Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  But the fact that he was obviously a soldier went some way to protecting Artemidorus as he ran through the mayhem. Fortunately so. For the unrest was spreading rapidly. And brutally. It was the worst he had ever seen within the Servian walls. Worse than those half organised by Antony’s friend Clodius Pulcher. Worse than that organised by Fulvia on Pulcher’s death. Worse than those he’d heard tell of which happened during Sulla’s times and before. When the Gracci brothers had been lynched in the Forum. And those in which Saturninus and Glaucia had been stoned to death with tiles torn from their roofs. The year Caesar was born.

  Worse even than those he had experienced in Alexandria. Where the riots had been so bad they had nearly destroyed Cleopatra, Caesar and the four thousand legionaries trapped there with him.

  By the time he was running past Antony’s barricaded door, he had decided to treat the city as though it was a battlefield. He took the spear in his left hand and pulled his gladius free of its sheath on his right hip.

  Which was how he was armed when he came upon the next of the day’s horrors.

  *

  It started with Spurinna’s slave Kyros. The normally sensible and level-headed lad came racing out of the side street leading to one of the smaller forums. He was looking over his shoulder and careered straight into the spy. Who had no chance to slow down or avoid him. He bounced off and fell flat on his back. The shock of the collision seemed to calm him. The look of horror on his face faded a little. But still lurked in the depth of his wide eyes. ‘Septem,’ he said. ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘What is there to see?’ demanded Artemidorus. Impatient to be away. But unwilling to move until he found out what had frightened the boy so badly. And see him safe. ‘Why are you out on the streets and what have you seen?’

  ‘They tore him apart!’ gabbled Kyros. ‘The master sent me with a message to Lord Antony. The auguries are bad and getting worse. He should take care. We all should take care. I was on my way back when I saw the crowd attacking someone. Just ripping him to pieces! I wouldn’t have thought it possible! That they could do it. That they would want to do it!’

  ‘Who? Ripped who to pieces? What are you talking about?’

  ‘He said he’d dreamed last night he dined with Caesar.’ Said Kyros, his voice full of wonder. ‘That he wasn’t well. That he felt feverish. But came out anyway.’

  ‘Who did this? Who said this? Kyros. Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Him…’ said the boy. Pointing. ‘Them…’

  Artemidorus turned. A group of men and women came pouring out of the street Kyros had just emerged from. They were blood-spattered. Wildly excited. Drunk with death and destruction. Almost lunatic. Artemidorus was put in mind of the Bacchantes who tore the poet Orpheus to pieces in the legend. For it was clear that the terrified boy had spoken nothing but the truth.

  In the middle of the blood-soaked mob was a man holding a spear aloft. Flourishing it like a trophy. And on the point of the spear was impaled the head of a man.

  ‘He said his name was Cinna,’ said Kyros. ‘Someone asked his name. He said it was Cinna. And they tore him to pieces. Just like that.’

  It was difficult to identify the owner of the head from the horrified expression on the battered, bloody face. Difficult. But not impossible.

  ‘But that’s not Cornelius Cinna. It’s not the Cinna who spoke against Caesar and joined the Libertores,’ Artemidorus said, his voice filled with shock and wonder. And growing horror. ‘That’s Helvius Cinna. The poet. Helvius Cinna. He’s Tribune of the Plebs...’

  ‘I know,’ whispered Kyros. ‘He told them. But they just didn’t care…’

  The pair of them watched the grim parade as it went down the hill towards the forum. Laughing and shouting. As though they had won a great victory. As though they were in a triumph.

  ‘Has Spurinna barricaded his doors?’ asked Artemidorus as he sheathed his gladius and stooped to help the boy to his feet. ‘I’m worried about him and Puella with all this madness about. Especially if his auguries are right.’

  ‘Yes. He barricaded his door as I went out with the message. But he’ll let me back in,’ said Kyros. He gave a choking laugh. ‘And I wouldn’t worry about Puella. The master’s taken a great liking to her. He’s talking about buying her from Lord Brutus and keeping her for himself.’

  ‘If Brutus has any sense, he and his family will be heading out of the city as quickly as they can – if they haven’t left already. As things are, I don’t think he’ll be too worried about one female slave. Not in the meantime at least.’ Artemidorus remembered all too clearly the look in Ferrata’s eyes as he went off to ‘roast a senator or two.’ Brutus and Cassius would be at the top of Ferrata’s list. And not just his list, either. The brothers-in-law and leaders of the Libertores would be at the top of everybody’s list. For the sake of their families, he hoped that they had both barricaded their doors securely.

  Accompanying the shaken boy to Spurinna’s villa did not take Artemidorus far out of his way. Or cost him much more time. Even so, he redoubled his pace after seeing Kyros let safely in through the improvised fortifications around the augur’s door. The wooden scaffolding that Telos had been crucified against was all gone. More weapons for the rioters, he thought grimly. More fuel for their torches. He really hoped that Enobarbus and Quintus were closing up behind him with a squad of hard-bitten legionaries. And that Lepidus and the VIIth were restoring some kind of order to the streets. But the wolfish howls that echoed from the roads and forums all around him made him doubt that order would be restored easily. Or quickly.

  Without breaking his stride, he pulled his gladius out again.

  *

  As Artemidorus neared Basilus’ villa, he began to slow. The whole area was quiet. Which in itself seemed a little sinister. Given the chaos in the rest of the city. And matters grew more sinister still as he came to the front of the vicious senator’s home. For the door was not barricaded. Or protected in any way. On the contrary, it stood wide open. As though inviting entry. He knew he should hesitate. Check the lie of the land. Wait for Enobarbus, Quintus and the squad from the VIIth. But instead of doing any of these eminently sensible things, he simply walked straight in.

  It was a trap, of course. He knew that. Just as the last time he had entered this place had been a trap. But he calculated that trapping and dealing with him would distract Syrus – and Basilus if he was there – from hurting Cyanea. And if he lasted long enough, then Enobarbus could rescue her. Even if it was too late to rescue him. It suddenly entered his mind that he should have asked them to bring Antistius with them. For there might well be need of a good physician. Or at the very least, someone adept at making death masks.

  The doors opened inwards and the instant he stepped through them into the osticum entry hall he swung round. But there was no one waiting behind them to slam the trap shut. So he turned again and walked through into the atrium. The open space, and what he could see of the rooms around it, showed signs of hasty departure. Boxes and trunks stood open. Clothing hung out of them. Scrolls were scattered on the tablinum office floor. So Basilus, his family and slaves had seemingly run for it already. To one of his villas in the country, perhaps. He’d heard the senator owned a palatial property down in Pompeii. Where the rich and sybaritic liked to spend their time in luxurious idleness.

  This thought took him through the open tablinum office area. Which gave him his first clear view of the peristyle garden. With its whipping post in place of a fountain. And his first sight of Cyanea who was tied with her back to the post.

  Naked.

  As soon as he saw her he dived to the right, going down on one knee. Dropping his gladius. Relying on the scutum shield to cover his left side for the moment. Grounding the haft of the pilum spear. Hard against the side of his sandal’s thick sole. So that the gladiator running silently out of the open alae wing hoping the spy would be distracted by the woman’s nudity and vulnerability, received a death blow. Instead of delivering
one. Unable to stop or turn away when he saw the deadly danger at the last moment. The spear point went into his belly just above his pubic bone and drove up into his heart. His dead weight came onto the haft. The metal tip tore out of his back just above his shoulders. Where the spine joined the neck.

  As he crashed sideways onto the floor, Artemidorus let go of the spear and turned. Pulling the shield further onto his left arm. Reaching for the gladius with his right hand. But Syrus had been content to risk only one man. A man armed with an acinaces single-edged sword. Which the dead gladiator had been holding blunt edge down. Using it as a club. Not as a sword. With orders to stun, therefore. Not kill. Which meant Syrus was waiting to do the job himself. But how many others did he have with him? And would there be more traps?

  Unlikely, thought Artemidorus. Traps like that depended on surprise. And it would be impossible to surprise him now. ‘I hope you appreciate that,’ he said to the dead man as he stood up. ‘That was the spear which held Caesar’s toga at his funeral. It’s almost sacred. Though I don’t suppose that will be much help where you’re going.’

  He locked his gaze on Cyanea’s wide and terrified eyes as he fell into his fighting stance and moved forward. Scutum protecting his body. Gladius held low. Ready for the upward killing stroke. The one Antistius had said killed Caesar. Step by step he moved through the open tablinum towards the peristyle. And each step revealed more of the garden beside and behind Cyanea and the whipping post. As he moved, he tried to remember how many men had been with Cestus when the panther took him. Eight? Were the gladiators in a unit based on the army’s contubernium, like Enobarbus’ team of spies? If so, there were only four left. For Cestus was gone. The hard-to-kill Priscus and the boy. The corpse with the acinaces single-edged sword on the floor just behind him.

  That might explain the trap which the dead man had tried to spring. Syrus getting a lot less confident now. For he and his men were clearly associated with the Libertores. Like Albinus’ men. None of whom, suspected Artemidorus, were going to survive Caesar’s funeral games. Syrus and his men must know they must be badly at risk now. Not only that, but their paymaster had vanished.

  These thoughts took Artemidorus through the tablinum and out into the garden. Where he stopped. Stopped moving. Stopped thinking. There was no more time for speculation. No need for it. The area of grass in the middle of the peristyle was larger than usual in such gardens. Where a pool would have filled its centre there was nothing. Just more grass. The whipping post stood at the far end. No doubt to give Basilus or his slave master more room for a run-up before the lash landed. But here and now, it would serve very well as a battlefield for two combatants, he thought. And as he did so, Syrus stepped out onto the grass with three men at his back. Forming a wedge of muscular flesh between the spy and his lover. And a wall of armour. Syrus’ companions looked to Artemidorus to be a Thraex. Whose armour was based on Thracian design, with a small round shield called a parmula. A helmet crested with a gryphon. With a face mask like the Samnite’s helmet had. And a curved Thracian sword. A more heavily armed hoplomachus in quilted armour. With greaves protecting his shins. A gladius. A spear. And a provocator with body armour similar to Artemidorus’ own. A gladius. And a pugio dagger. Syrus himself was free of armour. Wearing only a tunic. With a simple belt and sheath for a dagger. Carrying only his massive Syrian club. Like the god Hercules without his lion skin. ‘You are so predictable,’ he said mockingly. ‘To be caught in the same trap twice…’

  ‘You couldn’t hold us last time. You won’t be able to hold us this time. Especially as you’ll be dead.’

  ‘So you say,’ mocked the gladiator. ‘Well, who dies first? You or your canicula bitch?’

  ‘If you want to play with her you’ll have to kill me first.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Syrus. ‘And, as ever, we are well ahead of you on that. So. That’s decided then. You die first…’

  *

  Artemidorus stepped further onto the grass of the garden, falling a little lower into his stance. Knees bent. Shield up to his eyes. Armoured body filling the curve behind it. Very aware that he didn’t have a helmet on. He tightened his grip on the gladius.

  ‘… but this is hardly an equal contest,’ Syrus continued. ‘And I know you’re a fair-minded man. Who wouldn’t want to take advantage…’ He stepped back. Lowered his club. Pulled the dagger from his belt and rested the point of it against Cyanea’s throat. Exactly where an artery pulsed. Its beat racing to the dictates of her terror. The threat was immediate enough to make Artemidorus stop where he was. Hurry, Enobarbus, he thought. Get Quintus and my men here!

  Syrus stood with his knife at Cyanea’s throat. His three companions each removed some element of their armour. Strapping or tying it onto Syrus instead. Something they had clearly practised in the past. In a matter of moments, he was protected by the provocator’s body armour. The hoplomachus’ greaves. The Thraex’s round parmula shield and gryphon-crested helmet. The gryphon thought Artemidorus inconsequentially. Companion to the terrifying goddess Nemesis. Goddess of Retribution. Also called Adrasteia, The Inescapable.

  The dagger Syrus held at Cyanea’s throat was replaced by the provocator’s. The Syrian picked up his club as he sheathed his own dagger and stepped forward. ‘Now,’ he said, his voice muffled by the iron mask that covered his face. ‘That’s better. I might even simply cripple you and let you lie in agony. Watching us take the woman. Before you finally die. I would enjoy that. Let us begin.’

  Artemidorus attacked at once, running forward over the grass. Relieved to feel that the ground was firm and not too slippery. The grass was short. And the storms had made little impression on the hard earth beneath it. If he had expected to surprise his opponent he was disappointed. Syrus threw his left arm wide. As though disdaining to use the small round parmula shield on his forearm. As though inviting Artemidorus closer still. As though offering his armoured torso to the sword. But the gesture was only to balance him for the in-swing of his massive club. Which hit the top corner of Artemidorus’ shield with a force that almost tore it from his grasp. Bouncing up to skim over the top of his head. Close enough to stir his hair.

  He would have pushed on in for the kill. But the power of the stroke knocked him sideways. He lost his footing. Went down on one knee. Lowered his sword point slightly. Left arm numb and shoulder painful from keeping hold of the shield.

  Syrus charged forward at once, club high. Artemidorus just had time to raise the shield before another massive blow crashed down onto it. With such force that the spy was beaten further back still. Surprised that the shield did not shatter into splinters around him. But the power of the blow put Syrus off balance too. He began to topple forward. Artemidorus forced himself back up. The solid scutum ground against the smaller parmula. And the full weight of Syrus bearing down on it.

  Syrus aimed a half-hearted blow over the top of the spy’s shield. The club smacked into the backplate of his armour. Knocked the wind out of him. He stabbed upward with his gladius in retaliation. Missed Syrus’ thigh. But only by a hair. Syrus reared back. Artemidorus stood erect. Also stepped back. Fell into his fighting stance again. Shoulder throbbing. Shield arm feeling dead and useless. Chest burning for want of breath.

  Then he immediately attacked. For the third time. There was no alternative in any case. Syrus was oozing confidence now. Tossing the club expertly from one hand to the other. Dancing backwards, sure-footed on the hard ground. Allowing his arms to go wider and wider as he juggled with the massive weapon. Showing off to his appreciative audience. Laughing as they cheered him on. Artemidorus leaped forward. And Syrus struck again. But the club was in his left hand now. And his target was not the spy but his gladius. The club smashed into the sword blade, crushing it against the edge of the shield. Tearing it out of Artemidorus’ fist to fly across the garden and land at Cyanea’s feet. She screamed.

  The blow did more than disarm Artemidorus. It knocked him to the ground. Stunned. Agonised, half conv
inced that his left arm was broken and his shoulder shattered, he fought to get his shield back in place. While he used his bruised right hand to push himself back up into a crouch. The shield held just above him.

  Syrus’ club thundered down onto it again. With such force that the shield slammed against his forehead. Transmitting to his skull some of the awesome power behind the blow. Lightning seemed to flicker behind his eyes. He could almost feel his brains slopping about like cena porridge in a bowl. There was wetness on his upper lip. He tasted iron. His nose was bleeding. Cyanea called out again. A scream of warning. Syrus was closing in for the kill. Or for the crippling.

  Artemidorus reached his right hand round and pulled Brutus’ lethal dagger from its sheath. He raised the shield slightly, as though trying vainly to protect his head from the inevitable. Beneath the lower iron-bound edge, he could see the grass. And on it, Syrus’ feet in their caligae sandals as the gladiator came closer still. Overconfident. Trying to be sure that this stroke would be the last. Or the beginning of the end at least.

  Artemidorus threw himself forward. Shield raised a little higher. Its edge crashed into the metal greaves on Syrus’ shins. Doing no damage at all. But the dagger stabbed down unstoppably through the straps of the gladiator’s right sandal. Through the arch of his instep. Through the sole. Deep into the ground. Until its crosspiece hit the flesh of Syrus’ foot. Artemidorus released his grip on it. Reared back, taking firm hold of his shield. Dived forward. Drove the iron rim of its lower edge down with all his might. Across the sandalled toes beneath.

  It was an old soldier’s trick. A ruse of last resort. Syrus would hardly have felt the dagger pin his foot to the ground. So he didn’t yet know he had lost after all. But the shield smashed onto his toes so hard they burst like grapes in a wine press. And he felt that. His scream of agony was the loudest sound the spy had heard today. But the action wasn’t over yet. No sooner had Artemidorus destroyed the club man’s toes than he drove the shield upwards again with all his might. His target was Syrus’ face – even though it was masked with iron. But as fate would have it, the gladiator was still swinging his club down. Caught in the impetus dictated by the heavy weapon. So the sharp upper edge of the shield hit his wrists. There was a snap. The breaking of a dry branch. The sound a slingshot makes when it hits at close quarters. It was Syrus’ right wrist shattering. In three heartbeats, hardly more, the gladiator had gone from confident winner to crippled loser.