Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Probably…’

  ‘They won’t have kept any back to warm their beds?’

  ‘Doubt it. If you had done what they have done to those girls, would you want them lying close beside you while you slept?’

  ‘Probably not. Unless I had some kind of death wish. I’d boot them out when I’d finished with them and have at least one of those nasty-looking thugs guard my bedroom. In we go, then…’ said Quintus. And leaned against the door.

  As soon as the door moved, there was utter silence in the room. Into which the two men stepped, framed momentarily by reflected moonlight, Quintus swinging the door closed behind him once again. But when the legionary opened the cover of the lantern and released a blade of light, there were gasps and whimpers of terror. Under Artemidorus’ narrow-eyed gaze, the edge of brightness played across a small room with six basic beds in it. On which lay the young women. Four relatively unhurt. The other two covered with whip-marks and bruises. All of them naked. Dishevelled. Obviously recently abused. Probably in the ways Trebonius had threatened when he quoted the pornographic poet Catullus.

  ‘Confuta! Be silent!’ hissed Quintus. And the fact that his was a completely new voice silenced the girls more effectively than the imperative.

  ‘We are here to help you,’ breathed Artemidorus into the shocked silence. ‘But first I must talk with Cyanea. Where is she?’

  The women looked at each other, wide-eyed. It was impossible to tell whether they were too scared to reveal Cyanea’s whereabouts. Through fear of her or fear of what might happen to her. Or whether they had never heard the name Cyanea before.

  But then events overtook their hesitation and confusion.

  The door behind Quintus swung wide. Mercifully, he had stepped forward so the wooden edge did not hit him. Instead the door slammed back against the wall, fully open. With a crash that drowned the sounds of distress made by the women. And the steward Mors stepped in. He was naked. Erect. Holding a terracotta lamp with a big wick. Whose flame lit the room much more efficiently than Quintus’ dark lantern. Had he not been so drunk, he would have registered what was happening much more quickly than he did. But he was very drunk. So drunk he did not appear to notice the two black-clad, black-faced ghost warriors standing immobile in the shadows. Though to be fair, his focus – such as it was – was on the women. ‘Right, cunnae,’ he snarled. ‘Get ready for round two!’

  Quintus reached for his pugio dagger.

  The movement attracted the steward’s attention. His face seemed to lengthen as he realised what he was looking at. And his jaw dropped.

  ‘What…’ He staggered back, his broad torso blocking the door. Quintus’ dagger was out, but it was clearly too late to be of much use. The steward sucked in a breath. Obviously planning to shout at the top of his lungs and summon the rest of the household.

  But the bellow never came. Instead, the lungful of air whispered out of his gaping mouth as his face folded into a look of utter astonishment. The lamp fell. Shattered on the floor and died. His erection wilted. His legs gave and he slid to the ground. Revealing as he did so, the figure of a woman behind him. A woman standing out on the moon-bright, white marble colonnade of the peristyle. A woman holding a long, thin-bladed pugio that caught the brightness. And gleamed with a red-silver glitter. Who looked down at Mors as he rolled onto his front and lay still. Revealing the black-blooded, fatal stab wound beneath his left shoulder blade.

  Cyanea.

  VII

  i

  The cart Basilus’ servants had used when lighting the flambeaus last evening creaked into the southern outskirts of Pompeii’s forum after moonset, in the darkness just before daybreak. There was no one up and out. Not even slaves going to the early markets. Which hadn’t actually opened yet. Though the weather was calmer and warmer. The breeze moderated but still from the south. It promised to be a fine spring day, when it dawned.

  But had there been anyone on the night-dark streets, they would have stopped and stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the spectacle creaking past. Going from brightness to shadow and back again as it passed the lamp-lit doorways. With a black-skinned legionary in armour driving the single carthorse. An important-looking officer sitting beside him. Equally dark of colour. Two fine mounts tethered behind and trotting happily, unladen. Not so the cart, however. Carts full of farm produce the locals were used to. Carts full of fish up from the docks. Carts full of construction material destined for the latest building project.

  But carts full of nearly naked women were a rarity, even in the fleshpots of Pompeii.

  As they crossed the forum, Quintus pulled the right-hand rein and the patient carthorse swung his head eastwards. A few moments later, the vehicle creaked to a stop in the pool of brightness beneath the flambeau outside the lupanar. The two men climbed down off the driver’s seat. Quintus banged on the brothel door while Artemidorus began helping the bruised and battered women down. After a while, the door was opened by the wiry male slave, dishevelled and sleepy looking. ‘We need to see Restituta,’ snapped the legionary.

  The slave looked at the soldier uncomprehendingly at first. With slowly dawning recognition. Then he looked over Quintus’ shoulder and out at the cart. His eyes widened. ‘Looks like you certainly do,’ he said. ‘We don’t often get them arriving by the cartload like rapa turnips.’

  The slave vanished but he left the door ajar so Quintus and Artemidorus were able to help the girls inside. Wide-eyed and silent, but shaking with cold and fear. Especially when the big bouncer arrived and stood in the corner, silently eyeing them. All six were safely in the brothel’s dimly lit reception room by the time Restituta appeared. Adjusting her clothing and straightening her hair. Obviously aroused from slumber. Or something more active.

  One glance was enough to tell her everything about the women. And probably about the soldiers’ dark disguises. ‘You’ll need to hide these poor women,’ she said. ‘Basilus will tear the town apart. Or rather his tame aedile and the excubiae watchmen will. I don’t suppose you took any paperwork along with them did you? Bills of ownership and so forth?’

  ‘There wasn’t really either time or opportunity,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Though I am apparently destined to become quite experienced at slave-stealing. I’ll bear it in mind next time.’

  ‘Our priorities were a little different,’ added Quintus. ‘Like getting rid of the body, for instance.’

  Restituta’s eyes widened. ‘The body! Not Basilus…’

  ‘Sadly, no,’ said Artemidorus. ‘His steward, Mors. His will be the next carcass to wash out of the gully and into the bay. We dumped it down there on our way round to the stable.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to act quickly even so. I can hide them for a while. Give them food and drink in the meantime. And some clothes. I have a tame medicus who can check them over, tend their hurts and then keep his mouth shut. But I’m not certain they can stay here with any degree of safety for any length of time. We’d be better getting them as far away as possible as quickly as we can.’

  Otho the ships’ pilot appeared, straightening his tunic, just in time to hear the end of what Restituta was saying. ‘Quid novi?’ He asked sleepily. ‘What’s up?’

  At the sight of the girls his eyes widened and he came instantly awake. And, as soon as the situation was explained, he said, ‘We’ll take them aboard Aurora and drop them anywhere they like between here and Massalia. No one will be able to track them that far.’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ said Artemidorus. ‘As long it’s all right with the women and if Captain Lucius is agreeable. When do you sail?’

  ‘When the loading’s done,’ answered the pilot. ‘And Lucius will leap at the chance. He’s a good man. The women can have jentaculum here, get checked over by this medicus and be aboard by time for prandium. Then we’ll be off.’

  The six women fell into a swift, whispered conference. Then a tall, Gaulish woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes spoke for all of them. ‘Massalia. We all want
to go there.’

  That was all. No thanks. No further information. Fair enough, thought Artemidorus. The decision was all that was needed. Anything else would be superfluous.

  ‘Just need to get rid of the cart and the carthorse, then,’ said Quintus after a brief silence. ‘That’ll be too easy to track and too much of a giveaway unless we’re quick about it.’

  ‘Take the cart and one of our horses,’ ordered Artemidorus. ‘Get as far inland as you can then leave the cart and carthorse somewhere grassy and ride back here on the other mount. We’ll be off round about prandium time too.’

  ‘If you go inland for a mile or so, there’s a sidetrack running north,’ suggested Restituta. ‘That takes you up onto Vesuvio. You can leave the cart up there. Plenty of grazing for the carthorse. It’ll be a while before anyone finds it. And when they do, it will lead them in exactly the wrong direction. But the pair of you will have to clean up before you do anything else. There are no African cohorts in town so you stick out a bit. You’ll have to scrub off with cold water, though. None of the baths will be hot for hours yet.’

  The lupinaria was wakened unusually early that morning, therefore, thought Artemidorus as he dried his face and hands on a rough woollen towel. Leaving black smears all over the pale cloth. By the time Quintus left with the cart, heading for Vesuvio’s lower slopes, everyone under Restituta’s roof was up and about. Fortunately no clients apart from Otho had elected to stay the night. So it was only Restituta’s she-wolves who knew about the extra six women. And there arose a kind of sisterly agreement between them as soon as the working girls understood what had happened to their visitors. Basilus’ tame aedile and his watchmen would hit a blank wall if they came here looking for information.

  The wiry slave was sent to summon the physician. Restituta’s ex-gladiator bouncer was set to guard the door. Otho and Artemidorus went down the road to the hospitium to pick up the soldier and spy’s baggage – as well as the packhorse. To settle the bill. And to warn the culina that the girls from the lupanar would shortly be needing breakfast. And would pay in the usual manner.

  ii

  ‘I still don’t really understand what happened,’ said Quintus. ‘I’d have thought she’d have raised Hades and handed you straight over to Basilus. Then happily watched you being beaten like they beat poor Telos. Given what there is between you.’

  ‘I was half expecting to end up like those two poor women. Beaten with a centurion’s vinestock. Only in my case beaten to death…’

  ‘Like in a decimation, you mean?’

  ‘Like in a decimation. Just for a moment there…’

  They were following the coast road back to Neapolis. What had seemed like a lengthy ride along an unfamiliar route coming south in the dark, now seemed much quicker going back north in daylight.

  The horses had settled into an easy trot which the pack animal could keep up with. The road was wide enough to let them ride shoulder to shoulder and hold a conversation. Even amid the early afternoon bustle of other travellers going back and forth around them. A couple of turns of a water clock had taken them to the picturesque port of Herculaneum through which they were riding as they talked. They proposed to stay overnight in the hospitium Otho had taken them to in Neapolis, before swinging north of Puetoli in the morning and joining the Appian Way back at Capua.

  ‘She had just killed his steward,’ said Artemidorus, who was himself still trying to work out what Cyanea was up to. Killing Basilus’ steward, then helping them organise the girls’ escape – even after she recognised him – then vanishing back into the night-silent villa remained such an unlikely series of things for her to do that he was still, frankly, bemused.

  ‘I’m not sure she was absolutely certain who we were. Just for that moment,’ he said. ‘And after that, she was committed…’

  ‘Well, she got very certain pretty fast. The moment I opened the dark lantern. She knew you even with your face blacked up. Why help you then?’

  Artemidorus shrugged in continuing confusion. What was she up to? He wondered.

  Quintus continued, worrying at the problem like a dog with a bone. ‘She was right at the top of Ferrata’s shortlist of people likely to have hired that killer and his sôlênarion bow. Given that she had the money. Or access to the money. And she obviously does now – Basilus’ money. And you can see Ferrata’s point. If you’d have left me tied naked to a whipping post and handed me over to a rioting mob with rape and murder on their mind, I’d have been giving Nemesis herself a close run coming after you.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Quintus continued, ‘as she escaped from Basilus’ house the night the riots began, she set it all on fire. So why go back to Basilus? The one man she surely wanted dead and burning more than you. Why help him play his aegrotus perverted games?’

  ‘For the money?’ wondered Artemidorus. ‘Or access to it at least. Money is power, as young Caesar Octavius is keen to observe…’

  ‘Then why switch sides again and kill his steward?’ mused Quintus, thinking out loud. ‘Then help you rescue his victims? And after she helped us get the girls organised – the wagon was a brilliant idea, though; well done for coming up with it – why didn’t she come with us? Why stay? What in the name of Jupiter Optimus Maximus is she up to?’

  It was a question that lay unanswered through the rest of the day. And indeed, through the rest of the night in the familiar hospitium at Neapolis. Where Artemidorus lay awake trying to fathom an answer. They discussed it next morning as they travelled past the junction with the road leading away down to the seaside hamlet of Puetoli.

  Artemidorus paused at the crossroads, looking down towards the coast. Cyanea at last driven out of his immediate thoughts. He was torn with unaccustomed indecision. Cicero owned a villa down there. As far as he knew, the politician was in residence. And, although he had no orders to do so, he was tempted to pay a visit. To find out whether the lawyer had come to any decision about the possibility of charging Brutus with patricide. The accusation, which had seemed so promising all that time ago, had apparently come to nothing. So far. Perhaps a little nudge would set the ball rolling again, he thought. Put that particular Sisyphus on a downhill slope.

  But after a moment or two he decided against it. Pulled his horse’s right rein and headed inland, up towards Capua and the Appian Way. Like a performer in the Circus Maximus riding two horses at once, he found his thoughts occupied with those two subjects. What had Cicero discovered about the charge of patricide? Why had Cyanea behaved in such an enigmatic manner? Questions that remained unresolved when events overtook them once again.

  It was mid morning. They had stopped at a wayside mansio for something to eat and drink, and to give the horses a rest. The day was as warm as the previous one, more early summer than late spring. They were seated at a table outside, therefore. Side by side on a bench overlooking the road. Discussing the problem of Cyanea’s impenetrable motivation, mulling over whether Cicero needed a nudge to bring a suit against Brutus and making plans for their return to Rome. When a crowd came boiling up the busy thoroughfare.

  ‘He’s coming,’ shouted someone. ‘He’s coming! Caesar is coming!’

  For the briefest moment, the deeply preoccupied Artemidorus expected to see Divus Julius in his triumphator’s costume, his red and gold embroidered tunic and his regal red caligae boots. Entranced by the vision, he rose to his full height then stepped up onto the bench, towering above the excited crowd.

  So that when Caesar Octavius rode by with Agrippa and Rufus beside him, it was easy for the young man to spot the familiar soldier. He reined his horse to a stop, and called over the hubbub of the crowd. ‘Ave Centurion! This is a lucky meeting. Will you ride with me? I have matters I wish to discuss.’

  iii

  ‘A very fortunate meeting,’ said Caesar Octavius again as they trotted onwards, side by side, with Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and Quintus Salvidienus Rufus close enough behind them to join in the conversation. And Quintus a little isolated jus
t behind them. ‘The gods are certainly smiling on me today. I must make a sacrifice to thank them when we get to Rome. At the Temple of Venus Genetrix, the founder of our family. But to business. I am still finding it very hard to communicate with Antony. Which has been something of a problem. A problem that is likely to get worse during the summer unless we can get it settled swiftly. But it is a problem I think you can help me solve. You can take my messages, thoughts and plans to him on my behalf.’

  ‘I can, Caesar. But whether he will listen to me…’ Artemidorus shrugged.

  ‘You should be getting used to that. Was it not you who passed to Divus Julius Caesar himself on the Ides of Mars a list of the men waiting to murder him? At considerable risk to your own life and freedom? A list he never read?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Artemidorus, surprised that the young man knew of it. Too caught up in the moment to consider the implications of that knowledge – and how it might colour Caesar Octavius’ view of him. ‘It is true.’

  ‘I too am familiar with the feeling of being disregarded,’ laughed the young man. ‘I am on my way back to Rome having spent some time with Marcus Tullius Cicero. He has been extremely courteous. And has talked to me about a wide range of topics. But as for listening to me…’ He shook his head and laughed again.

  ‘It is your age, Caesar…’ suggested Agrippa.

  ‘Oh I know that, Marcus Vipsanius,’ Caesar Octavius answered his friend. ‘My age. And their age. I won’t be nineteen until September. They look at me – Antony, Cicero and the rest – and they see an upstart boy. With plans too big for him ever to fulfil. And their reaction is either to dismiss me – as Antony does. Or to patronise me – as Cicero does. But both of them underestimate me. And that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘They will learn better, Caesar,’ said Rufus.

  ‘They will Quintus Salvidienus. Eventually they will…’

  ‘Do they not irritate you, perhaps even anger you, Caesar?’ wondered Artemidorus. ‘That they all present themselves as being so wise, so experienced, so powerful, so important. And yet they are all so short-sighted…’