Caesar's Spies Omnibus

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Wise enough, given the general’s current attitude towards you. You really do not want to get any further into his bad books. Or you will find yourself in some dismal outpost in Germania, surrounded by Ghost Warriors. But remember, you haven’t been too successful so far in settling the score for Telos’ crucifixion. Or Cyanea’s betrayal.’

  ‘No I haven’t. Not yet…’ Artemidorus looked down at the lean, hard legionary. ‘But then, I haven’t stopped trying.’

  ‘Never will, if I know you.’

  ‘Not ’til it’s settled.’ He concluded grimly.

  They spent a good deal of the morning searching through Pompeii for things that might assist them in their intentions for the evening. Making Restituta a willing part of their plans. Which allowed them access to her wide circle of acquaintance amongst the lower elements of the town. And so they were able to gather a surprisingly complete gallery of tools and techniques. But as the time for prandium passed, they had to return to the primary purpose of their mission. They stabled the mounts that had carried them here, hired a couple of fresh horses and followed the directions Restituta had given them. Riding out into the early part of a stormy afternoon.

  The villa Minucius Basilus had inherited from his uncle – together with his immense fortune – was huge. It clearly allowed the ex-soldier to retire in almost majestic magnificence. Angry though he was that Caesar had given him money instead of a province to govern after his term as praetor ran out. The two messengers rode through vineyards, orchards and olive groves as they crossed the huge latifundium estate that surrounded the white marble villa itself. Which sat like a summer’s cloud on top of a coastal hill to the south of Pompeii. Glowing with snowy brightness, even in the overcast day. Cresting a rocky promontory that looked north across the bay, past Herculaneum towards Neapolis. The horses cantered easily out of the cultivated groves and onto a marble roadway leading to the villa itself. The broad roadway was lined with tall poles topped with woven metal flambeaus. ‘I hope they light those tonight,’ said Quintus. ‘That would be a great help if this weather doesn’t clear up.’

  ‘I take your point.’ Artemidorus glanced around. Clouds still hung low above the magnificent view. The bay was grey and lined with welts of white foam as though the water had been scourged. The land, gathering up dull and damp on their right, crested in the flat tabletop of Vesuvio. The bay, Artemidorus noted, was empty. It looked like Aurora was staying safely moored in Neapolis for the time being. For some unfathomable reason, that made the secret agent feel more exposed. As though Lucius Silus, Otho and the crew were backup. Insurance. Support. Which had suddenly been removed.

  As they pulled their mounts to a standstill at the foot of an extravagant set of steps, the doors above them opened. A shiftless-looking ostiarius hesitated half in the shadow of the vestibulum. There was a marble balustrade running up each side of the steps so, in the absence of slaves or a welcome, they hitched their horses to the lowest upright. Then they swaggered up the steps to confront the hesitant slave.

  ‘My master doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said the doorkeeper before Artemidorus had a chance to speak.

  ‘Then don’t disturb him!’ snapped the officious messenger. ‘My business is with Gaius Trebonius. Tell him I am here bearing messages from Consul and General Mark Antony.’

  A hesitant hand was pushed out into the gloom of the overcast afternoon. It had three fingers and a stump. The thumb was short of its top knuckle. ‘Give the messages to me and I will…’

  ‘The messages I carry, morologus idiot are to be handed to General Trebonius in person. And there is more to be discussed with him than what is written in them.’

  ‘Well, my master…’

  ‘What is it, nothus bastard?’ came a voice from the cavernous shadows behind the trembling doorkeeper. Not Basilus’ hissing whisper, nor Trebonius’ booming nasal. A rough, plebeian, bullying tone.

  The doorkeeper turned, flinching. ‘Men with messages from Rome, atriensis steward,’ he said. ‘For Lord Trebonius…’

  ‘Well let them in, spurius bastard,’ came the reply. ‘I will go in search of Lord Trebonius.’

  The doorkeeper cringed back into the shadows, pulling the door wide as he did so. Artemidorus strode in. Quintus followed close behind him, right hand on the pommel of his gladius. The pair of them marched into the vestibulum and stopped. The entrance hall was almost as big as Antony’s atrium. And the atrium beyond it could almost have contained the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus in Rome. Even on an overcast and threatening afternoon, it was seemingly full of light. What little brightness streamed down through the opening above the impluvium pool was magnified by the white marble of the walls and columns. By the brilliance of the mosaics on the floor. And, noticed Artemidorus as he moved forward, the impluvium pool itself was stocked with silver and golden carp, the largest and fattest he had ever seen, whose scales also seemed to catch the light. Its surface brightened further with lily flowers whose plump petals were as white as the skin of vestals. As he studied the succulent leaves, he suddenly felt a shiver run up his spine. He began to check surreptitiously around.

  Certain that he was being watched.

  But his attention was immediately distracted by the arrival of three men. Two of them attended by a crowd of six or so obsequious, cowed-looking slave women. The first of the three, ushering the two behind him forward, was clearly the atriensis steward. Though he looked like the leader of a street gang. A Clodius or a Milo – not the sort of servant a respectable senator would employ.

  And his employer came immediately behind him. Looking more like one of the desiccated mummies from Cleopatra’s Egypt than a living man. Pale, parchment-skinned. With blade-sharp cheekbones, hollow cheeks, an arrogant beak of a nose, cavernous eyes and an unsettlingly full, red-lipped mouth. Only the richness of his purple, gold-embroidered tunic proved him to be a man of substance rather than a recently reanimated corpse. How Basilus had managed to establish himself as a successful general and an effective praetor, the spy simply could not guess. The last time Artemidorus had seen him was in his Roman villa as Basilus handed the captured secret agent over to the men who had tortured Telos. Together with the apparently terrified Cyanea. Both of them expecting to share Telos’ fate – at the very least. He hoped that, like Cassius, Basilus would not recognise him without the bushy red beard he wore during that undercover assignment.

  Behind Basilus, strode Trebonius like a lesser Antony. His stature not quite so Herculean. His hair nowhere near so thick, dark or curling. His beard lacking the virile waves Antony’s achieved when he grew it. But a lesser Antony was still a considerable man. And Trebonius, unlike his host, carried about him an impressive air of power and command. He wore his simple cream linen tunic like a suit of armour. Carried himself as though he was always ready for battle. Stood out from his emaciated host and the thinly clad troupe of terrified girls around him like one of Caesar’s statues in the Forum.

  It was this that had made him such an able general, reckoned Artemidorus. Such an effective legate at Caesar’s side in Gaul. Such a useful praetor pushing Caesar’s hugely unpopular debt reforms through a mutinous Senate. The man who laid successful siege to Massalia – commanding the land troops that broke down the walls while Decimus Albinus commanded the ships which blockaded the harbour. The harbour that, in these more peaceful times, was the furthest port to which Aurora sailed.

  ii

  ‘Well?’ boomed Trebonius. ‘You have something for me, nuntius courier?’

  ‘I have messages from General Antony,’ said Artemidorus, refusing to be intimidated by the bullying tone. ‘Spoken as well as written.’

  ‘You!’ ordered Trebonius, defining which of his acolytes he was addressing by smacking her on her thinly covered nates bottom. ‘Get the letters. Cito! Quickly!’

  Even as the whip crack of the blow was echoing in the cavernous space, she hurried forward, hand outstretched, eyes wide and brimming with tears. Artemidorus
reached into the letter pouch and handed her the last of the parchment scrolls. She turned and scurried back. ‘Not velox fast enough,’ he said as he took the dispatch. ‘We will discuss that later.’ He looked down at the letter. At Antony’s seal. ‘Out!’ he snapped. ‘All of you.’

  Everyone except Basilus vanished. Even the brutish steward.

  ‘You!’ Trebonius pointed at Artemidorus. ‘Come!’ He turned and marched through into the enormous tablinum study, which could almost have housed the Senate. Artemidorus was simply awed by the scale of the place. He felt for a moment that he was in one of the larger Ptolemaic palaces in Alexandria. The constant feeling that he was being watched fitted very well with his memories of Alexandria. The tablinum was walled with columns that supported a balcony. A match, he suddenly realised, to a similar structure that had lined the atrium. Which he had scarcely noticed at the edge of his vision while he was admiring the fish-filled impluvium. But that upper level might well conceal someone spying on what was going on below.

  Looking beyond the tablinum, the spy saw that the rear of the villa opened into a peristyle garden, rather grown to seed – but also lined with columns and balconies. Where Cassius’ peristyle opened onto a balcony overlooking the sea, Basilus’ had a huge metal trelliswork grille in the middle. With what looked like a gate built into the structure. A trellis which also overlooked the restless Sinus Neapolis Bay of Neapolis. And, no doubt, given the scale of the place, all the balconies around the atrium, tablinum and peristyle were backed by doors into upper rooms. This palatial villa could house a huge family and an army of slaves to look after them. But now it only seemed to contain two men, the young women who were their potential victims and the fewest possible servants needed to cater for them. Servants, as Restituta said, whose silence could be assured, no matter what went on.

  Basilus hurried into the tablinum at Trebonius’ side, bouncing up and down almost comically as he tried to see over his friend’s shoulder the moment he opened Antony’s scroll. In the middle of the tablinum there was the traditional paterfamilias’ chair which faced back towards the atrium. Trebonius sat in this as though it and the villa belonged to him. Basilus hovered beside him. The spy and his bodyguard came to a halt in front of them and stood at ease. Artemidorus had no helmet. He was wearing a heavy tunic and a rainproof cloak, hood thrown back. But there was no mistaking his soldier’s stance as he stood, feet as wide as his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back. Quintus was every inch a triarius. Under his travelling cloak he wore full armour; instead of a hood, his helmet, and caligae boots on his feet. Ready for battle rather than parade.

  As Trebonius observed the moment he looked up from the scroll. ‘So. Antony sends a pair of battle-hardened soldiers with his messages. Hardly unexpected, I suppose. But you said something about spoken messages as well as these…’ he waved the papyrus in Basilus’ skull-face, ‘I assume you know what he’s suggesting in here…’

  ‘Yes, General,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘That you accept the post of Proconsul of Asia Province as Caesar proposed you should. And as the Senate has formally requested.’

  ‘Tempting, certainly. Asia is a rich province. But a province policed by surprisingly few legions. By no legions at all, in fact…’

  ‘Legionary detachments and auxiliary cohorts,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘That is all.’

  ‘Therefore suddenly less tempting…’ said Trebonius. ‘What do you think, Basilus?’

  ‘Antony wants you powerless,’ hissed Basilus. His cavernous eyes focusing on Artemidorus as though daring him to challenge the whispered assertion.

  ‘Not quite,’ said the spy. ‘There is money to be had in Asia. And money is power. If you find no legions there, you can still buy some. When you have collected the taxes. Or borrowed against them. There will be many moneylenders and businessmen willing to advance considerable sums to the Proconsul of Asia. Or you might even get funds from friends willing to trust and support you. Close friends.’ The final observation was by no means innocent. For Trebonius was a proud man. Prouder, perhaps, than Antony. The suggestion – as thinly veiled as the slave girls – was bound to drive a wedge between the friend and host who was twice as rich as Croesus and the guest too proud to beg or borrow from him.

  The secret agent let the proposition hang in the air for a moment, poisoning the atmosphere. Watching with quiet satisfaction as Basilus eased himself away from Trebonius. Like a man confronted with a tiger who knows it is death to run. Then he added, ‘And Lord Antony suggests that, as the post is a newly created one, you might like to take up your proconsulship at once instead of waiting for Januarius. That would mean several extra months of taxes. Enough to buy a legion at least, I’d say…’

  The bribe was so obvious it was distracting. As it was meant to be. Artemidorus wanted Trebonius focused on it. Caught between admiration of its dazzling prospects and suspicion that it was too good to be true. He did not want him thinking beyond it. Asking questions as Cassius had done. Making observations, like Brutus. About how desperate Antony was to leave Rome and settle the restless legionaries before they tore the city apart. But how mistrustful he was of Trebonius’ friend Decimus Albinus, Senate appointed Governor of Cisalpine Gaul. With three full legions under his imperium command. Less than a week’s march away from the defenceless city, once the Rubicon was crossed. Likely to be welcomed, in any case, by a Senate swayed by the Libertores’ spokesman, Marcus Tullius Cicero. And how completely Antony – and all of them so far – had underestimated Caesar Octavius. And the legions he was buying, bribing and building. He did not want Trebonius swallowing his pride and asking Basilus how many legions he thought his millions might purchase after all.

  ‘What may I say to Lord Antony is your answer, Proconsul?’ he asked after a few moments.

  ‘Tell him I’ll think about it. That he will hear from me. Yes. Tell him I am considering his offer and that he will hear my answer in due course. That is all. You can go. And you do not need to return.’

  He waved a hand in dismissal. The two soldiers turned and marched away. Oh but we will return thought Artemidorus. And sooner than you think.

  iii

  Artemidorus and Quintus sheltered amongst the twisted trunks and low-hanging, overspreading branches in the olive grove at the end of the torch-lined roadway. Well back from the main road through the latifundium estate, in a space big enough to tether their horses safely and secretly. By a grassy patch where they could feed. The rain eased, as the overcast began to thin. The wind blew restlessly from the south, gusting towards gale force less frequently. But still making the olive trees sway and whisper all around them. The afternoon darkened relentlessly towards evening, shadows gathering and dancing.

  Amongst the other things purchased in Pompeii was a satisfactory cena of cold chicken, boiled eggs and figs. Augmented by the tart green olives they plucked from the branches around them. Made more substantial by a loaf of soft white Greek bread worthy of legendary baker Thearion himself. Except for the olives, the food had been by no means cheap – Pompeii was an expensive town – but it was bought with Antony’s gold. Along with everything else they were carrying in preparation for tonight’s mission. Which, to Artemidorus at least, seemed fair.

  Sufficiently full, warm and dry, wrapped in their cloaks beneath the thick covering of the olive trees, the soldiers settled down to wait. As though they were on sentry duty in the dark forests of the north. But, while there was still light enough to see by, they went through those other purchases made by Antony’s gold that were not edible. And began to make their plans.

  ‘Though,’ said Quintus, ‘you know what’s the first thing guaranteed to fail in battle, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘The plan.’

  Just before the sun set somewhere beyond the overcast, a wagon came down from Basilus’ villa, pulled by a slow but sturdy carthorse. And its occupants climbed up to light the flambeaus lining the white marble roadway.

  ‘That’s convenien
t,’ observed Quintus. ‘Now we don’t have to stumble around in the dark.’

  ‘Or use up the oil in our own dark lantern before we actually get there,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘But the main question has to be – is this just a daily ritual? Or is Basilus expecting guests?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Quintus. ‘And in the meantime, I’m off to water and fertilise the olive groves – make sure there is nothing in my bowels or bladder to distract me later.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ll follow on in a moment. If you haven’t brought a spongia, better use grass to wipe up – if the horses have finished with it. Olive leaves are prickly. And watch out for nettles.’

  After waiting until the evening had gathered to full dark, the secret agents decided that Basilus was not expecting guests. As quietly as possible, they led their horses to the olive trees nearest the bright-lit path and tethered them there. Then, under the flickering light of the first flambeau, they began to employ some of the non-edible purchases they had made earlier. Like the Ghost Warriors of the north, they blacked their faces, arms and legs. Pulled black penulae poncho-cloaks over their heads, letting the cloth hang front and back, to make them almost invisible in shadow. Eased their pugio daggers in their balteus sword-belts. Quintus also eased his gladius in its sheath. Artemidorus clipped their dark lantern in the space where his sword should have hung. Making sure the reservoir was still full of oil and the wick was standing proud. Taking care to check in his pouch for the flint and steel that would light it. Making certain he would not confuse it with the other, smaller, pouch that contained the Balearic sling he habitually carried now as though it was another of his fascina good luck charms. Then, side by side, they flitted like dark moths up the shadows along the outer edges of the bright-lit approach road.