Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘No. Look how they tried to warn him. Even with Spurinna presenting him with the darkest possible auguries. There were the signs. The dreams. No. The gods were always on Caesar’s side. He just refused to listen to them.’

  ‘He listened to Dercimus Albinus instead,’ said Enobarbus bitterly. ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘How they knew to send Albinus in. How much he already knew…’

  ‘They said Telos sang like a lark,’ said Artemidorus wearily.

  ‘Yes. Maybe that was it…’ the tribune didn’t sound absolutely convinced. ‘Hard to believe though. Telos was one of the toughest men I knew.’

  This conversation took them to the Forum. It was unusually quiet. There were people going about their business, but conversation was hushed. There was no laughter. No singing. No plays being performed. Even the dice and knucklebone men were notable by their absence. Despite the fact that there were hundreds of country bumpkins in town to fleece. The tribune looked around, narrow-eyed. ‘I think we’ll stick together,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe we should have come out fully armed,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘In an atmosphere like this, wearing a sword is asking for a fight.’

  ‘True enough. And no one we want to hear from is going to have a loose tongue around a fully armed centurion and tribune.’

  Side by side they walked towards the Basilica Aemelia and the taberna where Artemidorus had recruited Ferrata. And there he was, seated at a table surrounded by half a dozen old soldiers. Probably, like him, retired from the disbanded Legio VI. Ferrata. The tribune and the centurion eased themselves into the group. Very well aware that they were of the wrong rank and from the wrong legion. But when Enobarbus offered to buy drinks all round, the atmosphere became less hostile. Never welcoming, though. Never warm. But a couple of amphorae of the bitter posca wine the soldiers favoured went some way towards breaking the ice.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Ferrata, ‘is how they could just forget an oath like that.’ He was clearly picking up on an earlier conversation.

  Which the others joined in. ‘If I’d broken my sacramentum oath while I was still in the legion they’d have crucified me.’

  ‘Quite right too. An oath is an oath.’

  ‘Well, it is for poor lowly no-accounts like us. Clearly not for patrician mentulae senators.’

  ‘Most of them generals into the bargain! Cunnae!’

  ‘Like that nothus Albinus! Glad I never served under him!’

  ‘That’s because you get seasick, Valens!’

  ‘No. I mean. To stand by Caesar against the Veniti and at Massilia. To be nominated heir in the second degree. Adopted! Given his name. The name of the man you swore to protect. But who you’ve just slaughtered. It beggars belief…’

  The conversation went along these lines for some time. Until the wine ran out. At which time Artemidorus and Enobarbus moved on.

  The conversations in the other tabernae favoured by old soldiers was along similar lines, though. Especially in those inns frequented by soldiers who had served under Albinus. A hard-driving, ambitious, unpopular leader. One of Publius Clodius Pulcher’s thuggish street gang members in his youth. Like Antony. But unlike Antony, lacking charm and the common touch.

  They did not follow the soldiers from the taverns as they staggered to their next destinations – the lupinariae brothels.

  Instead, they began to wander back towards Antony’s villa. It was getting dark now, but there was still enough light to see without the aid of lamps or flambeaus. The evening was cool and the Forum all but deserted. Citizens, slaves, freedmen, families, visitors all at home, in their taverns or their brothels. Eating, sleeping, drinking or whoring.

  The two men fell into a quiet conversation about past adventures. Past missions. Past battles.

  When their next battle was suddenly thrust upon them.

  *

  Syrus stepped out of a side street, swinging his club, with his two biggest associates just behind him. ‘So,’ he said. ‘The rumours running around the tabernae were true. A couple of General Antony’s officers trying to mix with the legionaries, gladiators and other low-life brothel sweepings. Like us. Trying to stir up trouble against the Libertores like Senator Basilus, were we?’

  ‘Having a drink. Listening to the gossip,’ answered Artemidorus, looking around for an escape route. To fight these men would be to die. Possibly swiftly. Probably painfully.

  ‘And from the gossip we’ve heard,’ added Enobarbus, ‘there isn’t much stirring up to be done. What will Senator Basilus and his friends do when you are dead in the arena? Who will your Libertores hide behind then?’

  ‘You’ll never know,’ sneered Syrus. ‘Because you’ll be dead in the gutter. Skulls broken open. Brains trickling away. IMPETE!’ He bellowed and swung his club up. The three gladiators ran forward. Attacking as ordered.

  The two empty-handed soldiers fell into their fighting stance. Knowing fists would be no real defence against clubs, spears and swords. Watching their death come charging down on them.

  But Syrus had hardly taken two steps when a familiar voice called, ‘Septem! Hey, Septem!’

  Artemidorus turned. There at the end of the roadway was Kyros. Just coming up out of the Forum. Escorted by what looked like a combination of Antony’s lictors and Spurinna’s slaves. Two of whom were carrying blazing flambeaus. Obviously escorting Cyanea and Puella home. Three gladiators against two unarmed men was one thing. Against half a dozen others was something else again. The gladiators eased their murderous charge down to a casual stroll. Lowered their weapons. Came swaggering past their intended victims. Walked on down into the Forum as though nothing had happened.

  Artemidorus watched them. Nostrils flared. Breath short.

  As Syrus passed Kyros and his charges, he leaned in and said something to Cyanea. Then walked on, laughing. His friends joined in. As though he had just said the funniest line from the funniest play that had ever been written. ‘That must have been a line from Plautus at the very least,’ said Enobarbus. ‘From The Persian, maybe. Or Terence’s Mother in Law.’

  ‘I thought we were going to end up more like Pacuvius,’ answered Artemidorus, straightening. Quoting the playwright’s famously modest epitaph. ‘Here lie Artemidorus’ bones. I just wanted you to know that.’

  ‘Ah. Pacuvius. Cicero’s favourite,’ said Enobarbus. ‘But not really what you’d call a fount of hilarity…’

  They followed their would-be murderers down to Kyros, the lictors, torchbearers and the women.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ Artemidorus asked Cyanea. In the light of the torches she looked pale. Diminished somehow. Terrified. ‘Did he threaten you?’

  ‘No. It was nothing…’ she answered.

  ‘He said something about songbirds,’ explained the ever-helpful Kyros. ‘Alaudae. Larks.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound funny,’ said Enobarbus.

  ‘It’s not,’ said Artemidorus. ‘That was the note he pinned to what was left of Telos. He sang like a lark.’

  ‘Syrus tore his tongue out,’ said Cyanea with a shudder that shook her whole frame. ‘And his eyes… After Cestus broke all his bones. With his fists. Those terrible spiked gloves…’

  ‘No wonder you look upset,’ said Enobarbus.

  Artemidorus slid his arm over her shoulder. ‘It’s all right now,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re safe.’

  ‘It’s not just the gladiator,’ explained Kyros. ‘She’s been like that since we collected her at the Domus.’

  Later, in bed, Artemidorus cradled the still-shaking Cyanea gently in his arms. There was no talk of love tonight. No risk of bad backs. ‘What was it?’ he asked. ‘What upset you so?’

  ‘It was Caesar,’ she answered. ‘Caesar’s body. Puella and I were told to complete the washing. There were priests and vestals there to bless it. Spurinna sacrificed. Lords Antony and Piso, the Ladies Calpuria and Atia were all there performing the
ceremonies. Antistius was there completing the wax impressions. But it was Puella and I who did the final washing and preparation. And Oh! The poor man. How he must have suffered! The wounds!’

  ‘I saw them, carissima…’

  ‘As we washed away the last of the blood, they seemed to open wider. Like little mouths. Their throats deeper. Darker. They seemed to be crying out to me. That this should have been done. By his colleagues. His companions. Men he counted amongst his closest allies. To a man who never wronged them. Who forgave his enemies. Promoted his friends. Twenty-one little wounds. Bone-deep on the top and back of his head. Into his shoulders, back and breast. Into his hands and arms. Then that one across his face. And the terrible wound in his side. Antistius said that was the one which killed him. It was so deep. I could put my fingers in it. My fingers. Right in…’

  She was still sobbing when Artemidorus finally fell asleep.

  XVII

  Dies Lunae, Moon Day, the fifth day after the Ides of Mars and the day of Caesar’s funeral dawned bright and fair. Artemidorus woke before sunrise. Eased himself away from Cyanea. Peeling their naked skin gently apart. She was curled like a baby. Her back to his belly. He did not want to disturb her. For she had passed a restless night. Crying out in her sleep. Obviously suffering sad and frightening dreams. Like the dreams Calpurnia had suffered six nights ago. He hoped that whatever Cyanea dreamed was not so clearly ill-omened.

  But if ever a day was doomed to be ill-omened, today was that day. He thought grimly. As he went to visit first the latrine and then the tonsor.

  He expected to be the tonsor’s first customer. But no. Lord Antony had been shaved, eaten a light jentaculum and already left. Fully armed beneath his mourning robes. Ready for the funeral in more ways than one.

  This information was given to him by Enobarbus who was also shaved and dressed. As fully armed as Antony. But without the funeral robes. Neither of the secret agents had any specific responsibilities in the funeral. But both were well aware that Rome was like the funeral pyre out on the Field of Mars. The slightest spark could set it all ablaze. Their only problem was that they really did not know Antony’s plans. As discussed with Fulvia late into the night. Discussed with Fulvia but not with them.

  The simple question was this. If Rome was set alight, would Antony want them to fight the fire? Or fan the flames?

  Over a light breakfast of warm bread, milk, honey and fruit, they discussed the coming day and how they should place themselves within it. Though Enobarbus’ armour and sword-belt showed the drift of his thoughts on that subject. Artemidorus emulated him. Though they decided to leave their helmets here. For the time being.

  ‘It would help if we had a more precise idea of what was going to happen,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘Well, the funeral, obviously…’ said Enobarbus.

  ‘No. I meant on the larger scale.’

  ‘Ah. I can’t tell you much. But I know someone who probably can.’

  ‘That’s just what I was thinking. Let’s go.’

  Spurinna was at the altar on the Field of Mars. Sacrificing another bull. This one was pure white. A signal of the importance the augur was putting on today’s conversation with the gods. Beyond the altar it was just possible to see Caesar’s funeral pyre. Also in the shape of an altar but far larger than the one Spurinna was using. They would need ladders to get Caesar’s body upon the top of it, thought Artemidorus. Longer ladders than the one he had used to free Puella five nights ago. Beyond the huge pyre towered the tomb of Caesar’s beloved daughter Julia. Who had died in childbirth. Giving Pompey a son. Who had also died within days. Two deaths that seemed to drive a wedge between the two mourning men. Two small occurrences on which a civil war had turned. It was always the small things that did the most damage, he thought.

  It was here that the two spies caught up with their general. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Antony,’ the augur was saying. ‘The wishes of the gods are by no means clear. On the one hand I can see no threat of disaster predicted in these entrails. On the other hand I can see no promise of great good fortune either.’

  ‘So,’ said Antony. ‘It looks as though the gods are content to leave matters in our less exalted hands. For today at least. Well. Sacrifice another bull and send me word if the gods change their minds. In the meantime, look to the skies. The flights of birds. The disposition of the clouds. Any approaching storms…’ He turned away from the augur and faced his secret agents. ‘You two, come with me,’ he ordered.

  This was the decisive, occasionally hot-headed Antony the soldiers knew from the battlefield. They fell in behind him obediently as he marched back towards the forum. He seemed to have dispensed with both lictors and litter today. Able to move faster and achieve more without them. ‘I could have done with a little more guidance than that.’ He flung the words over his shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps Hercules is still asleep,’ suggested Enobarbus.

  ‘Very funny!’ snapped Antony. Then he relented. Picked up on Enobarbus’ slightly ironic thought. ‘But even so, you would expect Mars to be keeping an eye on his favourite – even a dead favourite. And Venus Genetrix. Caesar does claim to be descended from her after all! As does the whole Julii clan.’

  The three soldiers entered the busy Forum shoulder to shoulder. Workmen on the Rostra were just putting the final touches to the funeral shrine that would hold Caesar’s body. For at least part of the ceremony. It was a perfect small-scale copy of the Temple of Venus Genetrix. Divine founder of Caesar’s Julian line. The temple itself stood nearby. Caesar had promised it on the eve of the Battle of Pharsalus. As a gift to the goddess in case of victory. It had been dedicated less than two years ago. On the last day of his controversial triumph after Pompey’s death during the civil war. A year before the battle of Munda brought it all to an uneasy close. With the defeat and death of all but one of Pompey’s sons. Which generated the most controversial triumph of all.

  The difference between the shrine and the temple was obvious. Apart from the scale. Behind the tall building’s eight-a-side columns stood the square, marble-faced walls of the inner temple. In the smaller shrine there was nothing comparable. A place for a couch. A coffin-shaped box behind it. Its lid was open and someone was standing there. Artemidorus recognised Antistius the physician. And beside Antistius stood a spear from whose point hung a long, soiled-looking white cloth. The man who had treated dead Caesar’s wounds closed the box carefully. Adjusted the strange white cloth. Came down off the Rostra and vanished into the gathering crowd.

  *

  In front of the Rostra stood a praeco herald. His voice was raised over the noise of people bustling about and talking excitedly. His job was not only to announce the imminent funeral as planned for later that day. But also to advise anyone wishing to leave gifts or sacrifices in honour of Caesar to take them by any route they preferred out to the Field of Mars. And leave them by the funeral pyre there.

  ‘It’s going to be a long enough day without waiting for half the city to sacrifice their trinkets to the Divine Caesar,’ said Antony.

  ‘And by the end of it, what do you plan to have achieved?’ asked Enobarbus bluntly.

  ‘I was hoping the gods would guide me on that.’ Antony shrugged.

  ‘But they haven’t. So the choice is yours, General,’ said the tribune.

  ‘Today is your last chance, Lord Antony,’ Artemidorus urged. ‘If you haven’t broken the power of the Libertores by sunset then you’ll have lost and they’ll have won.’

  ‘I know that…’

  ‘So,’ pressed the secret agent and centurion. As the soldier, suddenly. Rather than the spy. ‘What are your battle orders?’

  Antony stopped. Looked around. Made sure he was not being overheard by any nearby strangers. Faced his companions and began to speak rapidly in a low voice. ‘I thought they’d riot yesterday. At the reading of the will. It seemed to me that the will proved everything Brutus and Cassius said about Caesar and his ambitions was one lie after another. I
didn’t think for a moment I’d have to point it out. I really believed the people would see that. And react accordingly. Without any intervention from me that would look suspicious to the Libertores.

  ‘Yet they just stood still. Then went quietly away. Even the old soldiers. I could hardly believe how calmly they took it. My main hope was to start a riot without appearing to have done so. And it didn’t work. Now, I have one more chance to start one today. But I can’t pretend not to have done so. Not any longer. If I go down that road it will be obvious to everyone.

  ‘I have gone through the whole thing with Fulvia. We think the best way forward is to try and emulate the funeral of Fulvia’s first husband. My friend Clodius Pulcher. He was murdered too. On the Appian Way. There was none of this formality about his funeral. Fulvia displayed his body at their villa. Showed the people his wounds. Then stood back and let them loose. You remember the riots that followed?

  ‘Our best hope is to do the same today. I have everything in place. But I’ll have to judge the temper of the crowd so, so carefully. Because once I start, it will be obvious what I’m trying to do. The Libertores remember Pulcher’s funeral and the riots that followed it as clearly as I do. And if it doesn’t work then I’m certain Brutus will finally listen to Cassius, Trebonius, Albinus and Basilus. And Cicero, come to that. Those gladiators will come after me. Fulvia and the children. Lepidus and his family. Perhaps even you and yours. Everyone they think might be a Caesarian. Gladiators at the very least!

  ‘Remember what Cicero did at the end of the Catiline conspiracy? How many did he kill out of hand? Without trial? Five! Patricians and senators. Strangled in the Tullianum.’ He glanced across at the nearby prison building as he named it. ‘No formal accusation. No trials. Execution on his say-so. Despite Caesar’s defence of them in the Senate. Including Publius Lentulus. My stepfather! I even had to plead with the little cockroach to get him a decent burial!’ Then he concluded, his face still reflecting some of the outrage he had felt as a nineteen-year-old in seeing his family so brutally destroyed. ‘He can be absolutely ruthless. He’ll urge them to proscribe and execute us all.’