Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Why should it irritate me?’ laughed Caesar. ‘As long as they underestimate me, it is a weakness in them. And their weakness is my strength! Think about it. Antony finds me and my ambitions an easily dismissed distraction. As well he might. For his priorities are clear enough. Keep Rome quiet. Settle the legions in their villages and farms. (Which I hear, is what he has managed to do at last. A little way north of here in fact.) Get some sort of reliable power base that does not rely on the goodwill of the Senate. Move the main opponents – Brutus, Cassius, Trebonius – into positions of diminished power and influence. Well out of Italy and in places where there is limited access to legions. Come after the so-called Libertores who killed my father Divus Julius. Starting of course with Decimus Albinus whom he has to prise loose from Cisalpine Gaul. In case he brings his legions south…’

  ‘Your logic is impeccable, Caesar,’ said Artemidorus, wondering whether the young man had somehow gained access to the contents of Antony’s letter pouch before Enobarbus handed it over to him.

  ‘But I don’t think he need fear Albinus as much as he does. I understand that Albinus himself is nervous. Of the tribes at his back in the Alps. Supplemented as they are by the Gaulish tribes north of the mountains. Who are in turn under pressure from the warlike peoples in Germania. And Albinus’ focus – and his legions, therefore – is to the north and in the Alps, rather than to the south across the Rubicon. But in the meantime, as I say, Antony is far too preoccupied with these concerns to give a second thought to an overambitious boy. So, for the moment at least, I am safe from him. And can go about my business unmolested.’

  ‘And these are thoughts you wish me to take to General Antony?’ asked Artemidorus, half amused, half astonished. Not, as yet, suspicious, though he knew he was being skilfully manipulated.

  ‘You may take to Antony anything I say,’ answered Caesar Octavius airily. ‘And I assure you, anything I do not wish you to take to Antony will remain absolutely unsaid!’

  ‘And, if I may ask, what is the business you mentioned, Caesar?’

  ‘To get money, Centurion. To sell every brick of building, every stick of furniture, every piece of art I own. To beg and borrow every denarius that might come my way. For, as you know, I believe that money is power. Possessions are weakness. Sometimes I think Antony understands that and sometimes he does not. Cicero does not. Antony thinks that power comes from leadership. Which in turn comes from reputation and standing – great houses to impress his clients and great deeds to impress his legions. That he need not worry too much about paying his soldiers for they will follow him for love. On the other hand, Cicero believes that the legions, being patriotic Romans to a man, will do what the Senate orders them to do. And the heart of power, therefore, is politics. The man who controls the senators controls their soldiers. He is not concerned with legions at all. But only with the Senate and the men who make it up. All his great battles are fought with words.’

  ‘And both of them are wrong?’

  ‘Yes. Power is money because money buys legions. And in the end it is legions that count. Divus Julius understood this, and passed his insight down to me. Pay the legions more than your opponents and they will follow you, not them. No matter that they love your opponent. No matter that your opponent owns the Senate. Pay them and you have them. Keep paying them and you hold them. All other stratagems are doomed to failure in the long-run, no matter what little sparks of short-term success they promise. I think, of the men who stand against me – against whom I stand – really only Cassius sees the truth of this. Which is something else working to my advantage. For Cassius is not very likely to get either money or legions while he’s here in Italy. And if Antony and the Senate send him out of Italy, it won’t be to anywhere that he can get either money or legions in the short term. So, if it is a race between us, then I am off to the better start. Perhaps that good start might even be enough to make up for his experience, reputation and leadership skills.’

  ‘But, Caesar,’ observed Agrippa, ‘Cassius and Brutus are brothers in more ways than one. Kindred spirits. And Brutus will be in charge of Apollo’s Games during the second week of Quintilis, which you would like to rename July in honour of Divus Julius. And Quintilis is closer than you think! You know how effectively a good games can sway the crowd. Particularly if sufficient extra money is spent to bribe a large cohort of cheerleaders. Power in Rome is not all with the Senate. There is also the People’s Tribunal and the Comitia, and those are ruled by the plebs. I would bet that at some point in Apollo’s Games a good large section of the mob will start to cheer for Brutus. And, perhaps, for Cassius. To come home and take up the reins of power once again.’

  ‘How right you are, Marcus Vipsanius! Therefore not all of my denarii will go on buying the allegiance of legions,’ said Caesar. ‘I will present the Ludi Victoriae Caesaris Victorious Caesar Games almost immediately after Brutus’ Apollo Games and my games will simply eclipse his in the minds of the people. I will make them so magnificent, I won’t even need to bribe cheerleaders! But your point about the Comitia is well made. They indeed wield just as much power as the Senate. And are much more accessible to men such as us. Especially as Cicero has no power over them. But Antony, in all sorts of ways and for all sorts of reasons, does. So, Centurion, as we ride back along this road that – like all the others – leads to Rome, let us get down to some serious discussion…’

  iv

  ‘He understood everything, General. Everything that you planned. Everything I said to Brutus, Cassius and Trebonius. He is either an extremely astute strategist or he has a spy buried deep in your camp. In either case, it would be an excellent idea to co-operate with him. In the short term at least.’

  Without Fulvia present, Antony was more relaxed and amenable. He had just returned from more than a week in Casilium, only a couple of miles north of Capua. While Artemidorus had been away, his general had managed to calm the city to such an extent that he felt able to achieve the first of his goals. He had ploughed the pomerium city limit of a new town, and settled the vast majority of Caesar’s restless legions there. It was not just the general who was calmer and quieter. It was the entire city of Rome. For the moment at least.

  But the fact that Antony had permitted Enobarbus to bring Artemidorus to this meeting seemed strong proof of his feeling of strengthening control. Proof further supported by the fact that he was willing to listen to what his centurion was saying.

  ‘You are of course probably correct, General,’ Artemidorus continued. ‘Octavius may well have overestimated his strength. His power. The influence of his name and his money. But he offers a test that will allow you to prove it one way or another. A test which I believe you can use to your own ends – and possibly even outmanoeuvre him into the bargain.’

  The secret agent’s words were carefully chosen. Enobarbus and he had discussed this meeting at length. Planned it in detail. Understood that it needed to fulfil several major objectives. First, to put Antony in a more amenable mood towards Caesar Octavius. Secondly, to offer the general a realistic plan to achieve his next objective. And thirdly, to re-establish Artemidorus in his good books.

  ‘Indeed?’ mused the general. ‘Outmanoeuvre him? Interesting. Well, Septem? What is this proof?’

  ‘He assumes, quite correctly I believe, that you have probably put in place a plan that will allow you to counter the Senate’s support of Decimus Albinus. Who is already firmly established up in Cisalpine Gaul. A plan which will give you the legal authority to replace him yourself at any time which may prove convenient to you.’

  ‘Certainly, in Cicero’s absence, the Senate is almost ready to fall into my grasp. You know he is thinking of going to Athens? He says it’s to study; perhaps to research the question of Brutus’ patricide. Which has been unsettling Brutus and his friends for some time now, I’m told. I say it’s to hide from me…’

  ‘Indeed, General. But in the meantime…’

  ‘In the meantime? Yes? In the meantime ther
e is this test the boy Octavius proposes. What is that?’

  ‘General, Octavius believes he can deliver the Comitia to you. Make The People offer you the governorship of Cisalpine Gaul over the Senate’s head. Perhaps for a period as long as five years. Available to you whenever you care to move north and replace Decimus Albinus.’

  ‘Very clever – if he can pull it off. But you forget. Or rather he forgets. I have no legions. I have my bodyguard, my Praetorian Cohorts. But six thousand men is not even one legion. And Albinus has three. Battle hardened. Sharp and strong.’

  ‘But, General, that is not the end of the matter. And this is where you can begin to outmanoeuvre him, as I say. Perhaps even to use his plan against him. For, as you will remember, Octavius was to be Caesar’s Master of the Horse during the invasion of Parthia that never happened because of his murder. He was studying with Agrippa and Rufus at Apollonia for nearly a year in preparation. But he used some of that time to prepare himself physically and tactically. In Dyrrachium. A fact whose importance he himself seems to have overlooked…’

  ‘Dyrrachium! Where the six Macedonian legions are still stationed…’ breathed Antony. ‘Now this is interesting. What would make the Senate give me control of the Macedonian legions?’

  ‘Co-consul Dolabella has been awarded the governorship of Macedonia and control of the legions stationed there,’ said Enobarbus following Artemidorus’ lead, as planned, ‘The Senate is happy with this because they believe you and Dolabella are enemies. But Dolabella can be bought, and that is crucial. Because, on his way to Parthia, Caesar was proposing to subjugate the Getae. A warlike, restless tribe, not unlike the long-haired Gauls and the Germans. Now the Getae have been causing no end of trouble all along the Danubius river and as far down as the Mare Euxine Black Sea. He made no secret of his plans. Word of his murder might well have seeped eastwards. It might be – might it not? – that the Getae, already on a war-footing in expectation of Caesar and his legions, might feel the inactivity resulting from his death could give them an excellent chance to strike first. To come westward into Roman Macedonia itself. To confront Dolabella who is young and inexperienced. Before a new general of experience and standing comes to make war on them in Caesar’s place.’

  ‘So, General,’ concluded Artemidorus, ‘if you could find a way to make use of the threat from the Getae and Octavian’s offer. Keeping each well independent of the other, so only you and your immediate circle could see the whole picture…’

  ‘I could get the Comitia to give me Cisalpine Gaul and the Senate to give me the Macedonian legions while bribing Dolabella into agreeing – which I have time to do because he has not yet left to take up the governorship. Legions which I would instantly bring home and march north. Six against Albinus’ three. A brilliant stratagem, Septem. Tribune. I really like the sound of it.’ He rubbed his hands together jubilantly. ‘As we used to say in Egypt: “So let it be written. So let it be done…”’

  v

  The chariots came charging round the northern turn in the Circus Maximus, Green in the lead. Four black stallions ran shoulder to shoulder, kicking up clumps of wet sand as they hurled the light wicker-sided chariot round the end of the spina. The Circus Maximus was a cauldron of midsummer heat. The bludgeoning sun’s rays augmented by the body heat of a capacity crowd and the absence of even a zephyr of wind. The closing curriculum race of the concluding day of Ludi Victoriae Caesarius Caesar’s Games entered its seventh and final lap. The other colours’ quadrigiae four-horse chariots crowded behind, dangerously close together, a wall of thundering flesh a dozen stallions wide. Crowding the inner currus against the barrier of the central divide round which they had raced six times so far.

  Two hundred thousand throats bellowed as one. Two hundred thousand men and women, citizens and slaves, rose to their feet. Arms raised, feet stamping. The noise was overwhelming. Deafening in the Forum Boarium immediately outside the Circus. Loud in Caesar’s villa at the top of the Janiculum Hill on the far side of the Tiber. Audible in the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus on top of the Capitoline. Forceful enough to stop conversations in the Forum and interrupt announcements from the Comitium. Echoing amongst the pine groves on top of the Quirinial, most distant of the Seven Hills.

  The wooden scaffolding surrounding the racetrack creaked and reverberated dangerously. Artemidorus glanced up at it, momentarily distracted by concern that it might all come down. Though Divus Julius’ new sections looked pretty stable. Even so, he was very glad to be standing with Enobarbus and Caesar Octavius behind Senator Gaius Matius, who was nominally in charge of the entire games – though the money to stage them had all come from Caesar Octavius himself. While Caesar, Agrippa and Rufus had done much of the planning for them.

  They were all gathered now in the dictator’s seating area. At the heart of the original marble sections that would withstand an earthquake – let alone a victory for the Greens. The six of them were up on their feet, like the rest of the crowd, caught up in the drama of the moment. Standing behind Divus Julius’ ivory and gold curule chair. Which had been placed in the position of honour, as though he might be here in spirit, directing the games being run in memory and honour of his victories. In honour of Venus Genetrix, the founder of his family and the patron goddess of his gens family. And, on this occasion, in honour of his life and death.

  But, as everyone now knew, Divus Julius could not actually be here in spirit. Because his spirit had been blazing across the sky, light and dark, since the Ludi Victoriae Caesaris began five days ago. Easily visible against the unbroken blue of the sky during the day. Seemingly even brighter than the moon during the long, breathless nights. Astrologers – mostly Egyptian and Greek – called the phenomenon a comet. But the entire Roman world knew that it was really the spirit of Divus Julius being welcomed to Olympus by Jupiter himself.

  The summer’s evening was closing in. The traditional four-horse chariot race was the last to be run. The last of fifty that day alone. And those amongst the crowd not rejoicing at the dominance of the Greens were hoping to see the spectacle topped off with a naufragia shipwreck, which might include all of the chariots. Leading to the death and destruction of the wicker-sided vehicles, their drivers and their horses. A slaughter fit to match those of countless gladiators, criminals, prisoners and wild beasts which had filled the celebrations so far.

  But Artemidorus, who had been a go-between linking Antony and Octavius for the last few weeks, knew that the young man wanted a clean end to the games. So he could make his planned announcements in the certain knowledge that they would be listened to. Here and now. Before they were repeated by the praeco town criers in the city. And posted as news-sheets in the Forum outside the Senate.

  Greens won. Again. There was no shipwreck and all the chariots came in safely. To the gratification of some and the disgust of others. Which was, thought Artemidorus in philosophical mood, all part of the human condition. No matter who you pleased, someone else was displeased. For instance, it seemed on the face of it, that Caesar Octavius’ pronouncements would go a long way towards pleasing everybody who heard them. But, even as they were promulgated, the spy could begin a mental list of men who would be less than happy with what was being said.

  Starting, in many respects, with Mark Antony.

  It was Gaius Matius, as Magister Ludi Master of the Games, who made the pronouncements as dictated by the young man himself. Fortunately so. For Caesar Octavius’ voice was by no means loud, unlike Agrippa’s. And he had a narrow, sickly chest. Which did not support speeches delivered with a Stentorian bellow. Or even those offered with an actor’s carrying projection. Gaius Matius, however, was a man used to addressing the better part of eight hundred senators. And, although the Circus Maximus was not designed like a Greek Theatre – to carry a whispered word to the farthest extremities – nevertheless his words reached everyone they needed to. Those who were also seated on the marble seats reserved for the rich and powerful.

  The plebs c
ould catch up later.

  As the winning chariot was led away and the others followed. As the hubbub died into anticipation of the award of the final prize. As the massive audience sat down and Gaius Matius, the last man standing, strode forward, a tense hush fell on the whole of the Circus.

  ‘My friends,’ he declaimed, his voice carrying like that of a praeco town crier. ‘Let it be known…’

  He paused, hands raised. It seemed that every eye was on him, though Artemidorus doubted he was visible to a good number of the crowd. ‘Let the following things be known! Primitus that the Senate and People of Rome will be asked officially to recognise the deity of Gaius Julius Caesar. That he be titled in future Divus Julius in all official records and documents. As he has often been called by many of us since his murder. That he be worshipped as a deity – part of the state’s religion, his cult being led by Augur, Consul and General Mark Antony himself. Secundus, that, upon official recognition of the deity of Divus Julius, his son and heir will assume the name and title, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filius. And will be known by these names and titles from this time forward. And tertio, that this month, the month of Divus Julius’ birth and of the celebration of the games that honour him, this month should no longer be known as Quintilis, but from this time forward as Julius. July.’

  VIII

  i

  The sicarius knifeman employed to kill Artemidorus was known as Myrtillus, though this was not his real name. That was something which sounded almost Hebrew, but he did not look particularly Jewish. In fact he was tall, saturnine, dark-skinned – though tanned by desert suns rather than African ones. He had a lean, rangy body usually concealed by a padded tunic and a long, hooded cloak. When not about his murderous business, he walked with a military swagger though he disdained to wear soldiers’ braccae trousers or caligae boots. His face was framed by a thin, black beard that followed the lean lines of his jaw down from his neat ears, past the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the resolute square of his chin. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and at the moment, burning with frustrated anger. His hands were huge and powerful; callused and bony. Held together by whip-strong tendons that stretched the skin like restless wires.