be utterly dark up there, a faint light glimmered instead.
‘Careful,’ whispered Acilia. ‘It’s a bit dangerous.’
With one glance at Puella, Artemidorus took his dagger between his teeth and swarmed up the ladder like a Cilician pirate. He hesitated a few rungs from the top, then thrust his head up through the hole, turning automatically towards the light.
Which revealed, sitting side by side and looking sorry for themselves, Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus and Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus.
iii
‘We were trying to return to Rome in secret, so we could pay our final respects to the Lady Porcia,’ whispered Messala. ‘We slipped away from the two men guarding us and hired a couple of horses. We hadn’t been here long before the soldiers showed up. Trapped us, effectively, because we couldn’t figure out a way to get past them and escape. Then Lucius fell off the ladder when Acilia tried to hide us, and we were really trapped!’
Acilia and Puella had joined them and the light of two lamps was illuminating the Spartan living space that the two men had clearly been occupying for several days, since the arrival of Felix and his men. Artemidorus nodded. They had been lucky to enlist the help of Acilia and her parents. One glance at the way the young woman looked at Lucius explained how that had been achieved. And, as things had turned out, they had been wise to settle on concealment rather than risk discovery. Especially as the men who slit their bodyguards’ throats might have been the men who hunted them down first. If he found himself speculating that the cut-throats might have been Popilius Laenas and Herrenius, at least circumstances seemed to prove it could not have been Felix.
‘News of Porcia’s death hit poor Lucius here particularly hard,’ Messala was whispering urgently. ‘He heard it just as gossip down by the port in Brundisium. You know the way bad news travels. And they said she killed herself! And in such a terrible fashion! Under the circumstances, I was worried about my Calpurnia too, of course…’
‘Is it true?’ choked Lucius, his voice breaking. ‘That Mother killed herself by eating hot coals?’
‘Looks like it,’ answered Puella, while Artemidorus was still seeking some way to honey over the dreadful news.
‘I must go to her! Even in death…’ The young man moved further into the light and Artemidorus realised that his left leg was bandaged from the foot to the knee.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want either of you to go anywhere near Rome. It looks as though you’ll have trouble getting out of this hiding place, let alone covering a hundred miles or more up the Via Appia.’ He gestured at the bandaged limb. ‘Besides, there’s nothing you can do. Either of you. Your mother’s funeral rites and cremation are over, Lucius. They were overseen by Servilia.’ He glanced away from the stricken boy and met Messala’s steady gaze. ‘Servilia has also taken Calpurnia under her wing. They are both safely in Atticus’ villa. All you can do if you go back is to undo the good work you have done so far. And almost certainly put yourselves at serious risk.’
‘But we have the documents Octavianus signed…’ said Lucius.
For the time-being you do, he thought grimly. ‘Which may turn out to be worthless or worse,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s death has changed the game completely. I don’t think you’ll be safe until we get you both out of Italy and beyond the Triumvirs’ immediate reach.’
Lucius opened his mouth to argue, but a new voice cut his protestations off. ‘Septem’s right, you know,’ it said, not bothering to drop to a whisper. ‘The faster you can get to Brundisium and across to Macedonia, the safer you will be.’
They all swung round, and there, with his head and shoulders poking up through the trap-door, was Lucius Flavius Felix.
*
Felix’s voice was followed at once by Ferrata’s, more distantly, echoing up from below. ‘Is this all OK with you, Septem? Furius and I have the three down here surrounded. We followed them as they were following you. Tramping around like a herd of bullocks. They’d better pray they never come across the Ghost Warriors in the Germanian forests! And they just brought fists to a knife fight.’
Felix gave a bark of laughter that sounded genuine to Artemidorus. Instead of answering Ferrata, he asked Felix, ‘So, where do we go from here?’
‘Finding these two doesn’t change anything for me. I have no orders concerning them. So if they want to get to Brundisium and you want to get to Brundisium and we are going to Brundisium, I suggest we all travel together.’
Artemidorus paused, deciding whether Felix’s words were the open invitation they sounded like – or an order with an unspoken threat to back it up. He strongly suspected Octavianus’ squad of soldiers would not let Ferrata and Furius sneak up on them again. He sensed a rivalry beginning to build between the two groups.
‘I don’t think the young man will be able to ride with his leg like that,’ observed Puella softly. ‘He needs to see a physician.’
He met her frowning gaze and nodded. Then he turned to Messala. ‘We have a physician as part of our contubernium. He should be here in a day or two. With Quintus and the rest. Why not leave Lucius here until Crinas can see him? Then he can come on along with Quintus and his group. They have a chariot and a cart. If he can’t ride a horse he can sit in one of them. In the meantime you can choose – either come with us or wait with him.’
‘You go on, Messala,’ said Lucius quietly. ‘Acilia will look after me until Septem’s second quadriga team arrives. Then I can come on with them as he suggests.’
‘I can bind his leg in the meantime,’ said Puella. ‘See whether any bones are broken. Make him more comfortable.’ She nodded towards Lucius.
Artemidorus thought for a moment, then called down to Ferrata, ‘It’s all good here. We’ll be down in a heartbeat.’
iv
They arrived in the bustling military port-town of Bru
ndisium a little less than four days later, as the afternoon of the fifth day since their departure from Rome was drawing towards evening.
They could have arrived much earlier had Antony not given Artemidorus more than one set of orders. To be delivered to various recipients along the way. The first set concerned the legions which were stationed in a huge encampment just outside the port. The IIIrd was there as were the reconstituted VIth and VIIth, both manned and officered with legionaries familiar to Artemidorus, Messala, Felix and Ferrata. As they came through the main gate and into the familiar geometric layout of the massive camp, the travel-weary group were welcomed by the officers in charge not only as bearers of orders and news from Rome but also as old friends.
Their arrival prompted a convocation of the legates and tribunes who were currently in camp, and senior centurions as well. Which, although it took some hours to assemble, nevertheless allowed Artemidorus to pass Antony’s, Norbanus’ and Saxa’s orders, both to specific officers and more generally to the men who oversaw the legions all at once. But the price exacted for this was their attendance at one of several informal cenae feasts hastily thrown together to welcome them. Felix and his companions dined with the other tribunes of the IIIrd; Furius and Ferrata with the centurions of the VIth; Artemidorus, Messala, Puella, and Hercules with the tribunes and legates of the VIIth. The slaves and gang-members ate with the troops.
‘That’s about it is it?’ asked Flavius Servius Clio the Legate of the VIIth as they sat round a map table piled with steaming piles of roast mutton, amphorae of unwatered wine and field ration bread. Not even attempting to imitate the formal layout of a triclinium. Seated on camp-stools and chairs rather than reclining on klinae couches. Attended by legionary slaves, however, as though in Antony’s own villa. The wind battered against the leather walls of Servius’ command tent, making the cooking-fires outside roar and flicker like volcanic eruptions as the slaves rushed in and out with trays of food. ‘We wait ‘til Generals Saxa and Norbanus show up, and put ourselves under their imperium? Then we’re off to Macedonia?’
‘Exactly the same as this time two years ago,’ said Publius, the senior centurion, and Artemidorus’ replacement now he had been seconded into Antony’s secret service. ‘When we were waiting for Divus Julius to lead us into Parthia.’
‘Except that the VIIth was on Tiber Island if I remember correctly,’ said Hercules.
‘Even so,’ said Servius. ‘All we do is wait.’
‘Not quite,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘You need to pick a small command of your best men, led by one of your most trusted centurions. A standard century of eighty should do. They need to be ready to come with me and my group and wait at strategic points to guide you when generals Norbanus and Saxa get over to Macedonia and start to move upcountry from Dyrrhachium. We’ll be crossing at the first possible opportunity. Maybe a hundred mounted men and their back-up in all – counting your command and mine. Much easier to move than several legions. All we need is a week or so of calm days, a couple of triremes and a couple of transport ships. You need the best part of a month of good weather to move your legions, ancillaries, horses and equipment.’
‘True enough. I’ll start sorting out your men tomorrow. A century you say.’
‘Maximum. Fifty good men would suffice. Speed is paramount. Keep them here until I send for them. If I take them into Brundisium and have them hanging around in some billet there, there’ll only be trouble.’
‘True. Now, what’s this I hear about Antony being haunted?’
‘Oh that story’s got around has it? He’s dreamed he’s seen a ghost once or twice.’
‘Cicero’s?’
‘He can’t be certain. It has no head or hands.’
‘That narrows the field – well no hands does. There must be thousands wandering around with no heads. Being joined by yet more, day after day. And it talks, they say, even though it’s got no head?’
‘It says Actium, apparently.’
‘Actium! What in the name of the gods is there at Actium?’
‘It’s part of my mission to find out!’
‘They say Divus Julius still visits Brutus,’ mused centurion Publius.
‘And Brutus’ wife Porcia.’ Servius asked. ‘What’s this I hear about her?’
‘She’s Messala’s mother in law – or was,’ Artemidorus said quietly. ‘Perhaps he should explain…’
*
The guards at Brundisium’s main gate were uneasy about letting armed soldiers past with their weapons still at their belts. But both Artemidorus and Felix carried warrants from their Triumvir masters. And what Octavianus’ imperium did not cover, Antony’s certainly did. For both were well known and popular in Brundisium.
Artemidorus and Felix had also been here before, more than once, on duty. But Messala had visited the town most recently, so they took his advice about accommodation. He guided them down to the harbour where a sizeable hospitium stood facing the sea. It was positioned on a hill-slope above the largely empty troop-billets, stables and storehouses that were designed to accommodate entire armies as they moved, legion by legion, between here and Dyrrhachium.
The hospitium’s setting was excellent. The prospect less so, thought Artemidorus. Looking eastwards towards Macedonia, all he could see was a low grey sky resting like the roof of a granite cave on a restless, leaden sea. The vessels in the port all sat at anchor, oars stowed, sails furled, hulls pitching restlessly even in the comparative shelter of the inner harbour. The merest glance revealed half a dozen transport ships. Wide-bodied and barge-like, with tall masts rigged for square sails, their sides smooth wooden cliffs without holes or boxes for oars. However, secured to the quayside and slightly less restless, were two fully-decked triremes with gang-planks reaching from deck to quay, guarded at each end. Their sides were protected by fenders made out of straw bales. The boxes designed to contain the teams of rowers projecting over the quayside, clearly high enough to accommodate the rising and falling tides. The vessels’ hulls were well over 120 pedes feet long and looked to be over twenty wide. Probably designed to double as transports as well as warships.
‘I’ll go in and see if the landlord can accommodate us all,’ said Felix, breaking into Artemidorus’ thoughts and nodding towards the hospitium as he slid off his horse and jumped to the ground, throwing the reins to one of his men.
A few moments later he was back. ‘Looks like we’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Food and shelter for all – and a short walk to the local baths.’ He turned and strode off.
‘Good,’ said Artemidorus. He dragged his gaze away from the anchorage and turned. At his gesture, everyone followed Felix towards the inn with its stables and promise of food and rest – except for Artemidorus himself and Messala.
‘After we’ve dumped our kit, Messala, you and I will take The Gaul’s men and look for a local magistrate. See what we can discover about your two dead minders. Once we know more we can let Felix in on the situation. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Messala, dismounting and leading his horse towards the inn. ‘They must have been killed almost immediately after we left…’
‘Looks like you had a narrow escape then,’ said Artemidorus, walking beside him, their two horses following, steaming in the icy wind. ‘Because I doubt that a couple of Roman gang members will have been anyone’s prime target.’
Once the stable slaves had taken the horses, Messala joined Artemidorus’ contubernium, following Artemidorus, Puella, Ferrata and Furius to the rooms assigned to them.
‘So,’ he said as he returned to the massive, table-filled atrium at Artemidorus’ shoulder, much of the travel dirt sluiced from hands and faces. Still strongly redolent of horse, however; still in need of a bath. ‘You think whoever killed our guardians was really after us?’
‘It must have occurred to you as a possibility,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Even if you only found out a couple of days ago, you’ve had plenty of time to mull
it over.’
‘Do you think they’re still here, then?’
‘It’s a possibility. Not likely enough to call for armour but enough to warrant swords and daggers. Even within the city limits, so we’d better be ready to explain ourselves if we bump into the magistrate’s vigiles patrols. Maybe Puella, Furius and Ferrata ought to watch our backs; for the time-being at least.’
*
The capitaneria harbour master’s office was easy to find – and he was able to direct them to the villa belonging to the local praefectus magistrate, which was fortunately close to the port and also to the Temple of Hercules, where the bodies were still laid out. The praefectus was a tall, thin, balding patrician called Jovinus Caesennius Sospes. His janitor was reluctant to admit them, but Artemidorus’ orders from Antony on their scroll with his personal seal, were referred to the atriensis steward, who brought it to the attention of his master, who agreed to see them, apparently without bothering to open and read them. Sospes had just finished his cena when they arrived, but he was in no mood to let their questions interfere with his evening’s entertainment. And the odour of horses that they still gave off threatened to upset his delicate digestive processes. So he called for one of his cohort of vigiles, whose name was Cessy. He took them to view the corpses and answer their questions.
‘We found them down an alley behind the docks,’ said Cessy as they followed the backstreets leading to the temple. ‘There’s been a lot of trouble in that area recently. Above and beyond our usual gang stuff. I guess you get that up in Rome too. Our gangs are nothing much in comparison to what I hear about Roman ones. No. We have a couple of military triremes sitting at the quayside.’
‘We saw them,’ said Artemidorus. ‘They look like handy vessels if they are well-crewed and commanded.’
‘They’re trapped here by contrary winds. Their crews are bored and restless. They’re all out for trouble, both the sailors and the oarsmen when they’re allowed ashore but especially the marines. The two sets of marines seem to have taken a dislike to each-other. They fight whenever they meet, which is often, because there are only so many tabernae near the waterfront. They’re stuck here until the weather moderates or the wind changes. Keeping them fed and watered is a hell of a task. So they’re allowed ashore on a regular basis you see, because the weather may not moderate ‘til Maius. But the bottom of it as far as I can see is that the centurion commanding the troops on one of them, the Aegeon, is an arrogant little nothus bastard as rich as Croesus and has a habit of slipping my boss Gistin the Head Vigile a bag of sestercii to get his men out of trouble even if they’ve started it, which they usually have. But the other one, young Gaius Licinius of the Galene hasn’t got two obols to rub together so his men always end up with the dirty end of the stick which puts them under lock and key in the praefectus’ carcer prison – until Gaius Licinius can get enough money together to buy their freedom. Still, he does his best for them and they love him.’