Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘So, we agreed that I would summon the Senate for a morning session tomorrow. In the Temple of Tellus. As you suggested, Fulvia. I’ll send out runners once again. And the senators we notify first will send out runners themselves. Word will spread quickly.’

  ‘But the atmosphere in the streets is still dangerous,’ said Artemidorus. ‘It could be a nasty night.’

  ‘Right,’ said Antony. ‘What I’ll do is this. When my runners have called the Senate, I’ll send them out again to every aedile magistrate. Get them to build watchfires and put vigiles patrols out.’ He straightened. Stretched until the straps on his armour creaked. ‘And when I’ve done that, I will invite you all to experience my baths, and join me for cena in the trinclinum. Don’t stand on ceremony. I could eat an ox, and I’m sure the rest of you could as well. And, if truth be told, I think I probably smell like an ox too.’

  ‘That’s better than smelling of sandalwood from the perfume of your Egyptian whore,’ said Fulvia under her breath. Speaking the bitter words so quietly that no one else could hear them. Except, by chance, for Artemidorus.

  *

  A little after sunset, in the darkness before moonrise, the Samnite crossed the Forum, heading for the Capitoline. Without his usual swagger. A good deal of work had been done to his battered, muddy armour. As many dents as possible had been beaten out of his face mask. The feathers of his distinctive crest had been washed, dried, restored. Only the sharpest eyes would notice that the helmet had been through a battle. Like the rest of the disguise.

  Artemidorus had been caught in a frustrating trap during the early evening. He refused the bath, preferring to help with the armour’s restoration. He took his brief cena dinner in the kitchen. Then he finished working on his disguise and he changed into it. On the one hand he could not risk wearing anything that had obviously been through a bitter fight. Syrus would be bound to draw a deadly conclusion from that. But he also did not want to be stopped, perhaps arrested, by the magistrates Antony had alerted. As they sat by the watchfire burning at every junction and crossroad. Or by the patrols they were sending out to keep the streets quiet. So ideally he needed to finish and move out before the night guard could be posted.

  Antony had offered him a pass. But that seemed of such limited value. It might get him as far as the Capitoline. But it would be too dangerous to take it into the temple with him. So, unless he could hide it and then reclaim it on his way back later, it was too much of a risk. Especially as he would have to hide it and find it in the dark. Besides, he felt that in the final analysis he could probably sneak past the city’s watchmen. If they were out before he left.

  But the Fates had other plans for him tonight.

  He was moving through the shadows towards the Temple of Saturn. With the tabularium records office hulking against the starry sky on his right. And the darkness of the open lower slopes of the Capitoline just beyond. When he became aware of another figure also moving through the shadows of the old basilica on his left. A figure betrayed by the brightness of his senatorial toga. Which glimmered even in the starlight. His interest piqued, he fell in silently behind the stranger and began to follow him. So that when the patrol on the Vicus Jugarius road stopped him, they were almost side by side. The leader of the watch team uncovered the dark lantern he was carrying. The brightness was suddenly dazzling. ‘The aedile said we’d catch some night crawlers if we waited in secret,’ the watchman said. ‘Now what do we have here?’

  The stranger lifted his head into the light. To reveal the most famous face in Rome. ‘I am Marcus Tullius Cicero,’ he said. ‘You have no authority to detain me! As for this man…’

  Cicero turned towards Artemidorus and stopped mid-sentence. A rare occurrence by all accounts.

  ‘As for this gladiator…’ Cicero’s voice dropped a little as he addressed the featureless metal mask in front of him. ‘My doorkeeper tells me that it was a Samnite who delivered this to my house today.’ He held up Brutus’ letter.

  ‘It was me,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I am Lord Brutus’ messenger.’

  The orator turned back to the watchmen. ‘This man is with me. He is serving in the office of a bodyguard. The streets can be dangerous at night. Especially in times like these.’

  ‘We know,’ said the watchman. ‘That’s why we’re on patrol.’

  ‘Well get on with it, man! And stop delaying important people about vital senatorial business!’

  ‘We’ll have to report this to the aedile,’ said the stubborn watchman, refusing to be bullied.

  ‘You may report it to Mark Antony himself for all I care,’ snapped Cicero. ‘Now get out of my way!’

  Beneath the featureless mask, Artemidorus smiled. This would certainly be reported to Mark Antony. If he got down from the temple alive.

  Cicero strutted self-righteously past the watch and strode on down the road. Artemidorus followed him. The Capitoline Hill gathered above their right shoulders until the Tarpean Rock itself blotted out the stars. As they walked, so the lawyer bombarded his new companion with questions. ‘You are one of Decimus Brutus Albinus’ gladiators?’

  ‘Yes, Senator.’

  ‘Employed by him to put on a show at Pompey’s Theatre yesterday?’

  ‘Just so, sir.’

  ‘And you protected the Libertores after they had executed the dictator?’

  ‘We escorted them up to the temple, sir.’

  ‘And you have stood with them ever since?’

  ‘Except when Lord Brutus sends me on errands…’

  ‘As he did today.’

  ‘Yes. But that has come about largely by chance. I am not one of the inner circle. They are the gladiators who also work for Lord Minucius Basilus.’

  ‘A nasty piece of work. Luckily it is only slaves he likes to hurt and kill. Or I might find myself fighting a case on his behalf. If he can afford me. Which by all accounts he certainly can.’

  The lawyer turned abruptly right and began to mount the one-hundred-step stairway that led up to the Temple of Jupiter on the south side of the hill. Artemidorus stayed close behind as Cicero climbed the steps surprisingly rapidly for a man of his years. The spy wasn’t certain but the lawyer must be in his early sixties now. Yet he was leaping upwards like a mountain goat.

  In hardly any time at all the pair of them were in the square outside the temple. There were watchfires in every corner of the square. Like those springing to life at every crossroad below. And serving the same purpose. As soon as the two figures walked into the firelight, Syrus swaggered up to them. But the instant he recognised Cicero he stopped. His manner changed. Became humble. Almost servile.

  ‘Your worship. I have orders to conduct you directly to Lord Brutus the instant you appeared. Would you kindly follow me, my Lord?’

  Cicero condescended to do so. And Artemidorus followed Cicero.

  *

  The Libertores were preparing to spend their second night in the temple. Their supply of food had been augmented by bedding. Clean clothing. Basic washing facilities. Some of it supplied by the priests and their helpers. The rest by supporters. Nothing to compare with Antony’s facilities, thought Artemidorus looking around. If the general had indeed smelt like an ox, he would not have been the only one in here. Then something struck him other than the smell. The number of the Libertores present was fewer than he remembered from his last visit. There was a fire in here and most of the murderers were clustered around it. But there was no sign of Dolabella that he could see. Nor of Lucius Cornelius Cinna. With an air of casual indifference, he began to probe the shadows. Mentally ticking off the names on Cyanea’s list.

  In the meantime, Brutus had risen, his face showing obvious delight as he recognised Cicero. ‘Marcus Tullius… At last!’ he said and came forward to embrace the lawyer. ‘Now we have a voice worthy of our actions.’

  ‘Let us hope your actions remain worthy of my voice,’ answered Cicero, returning the embrace with some reluctance. ‘But your own voice has been good enough so
far by all accounts. Was it the speech that we discussed? A perfectly turned persuasive piece of rhetoric. Though I had no idea you were planning to employ it so soon.’

  ‘I tried to speak three times,’ said Brutus, an excited child reporting to the pater familias. ‘On the third attempt I succeeded. On the Rostra in the Forum. The complete oration.’

  ‘I wish I had been there,’ said Cicero. ‘In fact I wish I had known how immediate your plans were. It is a sad thing to come so late to a feast.’

  ‘Well, you are here now. And a welcome guest at our table. And you will, I hope, be with us when the Senate meets in the Temple of Tellus tomorrow.’

  ‘I will be there. But are you sure you will?’

  ‘Certainly!’ said Brutus. ‘Antony and Lepidus have agreed…’

  ‘Antony and Lepidus.’ Cicero frowned. ‘Now if I had been invited to the feast a little earlier, those are two courses I would certainly have urged you to include!’

  ‘I urged him to include them.’ Cassius stepped out of the shadows and stood framed against the firelight. His face all but invisible. Except for the glittering of his eyes. Reminding Artemidorus of Brutus’ guard dog. He shivered and tried to conceal the fact.

  ‘It would have been wise, I think.’ Cicero nodded.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Yes Brutus. I know you wanted the one course in your feast to be carved as a sacrifice worthy of the gods. But I fear that all you have succeeded in doing is to let two deadly enemies escape. They will destroy you if they can. Have no doubt of that.’

  ‘They are Caesar’s limbs,’ sneered Brutus. ‘Powerless without him. Why Lepidus no longer has any legal standing or authority!’

  ‘They are Caesar’s war dogs and you have unleashed them,’ Cicero warned. ‘Be careful of your throats or they will tear them out.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly!’ snapped Cassius.

  Brutus glanced at his friend and brother-in-law. Then at his friend and mentor. Frowned. But it seemed to the spy that the frown was one of confusion rather than of anger. Perhaps Brutus was having second thoughts. I would be if I were in his place, mused the spy. Even if I didn’t know what I know.

  ‘We can start making things clear tomorrow at the Senate meeting,’ Brutus said after a moment.

  ‘You’re not going to that, are you?’ demanded Cicero. ‘In the Temple of Tellus? A stone’s throw from Antony’s villa? It’s a trap! Can’t you see that? Even if you get there unscathed, he’s probably planning to cut you down as you cut Caesar down! On the chamber floor. In front of the Senate itself. He might even be able to claim legal precedent!’

  ‘No!’ said Brutus, genuinely shocked at Cicero’s cynicism. ‘We have safe passage there and back. Antony has given his word. And Antony is an honourable man! So is Lepidus. Both honourable men!’

  Cicero shook his head. ‘Let us say that you are right. Let us suppose that they are in fact honourable men. To whom is their first allegiance? To Caesar! They have both been given their office through him or by him. They have both sworn to protect him, or, failing that, to avenge him. That is their primary duty if, as you say, they are honourable men. I have to tell you that under the law as it stands, I could not convict them of any crime if they lied to you, cheated you, or murdered you in pursuit of that allegiance. As honourable men might do.’

  ‘As with all the others,’ added Cassius quietly, looking around. ‘We can only be sure that they will keep their word if we make it too dangerous or costly for them to break it.’

  ‘There is precious little honour in this business, Marcus,’ said Cicero. ‘I urge you to remain here with your guards tomorrow. While I attend Antony’s Senate meeting and see what I can discover.’

  Brutus shook his head.

  It was clear to Artemidorus that this meeting had not gone as Brutus had planned. But there was nothing he could say or do to change things now. Sadder and wearier than ever, he turned and walked back to the fire. Shoulders slumped. A defeated general after a hard-fought battle. Cassius looked after him. Shook his head as well. But in frustration. Not disappointment. He looked at Cicero. The lawyer and philosopher shrugged. ‘At least keep him here tomorrow. The Senate can meet without him. Or you, come to that. I will be there. A number of your friends will be there. We will sound out the feelings of the patricians at least.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Cicero?’

  ‘The upper classes are not the only men involved in this. As Antony and Lepidus will know all too well. The city is full of plebs – freedmen and soldiers. They loved Caesar. They are dry kindling awaiting only the merest spark. Then we might well have a conflagration that will burn us all!’

  Cicero turned on that and began to retrace his steps. Artemidorus followed him. They crossed the marble floor of the temple and strode out through the door onto the portico. The night was clear and the moon on the rise. Artemidorus’ head was buzzing with the implications of what he had overheard. His eyes fixed on the brightness of Cicero’s toga, as though he would burn a hole between the orator’s shoulders with the intensity of his gaze. He followed Cicero across the portico, between the soaring columns and down the steps into the fire-bright square.

  Cicero turned right and headed back towards the gate opening onto the one hundred steps down to the base of the Tarpean Rock. He was so preoccupied himself that he seemed to have forgotten all about his Samnite bodyguard.

  So that he did not stop – or even seem to notice - when Syrus’ arm went round Artemidorus’ throat and the point of a dagger was pushed against the tender skin behind his jaw just below his left ear where his carotid artery pulsed.

  *

  Artemidorus lashed his head back. Syrus was too canny and experienced a cut-throat to be hit in the face by the helmet rim’s iron edge. But he loosened his grip. Leaped back. Artemidorus span round. To find himself confronted by Syrus and three of his largest companions. All four charged at him and he was overcome almost immediately. A brawny gladiator held each of his arms. The third stood behind him, reaching round to loosen his belt. To remove it, his sword and the dagger. Syrus himself swaggered forward and undid the laces under Artemidorus’ chin. Then he lifted the Samnite helmet off. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the spy’s clean-shaven face. Artemidorus struggled against his captors’ iron grip. Uselessly. The man behind him began to undo the straps of his breastplate.

  ‘My first question is this. What have you done with Priscus and the boy?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘I think you do. I think you’re lying. Because I think that’s what you are. A lying spy!’

  ‘I’m a gladiator just like you… A Samnite…’

  ‘We found the Samnite’s body in one of the disused shops just inside the Gate of Fontus. I knew you weren’t him the instant I laid eyes on you. I came near to crippling him in our exhibition match. And suddenly he wasn’t even limping! I’ve been watching you ever since. Coming and going. Listening. Looking. Spying. And now I see your face, I know exactly who you are. Did you think a visit to the tonsor for a shave would fool me? You’re the red-bearded spy we caught at Lord Basilus’ villa. Trying to rescue that little whore he was looking forward to whipping.’ He stooped and picked up the club for which he was named. The man behind Artemidorus lifted his breastplate free.

  ‘Cestus wouldn’t let me use this on your friend Telos. He was having too much fun with his fists. But it’s my turn now. So I’ll tell you how this is going to go. I ask a question. Every time you lie. Or even answer slowly. I’m going to hit you with this club. I can keep it up ’til dawn. ’Til I have broken every bone in your body. Then I’ll just throw you off the Tarpean Rock. And no one will even know! If I judge it carefully, you’ll still be just alive enough to enjoy the fall. And the landing. So, just to get you in the mood before we start…’

  Syrus drove his club into Artemidorus’ belly. He did so almost casually. Certainly not with full force. But he still knocked the wind out of the spy. Art
emidorus would have fallen. But Syrus’ men were holding his arms. So he curled into a foetal position. Gasping for breath. Hanging in the air.

  Syrus waited until his feet touched ground again. ‘So,’ he said, swinging the club. ‘About Priscus and the boy…’

  The only plan Artemidorus could see was to make Syrus lose his temper and end this quickly. Because he had no intention of co-operating. And now that the gladiator had recognised him, there was no cover story that would convince his torturer. So he was looking at a wilderness of pain. He wondered how many bones would have to be broken before his resistance also broke. He had seen men tortured. His contubernium spy team even had a carnifex associated with it. An expert torturer ready for when the need for pain arose. He had never seen anyone hold out. They all talked in the end. Unless they died first.

  ‘Why don’t you just take that little twig you’re holding and stick it right up your…’

  The club slammed into his belly with enough force to make the men holding him stagger back. He curled into a ball once more. Fighting for breath. Hanging in the air.

  ‘That wasn’t actually your first blow,’ said Syrus. ‘That was just to shut you up while I think… Now, let me see. If you’re wearing the Samnite’s armour. Why don’t we start with the Samnite’s pain? Which of his legs did I break? And was it ankle, shin or thigh? Well, let’s just start with ankle, as yours are still up in the air…’ Syrus’ club swung back and…

  ‘STOP!’ boomed a voice strengthened by years of oratory. ‘What are you doing with that man?’ demanded Marcus Tullius Cicero.

  ‘We were questioning him, my Lord. He’s killed two of my friends.’

  ‘That’s what gladiators do, you fool. Fight and die!’

  ‘And he’s a spy, my Lord. He works for Mark Antony. One of a team…’

  ‘Is that true, Samnite? Do you work for Antony?’

  ‘I am Iamus Artemidorus, centurion of the Seventh Legion. Primus pilus.’ He admitted between agonised gasps. His feet touched ground again.