Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘You must try the wine, Lord Cassius,’ suggested Antony. ‘It is Mareoticum. Queen Cleopatra herself brought it from Alexandria. Soft and sweet and good for the digestion. It will complement the thrushes stuffed with truffle perfectly. And you might like the sea urchins.’

  Cassius was too courteous to refuse. Especially after having been so rude in answer to Antony’s joke about the dagger. And, although he only sipped the liquor, it had an immediate effect on his empty stomach. So much so that Artemidorus began to suspect Antony of trying to make his guest drunk. In vino veritas, as Alcaeus the poet observed, he thought. Unlike Brutus, the lifelong Stoic, Cassius had the reputation of following the Epicurean philosophy. Had famously converted to it four or so years ago. Not necessarily always in the matters of appreciating fine food and wine. But in his ideas of liberty and justice.

  However, Cassius seemed to be grudgingly impressed by what Antony’s servants were setting out before him. His wish that the meal be over quickly receded. He gestured at the roast thrush and a slave dismembered it for him, placing it within easy reach. Pouring a little pepper sauce over it. Cassius leaned forwards and took a piece, savouring it. Clearly trying to control his hunger. For fear of betraying any weakness.

  Conversation was at first strained, almost monosyllabic. There seemed to be little room for social chit-chat. In the face of the momentous events they were all caught up in. And yet those events also were difficult to approach in any way. It was, thought Artemidorus, as though Scipio Africanus and Hannibal had sat down to discuss elephants and alps.

  But Fulvia at least tried. ‘Your wife, the Lady Junia. Is she well?’

  ‘She was well enough the last time I saw her.’ Cassius reached for another morsel.

  ‘And your son, Gaius junior?’

  ‘Assumed his toga virilis on the morning of the Ides.’

  In the face of his grudging answers, Fulvia refused to give up. ‘Lord Brutus’ wife, the Lady Porcia,’ she said. ‘I hear she has been unwell. Have you had news of her?’

  ‘Not since your spy, here, informed Brutus she was not dead after all,’ answered Cassius, taking a long sip of Cleopatra’s priceless wine. ‘As had been told to the poor man by some of his over-excited slaves. Fortunately in error.’

  ‘How dreadful! He must have been so worried!’

  ‘He and I had other matters on our minds. At the time.’ He drank again, preoccupied by his thoughts. Gestured at the sea urchins. The slave serving him broke one open and passed him a spoon to eat it with. He wiped his fingers, took the spoon. Ate. ‘These sea urchins are very good.’ He dropped the shell on the floor. Another grudgingly courteous gesture. He reached for another piece of the stuffed lark. Its bones joined the urchin shell on the floor.

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ said Fulvia innocently. As though she had no idea what these matters actually were. ‘More wine? Promus, our guest’s cup…’

  ‘But your plans, Lord Cassius,’ asked Artemidorus. His eyes narrow as he calculated how far he could go without alerting Cassius to his deeper designs. His hidden agenda. The information Ferrata had supplied. ‘What do you and Lord Brutus intend to do next?’

  ‘Do? Why nothing! Everything is done! The tyrant is dead. And declared not to have been a tyrant at all. For reasons of political expediency. Rather than actual fact. The Republic is reinstated. The people are free. There is nothing left to do. Except to keep our daggers sharp in case more not-tyrants like Caesar appear.’

  ‘But Caesar’s dictates stand,’ probed the spy quietly. Pretending not to notice Antony’s thunderous frown. ‘You and your fellow Libertores are declared innocent of any crime. And the Republic goes on forever?’

  ‘Just so! As Lord Brutus observes, it has lasted four hundred years so far. It may well last four hundred more. Lord Brutus likes to think in centuries.’

  ‘You yield all power to the Senate and the comitia?’ Artemidorus persisted.

  ‘That is how the Republic functions! Has done for four hundred years as I keep saying. Yes. A little more wine. The truffle stuffing was superb by the way, Lady Fulvia. I may ask to take a little home with me.’ Cassius became more expansive. Took another draught of the wine.

  ‘And plans,’ he said, harking back to Artemidorus’ earlier comment. ‘There were no plans. Beyond the act itself. It was a spontaneous outpouring of Republican sentiment against a tyrant who planned to have himself declared king. We do not allow kings in Rome. The Servian walls were built to keep such despots out. That’s why Sulla expanded the pomerium. Despots, autocrats, potentates, pharaohs or emperors. All forbidden.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘That is one reason that Caesar’s Egyptian whore was kept in his villa on the Janiculum. She calls herself a pharaoh. We do not allow pharaohs in the city any more than kings. In Rome the people rule. And the people alone.’

  ‘I understand the comitia wishes to give both yourself and Lord Brutus great rewards for what you have achieved,’ said Artemidorus after a moment. Changing the subject carefully as Cassius and Antony exchanged frowns. ‘Honours. Titles. Treasure. Land.’

  ‘Reward!’ snapped Cassius, his voice seeming to linger over the word. ‘We did none of this in hope of reward! Accepting anything would only cheapen the act. The freedom of Rome is all the reward we sought. Lord Brutus has explained it all. Over and over again.’

  ‘And this is also your view, Lord Cassius? I understand Decimus Albinus and Minucius Basilus have differing ideas to Lord Brutus’.’

  ‘This is the view of all the Libertores!’ Cassius gestured forcefully. A little wine slopped out of his cup. ‘Lord Brutus has talked to them. Made them understand. Even if our refusal offends or upsets the comitia. Or, indeed, the Senate itself. We must hold firm. Stand together. Above such petty concerns as rewards! Money. Power. Social standing. Villas. Estates. What are these beside honour. Pietas; our duty to our mother and father – Rome! That is Lord Brutus’ view. And he speaks for us all!’

  Promus and the servants removed the first course and returned with the prima mansae main course. The food was on the theme of the elements. Air was represented by a range of roast and stewed birds, variously stuffed and sauced. Many still dressed in their colourful feathers. Parrots. Doves. And to one side, a flamingo. Water by a sturgeon, stuffed with eels. And a turbot full of shrimp. Earth by roast hares and rabbits. A badger. Boiled, returned to its skin. A ham boiled with bay leaves and figs. Served in a crust shaped like a boar. Fire by a pair of peacocks in all their glory, fully feathered. Tails fanned wide. Standing in for the phoenix.

  And the amphor of wine accompanying it was even larger than the first. ‘The best Falernian,’ said Antony. ‘Well aged. It’s probably older than I am. You must try a little, Lord Cassius. It is particularly good with the gamier meats. Like the badger…’ This time Cassius did not need any further prompting to eat. Or drink. Or talk.

  By the time Cassius left in his litter, his escort carrying several food-filled parcels, he had talked quite a lot. And in due course Enobarbus reported that Brutus, too, had said more than was wise at Lepidus’ table. With good wine and careful prompting. The three men and Fulvia sat together round the table in the tablinum, talking far into the night.

  At last Artemidorus summed up what they had learned and what they believed. ‘So,’ he said. ‘They had no real plans beyond the murder. They believed it would all end there. And now that they find this is not in fact the case, their united front is beginning to crumble. Brutus is taking the moral high ground. He did it all for pietas and the Republic. Any kind of reward will sully his pure action. Lessen his honour. Cassius is more pragmatic, in spite of what he says. He may well take whatever he is offered. And the others are in it for anything they can get. So they are already tearing themselves apart. Already in danger of offending the comitia. The people they say they did all this to serve and set free. And, in the meantime, if we move swiftly, we have the opportunity to turn the tables on them. And we have two potent and potentially deadly weapons we can use agains
t them.

  ‘Caesar’s will.

  ‘And Caesar’s funeral.’

  XVI

  ‘We don’t need to spy on the murderers anymore,’ Artemidorus said at breakfast next morning. ‘I thought it over and talked it through with Cyanea last night. We need to know the plans of four other groups, though. That way we can make the most of our chances during the next two days.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what you two were doing!’ said Enobarbus round a mouthful of honeyed puls porridge. ‘Talking…’

  Artemidorus ignored him. Though it was lucky Cyanea was in the kitchen, he thought. To spare her blushes from this crude soldiers’ talk. He frowned. Irritated more than embarrassed. It seemed out of character for Enobarbus. Though Antony, he knew, had a reputation for coarseness. Subtlety, like oratory, had never been a strong point with him.

  ‘You talk like that too often,’ Antony sniggered, like an actor on his cue. ‘And one of you will end up with a bad back.’

  The spy ploughed on regardless. Moving into his intelligence officer role. ‘First, we need to know what the legions are thinking – maybe planning. Next we need to know what the people, and the comitia are thinking. Then we also need to know what Piso, Lady Calpurnia and the Lady Atia, Caesar’s niece and Octavian’s mother, are planning for the funeral. Caesar left the plans for his funeral with the Lady Atia, I think.’

  ‘I have a copy in his papers, just as I have a copy of the notes for the will that old Piso’s going to present later today,’ said Antony. ‘They’re both just outlines but they give some idea.’

  ‘But Caesar didn’t expect to be murdered of course,’ Artemidorus continued. ‘So the three of them might have made some changes. We really need to know just how far along they are with the preparations for tomorrow’s ceremonies. Especially you, Lord Antony, because you will almost certainly be involved. You are the most appropriate man in Rome to give his oration. You were, after all, his co-consul, his friend and his relative. Though I know the blood relationship is distant. But it still exists.

  ‘And lastly, we need to confirm what the gods have in mind. Though as you know, I always prefer to double-check on their guidance personally where I can. As I did, for instance, with Caesar.’

  ‘Well, taking the last one first,’ said Antony, suddenly more quiet and thoughtful, ‘we can ask Spurinna. His predictions for Caesar seem to have been as accurate as yours. The gods spoke to him as clearly as your intelligence gathering spoke to you. Not that any good came of it. Spurinna has been sacrificing on the altar to Mars out on the Campus Martius every morning we’ve been in the Temple of Tellus and sending word to me. He’s seen nothing unusual so far…’

  ‘So we can keep consulting him,’ Enobarbus said, breaking off a piece of emmer bread to dip in his warm honeyed goat’s milk. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to check on the funeral arrangements. They are intensely private. We can’t just walk into the Domus and ask. Not even Lord Antony can. Until he’s invited…’

  ‘We can offer to help,’ suggested Artemidorus. ‘Cyanea is wasted here, even if young Antyllus has appointed her his new favourite. And if we’re contacting Spurinna anyway, we can ask him to send Puella. Kyros can escort her in case of any trouble. Preparing the body is traditionally woman’s work and they are both thoroughly capable. And I’m sure the Ladies Calpurnia and Atia will need all the help they can get. It’s a huge project after all and time is short. And we’ll have two sets of eyes on the process.’

  ‘Good,’ said Antony. ‘That might work.’

  ‘We can count on Quintus to keep a close ear on what the Seventh is up to,’ said Enobarbus. ‘And young Oppius, your replacement, will alert us as to anything the council of centurions decides.’

  ‘That just leaves the people and the comitia,’ said Antony. ‘Can we rely on this new man of yours? Ferrata?’

  ‘Yes. He seems solid enough. But I think he’ll be swamped. There are people streaming into the city from everywhere. Some of them were coming for the Quinquatria festival anyway. Especially with the gladiatorial games. Teachers and some children on holiday. More teachers to collect their pay. Artists, weavers, poets – everyone whose work is sacred to Minerva. They all have a holiday on her festival.’ He paused, suddenly, a dried fig halfway to his lips. ‘And that gives me an idea too. Can we send a message to Lepidus? His son’s tutor Hercules is on holiday today. He could join the team. He seems quick-thinking as well as skilled in all physical and military matters. And he’s huge. An excellent ally if we can borrow him.

  ‘But, as I was saying…’ he continued as he bit into the fig and chewed thoughtfully. ‘A large number of the newcomers are old soldiers worried about the land grants Caesar promised them. I’m not sure how many there are – but quite a few. Too many for one man to handle, certainly. Maybe even for two. I think we need someone else out there on the ground besides Ferrata. And Hercules if Lepidus lets us have him.’

  ‘Well, who do you suggest?’ asked Antony. ‘We seem to have assigned every member of the intelligence contubernium and then some.’

  ‘We have one more undercover operative,’ said Artemidorus. ‘We aren’t at odds with Albinus’ or Minucius Basilus’ gladiators anymore. Not that they’re likely to be out on the city streets. They’ll be practising for the four days of games in the arena that Caesar added to the festival. Where, if fortune smiles, one half of them will kill the other half. So, the long and the short is this: once again we have the Samnite.’

  *

  Enobarbus stood beside Spurinna at the sacrificial altar on the Campus Martius. It was still Mars’ month so sacrifices were dedicated to him at least in part. And were consequently virile. Though today’s festival of Quinquatria on Dies Solis, Sun Day the nineteenth day of Mars four days after the Ides, was sacred to Minerva. The sacrifice, a young bull, lay disembowelled on the altar. Its empty belly gaping. Its entrails were spread across the largest of the sacrificial bowls and Spurinna was bent over them, his hands and arms red to the elbow. As Caesar’s murderers’ had been. A calculated gesture, mused the tribune, remembering Brutus’ insistence that Caesar was not a victim. But a sacrifice. ‘Tell Antony there is nothing to be feared today.’ Spurinna interrupted his dark thoughts. ‘The omens seem fair.’

  ‘He’ll be glad of that. The so-called Libertores are all back in the Senate this morning. For the first time since the murder. To hear Piso reading Caesar’s will. After they’ve congratulated themselves and each other. And Antony himself, as likely as not. For maintaining the peace. So far.’

  ‘Is there anything else Lord Antony requires of me? Today is one of my busiest. I can hardly count the women who call on me to give them predictions on this day. Above all days. Praise to Minerva and Quinquatria! I gave Puella a happy prediction earlier. Before sending her over to the Domus with young Kyros as your message requested.’

  ‘Thank you. No. There is nothing more Antony requires of you today. If the gods are satisfied, then so is he. And so will your helpers and the priests be. That is a fine-looking bull. He will make good eating! A pity I can’t take him over to my legionaries. They hardly ever get to eat meat.’

  ‘That’s probably just as well,’ said the soothsayer. ‘Meat is bad for them. Everyone knows that.’

  Enobarbus did not go directly to the Forum or to the Temple of Tellus. He knew well enough what was going on in the Senate meeting there. As he had told Spurinna. He would almost certainly not be needed until Piso read the will. In the meantime, he walked across the Fabricius bridge he had ridden over yesterday on his way to see Cleopatra. On Tiber Island he soon found the men of the VIIth Legion. Camped in and around the temples there. And the two he needed to speak to.

  After briefing young Centurion Oppius and their arms expert, ancient Legionary Quintus, he returned over the Pons Fabricius and made his way back towards the city. As he neared the Carmenta Gate, however, he really began to understand the point Artemidorus made earlier. The road was extremely busy. The city heaving. He had to q
ueue to pass through onto the Vicus Jugarius. And it was a long, slow dawdle round the Capitoline and up to the Forum.

  He had never seen the city centre so busy. The shops and stalls had been closed in fear of rioting and looting since the Ides and until today. Now they were all open for business. And doing a brisk trade. The tabernae inns must be as tightly packed as the locals’ insulae. And as for the lupanaria brothels – the girls would be making their fortunes. Though they might not be able to walk for a week or so afterwards. Especially if this incredible mass of people stayed here for Caesar’s extra four days’ of gladiatorial games.

  But, he noticed as soon as he entered the Forum, there was a kind of current. As though the crowds were a river of human bodies. Moving slowly but relentlessly towards the Temple of Tellus. As he pushed ahead, he looked around for Ferrata and the Samnite. And this man called Hercules that Artemidorus described. But he could see none of them. In spite of the apparent size of the tutor. And the distinctive headdress on top of the faceless Samnite’s iron-visored helmet. How strange, he thought. That the moment Septem put on the Samnite’s armour he seemed to become someone else entirely. And that realisation stirred something in the military intelligence officer. It was one of the reasons Septem made such an excellent secret agent. When he went undercover, he almost disappeared.

  But the tribune was not above doing a little undercover work himself. Because he was not fully armed, only those who knew him could guess at his profession or seniority. So they spoke freely and excitedly all around him. And answered his questions with unthinking candour. There were men and women from the latifundia farms around the city. Most come for the holiday. Some with baskets of produce to sell. Some to hear more news of Caesar. And of his will. There were representatives of the local Jewish community who had been granted rights and freedoms by Caesar and who had come to repay him with their prayers and lamentations. Who planned to stay and repeat their ritual elegies each evening until the funeral games were over at the very least.