Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘A bit better…’ allowed Quintus. ‘Might have broken his shield-arm. Numbed it at the least, I suppose… Try again.’

  This time the melon exploded. The helmet spun away like a child’s ball.

  ‘At last,’ said Quintus.

  ‘Not much use if it takes four shots, though,’ admitted Artemidorus. ‘That would have been no use at all if I’d been slinging against some charging Ghost Warriors in the north of Gaul.’

  ‘Ah, but you won’t be, will you?’ said Quintus. ‘Come down here and use your wits as well as your eyes.’

  Artemidorus joined the old soldier beside the wall. Quintus began to work the first bullet free. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The shots are all level. Same height – just above the scutum. It’s just your lateral aim that’s off.’

  ‘I don’t see what difference that would make. A miss is a miss.’

  ‘Against Gaulish Ghost Warriors, yes. I agree. And against the bloody great Germans too unless they come at you in a Boar’s Head wedge formation. But you won’t be fighting any of them will you? Given what’s happened and given the mission we’ve been handed, you know you’re going to end up fighting legions. Brutus’ legions or Cassius’ legions. Or more likely both at once. And they’ll come at you in a wall. A shield wall. But still a wall.’

  ‘So if I miss the one in the middle, I’ll hit the man on one side of him or the other…’

  ‘Precisely! And even at sixty paces you’ll do some serious damage. Before you get down to sharpshooting at forty paces and less…’

  Artemidorus tried to pull the lead bullet out of the wall to the left of the mess that the exploded melon had made. Failed: it was buried far too securely. ‘How much damage, do you think?’

  ‘It’s impossible to be sure,’ Quintus answered. ‘I tell you, though. I miss the old days when we could use slaves or criminals as targets. That way we’d know for certain!’ He paused, then added. ‘As it is, we’ll just have to wait for the war.’ His eyes almost vanished in his deep-lined face as he squinted up at Septem, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Not, I think, that we’ll be waiting all that long…’

  vii

  Quintus called the guards in and the four men swiftly put the range to rights, vacating it as the next group arrived, all armed with short, reticulated Parthian bows. ‘What,’ called Quintus cheerfully to their leader, one of the principales junior officers in the cavalry division. ‘Parthian bows – and no horses to shoot from? Or are you just going to practise running away and shooting as you go?’

  ‘We’re moving one step forward at a time, Quintus,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘First we learned to ride. Now we learn to shoot. I’m afraid I’ll be as old and grey as you are before they can do both at once and graduate into proper sagittariorae bowmen! Right, you lot. Line up behind the table. Raise your bows and nock your arrows. The standard form with this weapon is the Persian method. Pull back the string with the bottom three fingers of your right hand, steadying the arrow with your index finger and thumb. Finger along the shaft. Bow in the left hand. Level with your chins. At an angle which what I remember of Pythagoras and Euclid suggests to be about forty-five degrees. And pull towards your chest. Your chest! Save your nose for sharpshooting with the Egyptian longbow…’

  ‘I’ve seen them practising,’ said one of Quintus’ legionaries as the four of them trooped out through the door. ‘If they tried both riding and shooting, they either shoot each other or fall off and break their necks.’

  ‘Or both,’ growled his companion. ‘On the other hand they might do us all a favour and kill that principale. Too full of himself that one. Needs to learn some respect. Old and grey…’

  They were Quintus’ men, so Artemidorus did not discipline them. He watched as they doubled off. ‘They’re good lads,’ said Quintus quietly. ‘They take pride in what they do and try to pull the rest up to their level.’

  The two soldiers turned and began to stride across the Field of Mars side by side. ‘It’s a while since I’ve done much practice with the bow,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Maybe we should catch up with that next.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have a delivery of new bows coming. New types of bow. New types of arrow, bolt and dart. New techniques, therefore. To maximise range, accuracy and rate of fire.’

  Talking about new and experimental types of armaments, the two soldiers walked towards the Gate of Fontus which stood astride the Clivus Argentarius main road leading in from the Field of Mars towards the Forum. Only because of the current state of emergency in the aftermath of Caesar’s murder could they continue across the line of the inner pomerium city boundary fully armed as they were. Even so, as with last night, their armour and carelessly displayed weaponry gave them an air of danger. So the pair of them walked alone. As the good citizens of Rome, their servants and slaves, shopkeepers, stallholders, ex-soldiers, street gangs and even the occasional sorceress and fortune-teller all gave them a wide berth.

  *

  It was Artemidorus’ plan to accept Spurinna’s invitation and assemble the contubernium of spies and secret agents at the augur’s villa. Where there was also the Senate scribe Adonis whom he wished to question further. But between the Gate and the villa, there lay the Forum Romanum, showing clear signs of damage from the riots. Some of whose flagstones still showed gleams of the gold which had run, molten, from the ornaments and honours that had been thrown into Caesar’s funeral pyre.

  But, more relevantly, just off the Forum on the way towards the Basilica Aemilia market there lay several tabernae taverns and lupanars brothels where Artemidorus planned to contact one of the members of his contubernium directly.

  He and Quintus walked side by side into the first tavern which the centurion knew to be a favourite of the man he was seeking. And there, immediately, was their objective. A big square Iberian ex-legionary from the Sixth Legion, the Ironclads. Who was known to Artemidorus, code-named Septem as a member of the VIIth, by his code name Ferrata – Iron Man. The secret agent had stayed clear of Ferrata recently. Because it had been to the tender mercies of Ferrata and the rioting men behind him that he had left his treacherous lover Cyanea. Naked and lashed to a whipping post in the villa of Minucius Basilus. One of Caesar’s murderers. And a man noted for the perverse pleasure he took in the suffering of others.

  There was a conversation there that Artemidorus was not yet willing to experience. But Ferrata was an excellent man. Cyanea had robbed him of too much to let her rob him of Ferrata too. ‘Ave, Septem,’ said the legionary, catching his eye as he and Quintus came in. Not a difficult feat. Every head in the room turned towards them as they entered, armour gleaming, helmet crests bright, swords and daggers on their hips. Ferrata was seated at a small table piled with eggs, dates and emmer bread. In the middle of a ring of wine goblets. In the midst of a larger circle of rough-looking, half-sober ex-legionaries. Caesar’s will had been read a good while ago now. Antony had the dead dictator’s notes and knew his wishes. But nothing had actually been done as yet. So Rome was still full of the men who had come to collect their final pay and discover where they were going to be settled. Which made the streets more dangerous than usual. The taverns immensely profitable. And the girls in the brothels permanently exhausted.

  ‘Finish your wine, Ferrata,’ ordered Artemidorus, with the authority of a man paying better than standard legionary rates. ‘We have a meeting we need to attend.’ Then he and Quintus turned and exited.

  Ferrata caught up with them moments later, juggling a cloth-wrapped bundle of olives and bread. One whiff of his breath confirmed that he had obeyed Septem’s order and finished the wine. ‘What’s up?’ he asked guardedly.

  ‘New orders,’ said Septem shortly. ‘More details when we get where we’re going.’

  viii

  The three men were admitted to Spurinna’s villa by his slave Kyros. Kyros was a quick-witted and decisive young man. So much so that Artemidorus was considering adding him to the contubernium – though the secret
organisation was rapidly expanding past the standard eight-man command. As Kyros led the three soldiers across the atrium, he brought them up to date with what he had been doing. For it was directly relevant to their immediate mission. ‘Gaius Trebonius’ slave, the Senate record keeper, is called Adonis,’ he said. Artemidorus and Quintus exchanged glances. They knew the record keeper’s name. But there was an unspoken agreement between them to indulge the excited boy. ‘We have him locked in a storeroom and we have been getting him ready to answer your questions, Septem.’

  ‘We?’ asked the spy.

  ‘Puella and me. Augur Spurinna has given us permission. I know it is unusual for a woman to be involved in such work. But she is very good at it. Very good.’

  ‘In what way?’ The spy and centurion was intrigued. He knew the young woman to be intrepid and resourceful. But this was a new side to her.

  ‘It was Puella who suggested Adonis would be more amenable if we took his clothes. And tied him naked to the chair. All alone in a cold, dark storeroom. And it was she who thought of refusing to let him use the latrine. Then she suggested that she and I should stand outside the door and speak loudly enough for him to hear us…’

  ‘Discussing what?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘Your techniques as carnifex. I said that you and Antistius the physician had been considering the most effective ways of getting answers quickly and accurately. And that you were surprised to learn that techniques such as gouging, chopping, flaying, burning and boiling were probably not as effective as you might suppose. Then Puella said No, it was apparently better to start with smaller things. Like nails. Fingers. Toes. Teeth. Then I said the most popular technique was still crucifixion. And she said, Wrong: if you’re going to hammer nails through bits of people, don’t think in terms of wrists, ankles and crosses… Think tables and testicles…’

  Ferrata gave a guffaw of laughter at this. And even Quintus suppressed a grin. But Artemidorus wasn’t so sure. It seemed to him that Spurinna had behaved like an over-indulgent parent. Letting the youngsters play their cruel games. But what was done was done. He would talk to Adonis while Kyros and any other servant Spurinna could spare went about business that was much more commonplace. Puella, however, would stay with him. To watch. To learn.

  Spurinna welcomed them and set about supplying a light prandium lunch. Ferrata shoved his empty cloth into his belt and assumed the look of a man who hasn’t eaten in days. Kyros was given a list and sent out to summon those named on it. Artemidorus left Quintus and Ferrata considering a meal of cold meat, eggs, olives, bread and fruit. With Spurinna’s permission, he took Puella with him. Though, to be fair, she was as much his property as the soothsayer’s. He was the one who had stolen her from Brutus’ household in the first place. During the dark and stormy hours before the Ides dawned. Spurinna was simply giving her a place to hide. In the unlikely event that Brutus’ servants had time – or inclination – to look for her. After they closed up Brutus’ Roman villa and headed south after him. As Artemidorus gestured for her to follow him, the spy kept his face stern, and met her wide, melting gaze with his steeliest stare. Until she looked down, silently abashed. Aware that she had somehow displeased him. All without a word having been spoken. Then, still silently, the pair of them went to talk to Adonis.

  As Kyros had said, the terrified and desperate young man was tied naked to a chair in a cold, dark storeroom. As Artemidorus opened the door, letting light flood in, the Senate secretary jumped and just suppressed a cry of alarm. Artemidorus breathed in and his nostrils told him that in spite of Puella’s refusal to let him use the latrine, he had managed to contain himself. What Kyros had not remarked upon was something Artemidorus had noted on first meeting the young man. His physical beauty. He was from the north. Of Germanian or Gaulish colouring. Like one of the forty thousand slaves taken after Caesar’s famous defeat of Vercingetorix and the tribes at Alesia.

  Artemidorus remembered that Trebonius had spent some time as Caesar’s legate at war with the Eburone tribe in the north of Gaul nine years or so ago. Where this beautiful boy had been captured no doubt. As a ten or eleven-year-old. His hair was a helmet of tight blond curls. His eyes the blue of a summer’s sky. In the evening, after sunset. His nose almost Greek in its perfection and his lips like the bow of Cupid himself. In the middle of his perfect, square chin, there was a gelasinus dimple. Not a cleft, a fissura, as there was in the Tribune Enobarbus’ determined jaw. A dimple. No doubt his beauty was the reason his slave name was Adonis. ‘Release him,’ Artemidorus ordered. ‘Give him back his tunic and guide him to the latrine.’

  As Puella hurried to obey, he continued talking – to Adonis. ‘You will use the facilities and return here. There are two other soldiers in the house and both are widely experienced veterans. If you make any attempt to escape they will kill you. If you come back here, there will be food and drink waiting for you. And you and I will talk. There will be no torture. I have served my time as carnifex, but I see no need to use my skills on you. If you tell me what I want to know. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Lord…’ Adonis stood stiffly. Massaged his wrists where his bonds had been tightest. Pulled the tunic Puella handed him over his golden curls.

  ‘You know I will keep my word, after our last conversation, when you told me about Caesar’s dying words as you overheard them…’

  ‘Yes, my Lord…’ Like his features, his Latin was perfect.

  ‘Good. Off you go. And hurry.’

  ix

  Adonis needed no further prompting and the chastened Puella hurried after him to guide him to the latrine. And return him as swiftly as possible. Artemidorus followed them out, his stern face softening towards a smile. Strode through to the kitchen and returned with bread, cheese and water. These were sitting on a table when Puella guided the boy back again. At a gesture from Artemidorus, the prisoner pulled the chair up to the table and fell-to hungrily. ‘Wait by the door,’ Artemidorus ordered and Puella obeyed. Standing half in the light, watching proceedings avidly. Hungry for knowledge. Not for food. Artemidorus perched apparently casually on the edge of the table. His position establishing both his superiority and the fact that he, too, was between the boy and the doorway. But not quite close enough to present a threat. The light was behind him, however. Shining over his shoulder into the boy’s face. So the interrogator could see clearly every shift of expression. In the perfect features. In the wide, limpid eyes.

  ‘You did well to remember Caesar’s dying words,’ Septem observed.

  ‘I remember everything,’ Adonis replied. The words coming less than clearly past a mouthful of bread and cheese. ‘That is the reason Lord Trebonius had me trained in the shorthand and positioned as a recorder in the Senate. I have always been able to remember every detail of what I hear and see. And, since I learned to read and write, everything that I have seen written down. By my hand or another’s.’

  ‘I know you heard what was said at the murder of Caesar. Can you tell me what you saw?’

  ‘I saw everything, Lord.’

  ‘Tell me what you saw, then.’

  The dazzling eyes widened. Adonis was pale with terror. Artemidorus was presenting no threat – quite the opposite. Therefore, reasoned the spy, the boy’s fear came from the fact that he was preparing to disobey his order. Preparing to negotiate. To strike a bargain if he could. ‘What I saw could mean death. To me and my…’

  ‘Your… What? Family? Lover?’

  ‘Sister,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  And Artemidorus understood something further about the boy’s name. ‘Your sister Venus…’

  ‘We are twins,’ the boy admitted. ‘And apart from our sex, it has always been nearly impossible to tell us apart. Lord Trebonius was amused to name us as he did. For our beauty, he said…’

  ‘And if I can guarantee that you and your sister will be safe, will you tell me what you saw when Caesar was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. If you can do that.’ Something more stirred
in those wide, blue eyes. Desperation? Cunning? Calculation certainly. Perhaps hope.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My Lord Trebonius has enjoyed us both in many ways, but lately Venus has failed to please him. He had allowed members of the household access to her. As punishment. But now that he has been named among the Libertores and fled the city, there will be no one to control matters. While the household prepares to follow him to Ephesus as he takes up his post of Proconsul of Asia Province.’

  Artemidorus sat silently for a moment. ‘And if I can rescue your sister and bring her here, everything in your astonishingly accurate memory will be mine?’

  ‘Yes Lord. Everything. As will we. Venus and I. Body and spirit.’

  ‘I seem to do little else these days but steal one slave after another. Very well. We have a bargain. I will take some men and bring your sister to you.’ He stood. Looked down at the young man. ‘And stop calling me my Lord. Call me Septem.’

  As he went out through the door he said to Puella. ‘Guard him but do not frighten him any further. You are a gifted interrogator and, like Kyros, you will make a fine addition to my contubernium. But you need to know. Sometimes you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar!’

  Artemidorus entered Spurinna’s triclinium dining room, to find that Kyros had returned already with some more members of the contubernium. Who were now taking advantage of the soothsayer’s hospitality. As this was a quick meal taken on the wing, rather than a full, formal cena dinner, they were perched on the edges of the dining couches. Crowding round three sides of the central table. Antistius the physician was dipping a piece of bread into a bowl of olive oil, his face, as ever, folded into a thoughtful frown. Beside him sat Hercules, who as yet had only the sketchiest idea of why he was here. He was gnawing on a chicken leg. Hopefully not from one of the soothsayer’s prophetic birds, thought the spy wryly. Hercules was tutor to the son of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, the commander of the Seventh Legion.