Caesar's Spies Omnibus

by Peter Tonkin

  Crossing the square towards one of the garlanded doorways, oblivious to the common bustle of their surroundings, strode the murderous soldier and his patrician companion. The setting sun struck across the square of the forum, lighting their faces and blinding them. Seeming to cast the pair of them in bronze. There could be no mistake.

  Praying, aptly enough, to Achilleus that his legs would work properly, Artemidorus slid off his horse. ‘Hercules, look after the horses,’ he ordered. ‘Quintus. Ferrata. With me.’

  xiii

  The atrium of the hospitium was almost as busy as the forum outside. The three companions stood for a moment at the inner end of the vestibulum entrance hall looking around. Lingering here, they were three steps above the level of the atrium floor. And that was just about the only difference between this and the hospitium of Campoverde. Though this was, if anything, larger and more sumptuously appointed. Just the sort of place for the short-tempered soldier and his supercilious associate.

  A swift glance round was enough for Artemidorus to make out the pair of them as they shouldered their way to a table at the far side of the room. Pushing past clientis clients and servi waiters alike. The spy was in action at once, running down the steps with Ferrata at one shoulder and Quintus at the other in a tight arrowhead formation. It took the three of them a little longer to cross the room than the two men they were following. Artemidorus and his men did not shoulder the other clients, and the men and women serving them, so rudely out of the way. They did not push past, swagger by or stare down the quieter patrons. But they turned heads. And by the time they arrived at the inner table, almost every eye in the place was watching them. Except for those belonging to one or two preoccupied groups. And those of their two suspects, who were talking quietly to each other, apparently oblivious. Even when Artemidorus stopped, towering above them.

  ‘Gaius Valerius Flaccus, I believe,’ said Artemidorus. His tone icy.

  ‘What’s that to you?’ sneered Flaccus, looking up.

  ‘To me? Nothing. But it would have meant a lot to the young couple and their driver who you murdered as you stole their horses because you could not steal ours.’

  Flaccus erupted, sending the table skittering back across the floor, reaching for the vacancy on his belt where his gladius should have hung. Finding instead the hand of his young companion on his forearm, restraining him. ‘I am Marcus Fulvius Nobilitor,’ the young man said quietly, his cultured tones carrying over the hush. Clearly trained by a master of elocution. Planning on a swift ascent of the cursus honorum ladder to political power. ‘Can you prove this ridiculous accusation?’

  ‘We found the horses you abandoned beside the carriage you rolled off the Via Appia. In which were the bodies of the couple you stabbed. With the gladius you are reaching for even now. Forgetting, in your anger, that you are forbidden to carry it within the city walls.’ Artemidorus continued to speak to Flaccus, ignoring Nobilitor for the moment.

  ‘But can you prove it?’ insisted the young patrician, sounding unsettlingly like Cicero.

  ‘My companion here saw as much as I did,’ said Artemidorus, stretching the truth.

  ‘So. It’s your word against ours. Two against two. A couple of common soldiers’ words against an eques Roman knight and a patricus patrician with an ancient name.’ Nobilitor laughed and shook his head, dismissing the three men.

  ‘Two honest Roman soldiers against a murderous horse thief and his supercilious accomplice,’ answered Artemidorus. His voice carrying as far as Nobilitor’s. And trembling with passion. Ringing with truth.

  Flaccus lost his temper then. Even more quickly than Artemidorus had calculated that he would. He threw aside the table and the stunned Nobilitor along with it, launching himself straight at the centurion. Who stepped aside and let the enraged man barge past him. The three companions closed ranks behind Flaccus, presenting a solid wall as he swung round, knocking over two more tables and spraying water, wine and food over everyone nearby.

  ‘Shall we take this outside, Gaius Valerius?’ suggested Artemidorus, calmly. His voice steady. His tone reasonable.

  ‘So you and your companions can dispose of me together, three against one?’ snarled Flaccus. ‘I think not!’ He launched himself at Artemidorus again, knocking over yet another table as he did so. Spilling an amphora of wine and a jug of water over the three men who were sitting at it. Locked in quiet conversation. Apparently unaware of the events unfolding around them. Until now. They leaped up as though they were one person. Stepped back, shoulder to shoulder. A tight defensive unit, like the spy and his two companions.

  Artemidorus froze. Stunned. As though the huge blow that Flaccus aimed at him had actually landed instead of whipping past his nose. He stepped back and, when Flaccus sprang forward swinging his fist in once again, the secret agent caught it in both hands and held the raging man still for just a moment as he spoke, his voice lowered but still carrying over the stunned silence. As he looked the young man standing in the middle of the wine-soaked trio straight in the eye.

  ‘Centurion Eques Gaius Valerius Flaccus, may I introduce you to the man you have come searching for? Gaius Octavius Julius Caesar. Or, more properly, I believe, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. And his companions Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and Quintus Salvidienus Rufus.’

  ‘What?’ Flaccus was as stunned as Artemidorus. ‘Is this true?’ He pulled his fist free, stepped back and turned. Glared accusingly at the three men.

  Who were, suddenly, the centre of attention. Everyone in the atrium seemed frozen, staring at them while they tried to comprehend what on earth was going on.

  ‘May we discuss this outside, as you suggested?’ said the young man Artemidorus had called Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. He turned decisively and walked towards the steps leading up to the vestibulum and out into the forum. Flaccus stood, as though he had lost the power of movement. He did not object when Artemidorus pushed his shoulder gently, simply swung round and followed on almost mindlessly. Artemidorus looked back at Nobilitor, who had actually been knocked to the floor by his raging companion. The patrician picked himself up, dusted himself down, straightened his clothing and began to catch up with the little group as they moved towards the door. Artemidorus followed Flaccus up the steps across the short vestibule and out into the forum.

  The three young men moved to one side, standing in a shadow. Flaccus crossed to stand in front of them and Artemidorus stayed close with Ferrata and Quintus at his shoulders. Nobilitor limped out after them, his face thunderous. Artemidorus couldn’t even begin to calculate the number of things that had happened recently which might have upset the supercilious patrician. But he reckoned that a good deal of his wrath would be aimed at Flaccus.

  Then thoughts about Balbus’ emissaries were suddenly thrust to the back of his mind. For he was being addressed directly.

  ‘How did you recognise me?’ Octavius’ voice was calm. Gentle. But there was something in his tone that marked him as a natural leader. A confidence that he was equal to any situation. That he would be heeded. And obeyed without question. He stepped towards Artemidorus, bringing his face into the light of the lamp above the door. He had Caesar’s broad forehead with an unruly fringe of thick hair falling forward above it. The eyes beneath delicately curved, slightly overhanging, brows were large, deep, burning with intelligence. Under the wide cheekbones capped with neat ears, the jaw fell away to a pointed chin. Which avoided weakness because it thrust forward into a slight cleft. He had Caesar’s nose. And Caesar’s mouth. Artemidorus thought, I would have known you anywhere, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. ‘I saw you in Spain, Caesar,’ he answered. ‘When you were with your adoptive father.’

  If Octavius was surprised at being addressed by his new title, he did not show it. ‘You were at Munda?’ he asked.

  ‘I was in Spain,’ repeated Artemidorus. ‘I saw you there.’ He did not add that he had been the boy’s secret guardian, ensuring – albeit almost invisibly – that he crossed the war-to
rn country safely and reached Caesar’s side alive.

  Octavius looked at his companions. ‘And you have been sent to greet me,’ he observed. ‘By whom?’

  Artemidorus opened his mouth to answer. But several things happened in rapid succession before he could form the words.

  Flaccus thrust himself forward, arrogantly taking Artemidorus’ place, saying, ‘I have been sent by Lucius Cornelius Balbus with my companion Marcus Fulvius Nobilitor…’

  Somewhere in the distance, Hercules bellowed, ‘Septem, look out! Hey you…’

  And, with a sound like that of an angry hornet, a short, black, arrow-shaft whizzed through the space Artemidorus’ head had occupied an instant before. Slammed into Flaccus’ head, which had taken its place. Piercing it completely. Wedging itself from one temple to the other. And smashing him onto the ground at Caesar Octavianus’ feet.

  ‘Well,’ observed Ferrata. ‘Now we know exactly what he’s got on his mind…’

  ‘Don’t just stand there spouting jokes,’ snapped Artemidorus, the battle-hardened centurion of the VIIth. ‘Inside. Everybody. NOW!’

  IV

  i

  Aedile magistrate Lucius Claudius Siculus was not a happy man. Artemidorus could tell by the still-damp blotches down the considerable front of his robes that he had been summoned in the midst of a truly epic cena. The stains were of wine, garum and various other sauces, enlivened, if the sharp-eyed spy was right, with morsels of unctuous eel, dark duck and pallid mutton. Olives, egg yolks and pomegranate, all still brightly coloured. Artemidorus’ attention had been gripped by these spots and speckles because they were very like the ones on Nobilitor’s white tunic. Only those were a uniform pinkish red. And had come from Flaccus’ head rather than from Lucius Siculus’ table.

  The unhappy law officer had no idea who the men he was questioning about the murder of Gaius Valerius Flaccus actually were. Because no one had told the vigiles constables anything other than that the dead man had been shot with an arrow fired by someone who had escaped into the night. Hercules had described the assassin to them. A tall shape clad in a colourless cloak, carrying a bow with a long central section. Down which a shorter, more powerful arrow or bolt could be fired. With astonishing range and unsettling accuracy. Making Artemidorus certain that it was the same interfector assassin who tried to kill him earlier. A fact he had not yet disclosed. Certainly, whoever it was had used the same weapon. He and Quintus agreed on that. Hercules had seen the figure outlined against the evening sky, taking aim from a roof overlooking the forum. And had seen it vanish into the shadows. Before the vigiles had been summoned.

  As far as the law in Capua was concerned, this was a party of friends who had been drinking in a hospitium when a slight unpleasantness had arisen, calling them out into the street. Where a person or persons unknown had killed one of them. Perhaps aiming for him. Perhaps aiming for one of the others. An unknown person with impenetrable motives. Who seemed to have disappeared almost magically into the night. They carried the body, escorted by the friends and witnesses, to one of the rooms attached to the Temple of Diana and sent for their boss.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the aedile now, his jowls quivering with insight, ‘this atrocity must have been committed from some distance. A rooftop did you say? I cannot conceive of someone standing beside the deceased and driving this monstrous thing through his head. And even if I could, I doubt anyone would have the strength to push it right through from one side to the other side like that.’ He shuddered, his whole body shaking like a quince jelly. ‘And all of you were gathered around him when it happened. Even the large slave who saw so much – Hercules is it? – was close by when the murder occurred. By my reasoning, therefore, you must all be innocent of this act…’

  ‘Unless one of us hired the assassin,’ Artemidorus observed. ‘But we will only discover the truth of that idea when we get to talk to him.’

  ‘My men are scouring the area at the moment and if they find any trace of this murderous monster they will alert me,’ nodded the aedile. ‘And I will alert you. In the meantime, you may return to the hospitium while I look further into the business. I would be grateful if you could warn me before you leave Capua.’

  ‘We had not yet decided where to stay for the night, sir,’ said Octavius, in his most modestly youthful tones. ‘Would you be kind enough to recommend somewhere to us?’

  ‘Well, the best places are expensive…’

  ‘Expense is no object,’ snapped Nobilitor. ‘This young man is…’

  ‘…is with me,’ interrupted Artemidorus, well aware that Octavius would probably prefer anonymity. For the time being at least. ‘I am Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus, Seventh Legion, on assignment for Co-consul and General Mark Antony. I have his letter of commission if you wish to see it.’

  ‘No, no. That will not be necessary. Well, then, the hospitium where your friend died is among the best, but my personal preference is for…’

  ‘His brother probably owns it,’ observed Ferrata, sometime later, studying the frontage of the hospitium that aedile Siculus had recommended. Not in the least intimidated by the company he was keeping.

  But to be fair, thought Artemidorus, this place looked even nicer than the one they had just left. And, unless news travelled with supernatural speed in Capua, they would be anonymous here. For the time being. That certainly did seem to be what young Julius Caesar Octavianus wanted. For the moment.

  The six of them trooped in as Hercules and Quintus went to see to the stabling of their horses; the recovery of their saddlebags. Even Nobilitor’s as he was part of the group now. The aedile’s men had taken all of Flaccus’ belongings as part of their investigation. In the meantime, the six men received a warm welcome from the innkeeper’s wife. Busy though the town was, she said, there were plenty of rooms, a bath, and a delicious cena on offer.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Octavius as she bustled off to prepare their rooms. His cool gaze swept over Artemidorus and the still-shaken Nobilitor.

  ‘Table or tepidarium?’ asked Artemidorus. When Octavius hesitated, he enlarged. ‘Where we are least likely to be overheard. The bar or the bath?’

  ‘I certainly need a bath,’ said Nobilitor. ‘I stink of horse. And I believe I have a certain quantity of Gaius Valerius’ brains on me. A bath is only the beginning. I will have to go through a full ritual cleansing as soon as I get home! Brains!’ He shuddered.

  ‘Must be a relief to know that he had any,’ said Ferrata, bracingly.

  Only the fact that Nobilitor was still so deeply shaken saved him.

  ‘Caesar?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘Bath first,’ decided the young man. ‘We all need to relax.’ He glanced at Agrippa and Rufus, both of whom nodded agreement. ‘I think we have a great deal to discuss if what you have said is true. That you…’ he looked at the pale, blood-spattered patrician, ‘…come from Lucius Cornelius Balbus. And you, Centurion, and your tactless friend come from Mark Antony.’

  ‘Whether,’ added Agrippa, ‘either of you has any idea who killed Flaccus. Or which of us that nasty-looking bolt was actually aimed at.’

  ii

  Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa had a square, fleshy face which looked almost petulant at rest, thought Artemidorus. He had overhanging brows, a pugilist’s nose, a square jaw and a cleft chin. His right ear stuck out more than his left. His body matched his face. It was square. But muscular rather than fleshy. He looked like brawn rather than brain – an easy man to underestimate therefore. A mistake that Nobilitor seemed set on making. For he talked to young Caesar and his companions as though they had yet to assume the toga virilis of manhood. Caesar was difficult to read, so the spy could not work out whether he was amused or angered by this. The incisively observant Septem was certain, however, that the young Octavius was holding back a great deal of information. As he sounded out the men sent from Rome to greet him. Their motives and the motives of their masters.

  Quintus Rufus was easier. He was simply enraged
by the patrician’s condescending manner and tone. Like Caesar Octavius, his face was narrow beneath a broad forehead. The most youthful-looking of the three. But his body, like his two companions’, was muscular and hard. His hands covered in telltale calluses, similar to Artemidorus’, Ferrata’s, and Quintus’. Soldiers’ bodies – though as yet unscarred. Soldiers’ hands. Which contrasted with Nobilitor’s body which was beginning to run to fat. And his hands which were as soft as a vestal’s.

  The five of them relaxed in the quiet end of a large, steaming tepidarium. Hercules was sorting out the baggage. Ferrata was testing the wine. Quintus was guarding the door. With even more vigilance than usual. The tepidarium was as well-maintained as the rest of the hospitium. The water seemed clean and fresh. No yellow currents or little brown logs afloat which made some of the country baths the spy had experienced less than pleasant. And the whole place smelt faintly of lemons.

  ‘Lucius Cornelius Balbus sent the unfortunate Flaccus and I to guard and guide you to him.’ Nobilitor looked down his nose at Octavius. An unfortunate habit, thought Septem; perhaps he had problems with his eyesight. ‘He supposed you would not wish a great fuss to be made – or he would have sent more. And had it even occurred to him that there might be sicarii assassins abroad, he would have sent a cohort; perhaps a legion. Clearly he wishes us to assure you of his good offices. You may call upon him for any sum you wish within reason, for he holds a great deal of wealth that belonged to Divus Julius your late adoptive father. In his position as his secretary. In the meantime, he sends through me, sufficient funds to take you to him. All you have to do is ask. His only concern, of course, is that young men who find themselves in possession of seemingly limitless funds simply fritter them away in excess and indulgence. Take, for example, the young Mark Antony…’

  ‘Talking of Antony,’ said Caesar Octavius quietly, switching his attention to Artemidorus. ‘What helpful advice and guidance does he send?’