by Peter Tonkin
‘Here we are, Septem,’ called Ferrata. ‘Five fine horses and a lad with a tumbrel pulled by a mule. And you even have some change.’
*
They rode in two lines, Messala in front with Lucius on one side and Artemidorus on the other, as close as they dared – risking their knees in case Messala toppled sideways. Behind them, Quintus and Ferrata, side by side. The spy felt almost as faint as the courier. He had been up all night after the stress of yesterday’s battle and the shock of losing Furius; the strain of undertaking the riskiest part of the most dangerous mission of his life. As he rode in brooding silence, he mentally rehearsed the conversations he would have with Cassius if things went wrong.
The General was no fool. Even if Kyros’ and Notus’ work was as perfect as it seemed, there might be some element of the carefully crafted message that would give the game away. And even if Cassius took the message and its contents at face value, he might still recognize Artemidorus as Antony’s man. During the terrible days immediately after the Ides of March two years ago, Artemidorus had been the vital link between Antony, Cassius, Brutus and Cicero. Disguised of course, but Cassius wasn’t blind – he could see through disguises…
But wait. Although he wasn’t actually blind, Cassius did have notoriously bad eyesight. Bad and getting worse as he aged. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise Artemidorus after all.
But, even if Cassius accepted the story that Artemidorus had become involved simply because he had rescued first Lucius from Cleopatra and then Messala from pirates, wouldn’t the unrivalled ruler of this part of the Roman Republic simply assign such a useful soldier to some duties in his own command? What if, instead of handing him over to his torturers for questioning and crucifixion, Cassius simply appointed Artemidorus to his staff?
Either way, Artemidorus, Quintus and Ferrata, it seemed, would be extremely lucky to get out of Cassius’ camp – alive or dead.
Perhaps he had made a fatal mistake in coming.
And yet he simply had to see that the message was handed over in person. To support – physically if necessary – the wounded messenger and ensure he got to Cassius safely. Then he had to judge its effect on the general, his thinking and his actions. Both of which he had to report to Cleopatra and Antony. With the certainty of someone who had seen it for himself. The fate of the Republic hung on that careful forgery and Cassius’ reaction to it. Even at the risk of his life – leaving aside how he was likely to die – he had to be there to witness it himself.
ii
The gate into Cassius’ camp, the towers on either side and the wall it pierced were all much taller than Artemidorus remembered, which struck him as odd, for he had last seen them from the bottom of the ditch. The sound of the horses’ hooves rang hollow as they trotted over the bridge and into the camp. The guards in the towers and on the ground looked at them, but Messala held up his courier’s satchel which worked as a very efficient pass. The little group kicked their horses from their trot up to a canter.
‘Rushing towards our fatum doom,’ said Ferrata.
‘You’re a bundle of laughs this morning,’ said Quintus. ‘Our own little Plautus!’
Ferrata merely grunted in reply and looked apprehensively around, his one eye narrow with suspicion. But all there was to see were several thousand legionaries having breakfast of which bread and vinegar water.
All too quickly, they reached the camp’s forum, the open space in front of the big command tent that was backed by the General’s more modest private quarters and abutted by the two secure tents containing the legions’ eagles and whatever gold Cassius still had left. The westerly wind made the legionary banners standing proudly around it flap and crack. The tent-flaps stirred over the entrance, between two guards, fully armoured, hands on gladii grips and fists clutching pilae. They were almost as big as Hunefer and Hercules.
The five men and the boy on the tumbrel reined to a stand-still. ‘I bring dispatches from General Brutus under his seal to General Cassius,’ said Messala, his voice carrying over the soft bluster of the wind and the more distant noise of the camp itself.
There was the briefest of silences, then the tent flap was pushed back. Cassius himself stepped out into the forum. He glanced up at Messala, nodded and clapped his hands. At once legionary slaves and grooms appeared. The horses’ heads were held. Mounting stools placed. Messala and his companions climbed down, then Quintus and Ferrata. ‘Come in,’ said General Cassius.
As soon as Artemidorus got into the tent, concern set in. Gathered round a briefing table were five more of Divus Julius’ murderers. Men to whom he had carried Antony’s messages while Divus Julius’ corpse was still warm in the Curia of Pompey’s Theatre. Men whom he had seen – and who had seen him – in the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on top of the Capitoline in Rome when he accompanied Cicero.
Had the secret agent been less preoccupied, he would have already worked out that Cassius’ brother Lucius Longinus would be there. But besides him there were the brothers Caecilius and Bucolianus. Gaius Cassius Parmensis was there too, as well as Decimus Turullius. Any or all of whom might recognise him.
As well as the Romans there were other men obviously from other countries judging by their costume, rich and powerful judging by their dress: Parthian, perhaps; and Judean? Two older, lean Parthians in rich but travel-stained clothing and a striking young man in the robes of a Judean prince. Artemidorus could guess their standing and origins but he had no idea who they were. Any more than they knew who he was, unlike the rest of the men at Cassius’ table. He stood to attention at Messala’s right shoulder as Lucius was standing at his left. Not quite holding him up, praying to Achilleus for a little good fortune here.
But then the prayers and the concern became irrelevant. ‘I know you, Messala, and you Lucius,’ said Cassius. ‘And at least one of your companions is familiar, but I cannot call his name to mind…’
‘That is Iacomus Graecas Artemidorus,’ volunteered Lucius without a second thought. ‘Primus Pilus senior centurion of the old VIIth. He was Mark Antony’s messenger to Cleopatra. The other two are his companions.’
‘Really?’ Cassius’ hooded brown eyes rested on Artemidorus like the touch of death. ‘Antony’s man – and yet he dares to come here?’
*
‘Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,’ blabbered Lucius as Messala swayed gently, silently, fighting to stay erect. ‘You see, General, I was General Brutus’ courier to Queen Cleopatra, and when she read the letter he had sent her she was so enraged by it that she had me arrested, beaten and thrown in the dungeon. Artemidorus rescued me and helped me escape from Alexandria by hiring a boat and crew – and a second vessel to protect us from pursuit. But when we came across the ship bringing your message from Brutus, as carried by the Tribune Messala here, the second ship turned pirate, attacked the messenger ship, stole the gold aboard and would have slaughtered everybody except that Artemidorus managed to fight them off, rescuing Messala into the bargain!’
‘Really!’ purred Cassius. The purr of a hungry tiger. ‘And why would he do all this?
‘He had already helped Messala and me escape proscription then smuggled us out of Rome and across to Dyrrhachium!’
‘Remarkable. Centurion Artemidorus, you do seem to be particularly well-disposed to the friends and relatives of your commander’s mortal enemies!’
Artemidorus drew himself up. He felt Quintus and Ferrata doing the same. ‘I was given direct orders in the matter by Caesar Octavianus himself, General. All I have done is to apply those orders consistently to a series of rapidly-changing situations.’
‘Most impressive! Heroism almost worthy of Horatius Cocles himself. Who, I note, so famously kept the bridge with two like-minded companions just like the two you have brought with you today! Guards! Take these three men to the secure tent. Put them in chains. I will tell you how to deal with them later.’
iii
‘That went well,’ said Ferrata, rattling his chains.
‘That bastard Cassius will have the torturers go to work on us next.’
‘Maybe,’ Artemidorus shrugged, before continuing in a hushed voice. ‘Even so, it will have been worth it if he believes what we put in the dispatch has come directly from Brutus.’
‘It certainly looked real enough. It fooled Messala with no trouble,’ said Quintus.
‘Well, let’s hope it fools Cassius as well. Then our job is done.’
‘How’s that, lad?’ asked Quintus.
‘The new message contains two crucial sections that are almost true – but not quite, changed just enough to make all the difference, if the gods smile on us.’
‘For instance?’ demanded Ferrata grumpily.
‘Take Egypt. The original suggested the gold Messala was bringing would finance an expedition over the border to invade the country and replace Cleopatra with her sister Arsinoe. Plunder Cleopatra’s gold and commandeer her navy. This new one suggests the gold might be enough to get him over the border but the situation in Egypt is very risky and the whole adventure might turn out to be a dangerous distraction. He’d be better coming back for a conference as soon as he can. Brutus had already suggested Sardis as a good place to meet so we left that in.’
‘A suggestion likely to be strengthened by the fact that there isn’t any gold any more,’ said Ferrata approvingly.
Quintus nodded. ‘And Sardis is far away from here. Marching there will keep Cassius occupied for months.’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Artemidorus.
‘Good. So with any luck Egypt and Cleopatra are safe for the time-being,’ said Quintus. ‘Safe from Cassius at least. What else?’
‘Antony and the reason for the meeting in Sardis. Brutus’ original message letter says Antony’s stuck. The same as we were in Brundisium. He’s hardly bringing any troops over to Dyrrhachium. The new one says he’s already sent two armies, one with General Norbanus and the other with General Saxa. Which is true – but neither Brutus nor Cassius can do anything about it at present. Then it says that Antony’s ready to send more legions to guard the Via Egnatia and strengthen the route for his invasion with his full army and Octavianus’ army as well – the better part of twenty legions in all. The invasion will happen as soon as Octavianus has defeated Sextus Pompey – which rumour suggests will be soon. Brutus and Cassius need to get together at Sardis as soon as possible to plan how to meet this imminent threat. And Cassius needs to send word to his Admirals Ahenobarbus and Murcus to get up to Brundisium and blockade the port at once.’
‘Clearing the way for Cleopatra to move her fleet out in time to help Antony when he does, in fact, want to move,’ said Ferrata. ‘That’s very neat.’
‘And with a little smile from Fortuna it will all work whether we’re alive to see it or not,’ said Artemidorus.
*
He had no sooner stopped speaking than there was a bustle of movement outside the prison tent. ‘I have the general’s permission to speak to the prisoners,’ said Lucius, his tone one of arrogant command.
A moment later, the flap opened and the young Tribune ducked into the tent. He was not alone. The young stranger in the robes of a Judean prince was with him. ‘This is Herod Prince of Galilee, son of Antipater the Idumaean,’ said Lucius.
Artemidorus looked at Herod unquestioningly, too exhausted to wonder why Lucius had brought him; or, indeed, why either man was here. The Prince of Galilee was a strikingly good-looking man. He was maybe thirty years old but he looked younger. He had wide brown eyes that seemed to flash. His beard and moustache were jet-black, oiled and curling, matching precisely the curls escaping from his headdress. No sooner had he entered than the tent filled with the scents of myrrh and sandalwood, reminding Artemidorus most forcibly of Cleopatra.
‘I feel a little guilty,’ said Lucius. ‘You’re really here because of me.’
‘That’s bloody true,’ mumbled Ferrata, then disguised his words with a cough.
‘No, Tribune,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘We are here through my fault and no-one else’s.’
‘Oh,’ said the young man, clearly glad to shuffle responsibility. ‘Right. General Cassius has sent me to tell you he plans to question you further, once he has read General Brutus’ letters and discussed them with his senior staff.’
‘Oh we’ll look forward to that,’ said Ferrata. ‘Will there be wine and dancing girls?’
Artemidorus transferred his gaze to Herod. Raised an interrogative eyebrow which was about as close as he could get to asking why the prince was here.
But then Herod started to speak in beautifully modulated, accented and extremely formal Greek. ‘If you were released from here,’ he asked, ‘whither would you go?’
Artemidorus saw no point in lying. ‘To Alexandria, Highness,’ he said. ‘And then to Rome.’
‘To see whom?’
‘Queen Cleopatra and then Mark Antony.’
‘You have the ears of the Queen and the Triumvir?’
‘I have done some service to both in the past. Which, in all honesty, dominus, makes it highly unlikely that General Cassius will release us. Not alive at any rate.’
‘Stranger things have been known,’ said Herod. ‘Stranger things.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps the One True God will smile upon you, unbeliever.’
The two men backed out of the tent.
‘That was uplifting,’ said Ferrata. ‘It would have been even better if they’d brought something to eat.’
‘Strange,’ said Quintus. ‘What was that all about?’
‘Herod,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Prince Herod wanted to see us for some reason.’
‘Perhaps to assure us that the One True God of the Judeans was going to look after us,’ said Ferrata. ‘As well as Achilleus, Jupiter and Venus Victrix.’
They fell silent. Time passed. The bustle of the camp around them seemed to intensify. Artemidorus strained to hear any individual sounds which might explain what was going on. Shouted orders. The sound of tents being pulled down. The creak of wagons being loaded. Legionaries gathering their equipment together and loading up for the march.
‘You think they’re breaking camp?’ said Ferrata.
‘They were always going to break camp,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘The question is, which way they’ll go when they’ve done it: west into Egypt or north towards Sardis.’
No sooner had he finished speaking than the tent-flap was pulled back again and the two enormous legionaries who had been guarding the entrance to Cassius’ command tent squeezed in. ‘Right,’ said the largest. ‘On your feet and come with us. The General wants a word with you three. While you’re still in a fit state to talk’
iv
This time Cassius was alone in the command tent. The three spies were bundled in all together, each individually chained, wrist to ankle, ankle to ankle. They couldn’t straighten. They could only hobble, which, on the way here, had given them ample opportunity to look around. Artemidorus was right – Cassius was breaking camp. He just hoped he wasn’t also right about the torturers and the crucifixion.
‘My natural inclination,’ said Cassius, ‘is to have the three of you skinned alive, then crucified, a favourite punishment of my old commander Gaius Licinius Crassus. Remember the crosses all along the Appian Way after he defeated Spartacus? Mile after mile; both sides of the via.’
There was a brief silence, under which the bustle of the breaking camp continued.
‘But, much against my better nature, I have been talked out of it. The collective wisdom of my senior commanders – and of the Prince of Galilee as a matter of fact – is that you represent a useful asset. I am assured that if you are released, you will return to Alexandria at once, and then to Rome.’
‘Yes, General,’ said Artemidorus.
‘And that you have the ear of Queen Cleopatra herself. That the Divine Isis deigns to talk to a mere mortal Centurion such as yourself.’
‘True, General.’
‘That you can talk to Antony man-to-man almost as
equals, I already know. And I have been convinced that someone who is capable of such things is too valuable simply to discard. I propose to give you two messages, therefore, one to be delivered into the hands of Queen Cleopatra and the other into the hands of Antony. In person. The one to Cleopatra warns her that any support she gives to Antony – in whatever way, shape or form – will bring about the certain destruction of her kingdom and her dynasty. Herself, I would like to emphasise, and her bastard son they call Ptolemy Caesarion. The one to Antony warns him that my navies are on the way to blockade Brundisium and he would be best advised to stay at home in Italy and give up all pretentions towards conquering the east. If he comes against us, we will cut his supply lines and his communications and we will annihilate him. He had much better stay where he is and spend the rest of his life in his favourite pursuits – fornication, gluttony and drunkenness.’ Cassius leaned forward, elbow on the table, finger pointing at Artemidorus. ‘I’m telling you the contents of the messages to save you the trouble of opening them and reading them before you deliver them. I am only grateful that General Brutus’ message stayed with Tribune Messala at all times, well away from your prying eyes. Though, daring to open their messages, of course, is very likely to ruin your unusual relationships both with the queen and the general. Guards!’
The two huge guards appeared.
‘Take their chains off. Let them use the latrines and eat. Stay with them at all times. I will send a message when I want them returned.’
‘Fuck,’ said Ferrata feelingly a few moments later as the guards led them through the camp towards the latrines. ‘I think I’ll consider turning Jewish like young Herod. Their One True God seems to have got us out of a really nasty scrape there!’
*
‘I asked the general if I could call you to his tent,’ said Herod, leading them slowly from the Centurions’ refectory where they had just eaten, towards Cassius’ command tent which were almost the last two tents still standing. ‘He is suspicious of my motives – as he is of yours – but nevertheless he allowed me to come. I think he is simply too busy to deal with all of us in the way that he would like.’