Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  Once the initial decisions were taken, Enobarbus went off about his increasingly important duties with the Praetorian Cohorts and the four decimated legions, leaving Artemidorus, Quintus and Ferrata to iron out the details of their mission. Whose three places were taken as a matter of course. Hercules was technically still tutor to young Gaius Lepidus, but the elder Lepidus was happy for him to remain with the contubernium. And as he taught boxing, wrestling, sword fighting, a range of other weaponry and horse riding as well as logic and rhetoric, the gigantic tutor was a welcome addition. So that only left two places to be filled. Adonis was too valuable to be removed from his place as Senate Secretary. And taking either of the women did not seem to be a realistic option. Though, as Quintus gruffly pointed out, Puella was as ready as Cyanea had ever been to undertake such a dangerous mission. Especially given her almost supernatural ambidexterity.

  The next obvious contender was Spurinna’s slave Kyros, the quick-thinking young Greek who had been of valuable service to the contubernium before. So, leaving Puella working off her frustration on the progressively more breathless Ferrata, sword on sword, two hands against one, Septem and Quintus went to see Spurinna.

  The Augur’s villa was much nearer the Forum than Quintus’ villa was. And, as the two men approached it, they became sidetracked by the bustle of an increasingly agitated crowd, all heading down past the Macellum market and the stalls of the Basilica Aemilia. Frowning with gathering concern, Artemidorus led Quintus into the crowded Forum. The soldiers shouldered their way to the front of the throng, who were standing looking up at a long line of papyrus sheets that had been secured to the door of the Senate House.

  Artemidorus pushed closer still to the first sheet, recognising as he did so, the distinctive penmanship of Cicero’s amanuensis secretary Tyro. ‘What does it say?’ demanded Quintus from further back.

  Artemidorus started to read at once: ‘Conscript Fathers, I ask by what bad luck it is, that for the last twenty years everyone who has been an enemy to the Republic has at the same time declared war against me? I don’t need to name any particular person; you yourselves will remember examples that prove what I say. All these enemies have suffered more terrible fates than even I could have wished for them. But I marvel that Antonius does not fear the possibility of sharing the dreadful deaths of these men whose conduct he is imitating now.’

  ‘By Mars,’ breathed Quintus. ‘It’s the speech he would have given had the Senate been in session… What else is there?’

  ‘More than twenty pages by the look of things,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘I’ll scan it for the highlights.’ And so he pushed his way through the front line of the crowd, calling over his shoulder. ‘It says here that Antony is so ruthlessly ambitious that he is worse than Catiline – and you remember that Cicero slaughtered Catiline’s supporters himself. Including Antony’s stepfather. Without the inconvenience of a trial. Strangled with bowstrings in the tullianum prison. Then it goes on to say Antony’s worse even than Clodius Pulcher – who was Antony’s friend – and Fulvia’s first husband until Cicero’s associate Milo murdered him on the Appian Way. It adds that Antony is a helpless drunkard. That he has been from his youth a pervert. That he dressed as a woman. Had a longstanding affair with the young aristocrat Gaius Scribonius Curio. Sold himself as a prostitute when money ran low. Charged the highest prices, too. And even played the woman’s part with many men. Which is much the same as was said about Divus Julius and Nichomedes of Bythnia.

  ‘But this next section looks more focused and relevant. I’ll read it word for word. “However, notice how stupid this man Antony is, I should rather say, of this brute beast is. For he said: ‘Marcus Brutus – who I honour – holding up a bloody dagger, called upon Cicero. From which it must be obvious that Cicero was an accomplice in Caesar’s evil murder.’”’

  ‘Wait!’ said Quintus. ‘I thought you took Brutus’ dagger from Divus Julius’ corpse. I thought that was the dagger you gave to young Octavius.’

  ‘That’s true,’ nodded Artemidorus, surprised. ‘But it’s probably poetic licence. You know Cicero. Never let the facts get in the way of a well-turned phrase. Now what does he say next? “Am I then called wicked because Antony suspects that I suspected something? And is Brutus, who openly displayed this dagger dripping with Caesar’s blood, called an honourable man by Antony? This is the sort of stupidity we find in everything Antony says. But how much greater is it in whatever he thinks and does? Decide matters this way if you want, Consul Antonius. Call the cause of Brutus, Cassius, Decimus Albinus, Trebonius and the rest whatever you like. Sleep off that drunkenness of yours! Sleep it off and take a deep breath. Must we put a blazing torch under you to waken you while you are sleeping over such an important affair? As you have already threatened to do to me? Will you never understand that you have to decide whether those men who killed Gaius Julius Caesar are foul homicides or glorious heroes?

  “Just think a little; and for a moment consider the situation like a sober man. I, who, as I confess, am an intimate friend of those men and a would-be accomplice of theirs, deny that there is any room for argument between these alternatives. I confess that if these men are not saviours of the Roman people and of the Republic, then they must be worse than assassins! Worse than homicides! Worse even than patricides! For it is a far more terrible thing to murder the father of one’s country, than to kill one’s own father. What do you say to this, you wise and thoughtful man? If they are patricides, why do you always call them, both in the Senate and before the Roman people, honourable men? Why has Marcus Brutus been, on your authority and at your insistence, excused from obedience to our laws and allowed to travel abroad? Why were provinces given to Brutus and Cassius? Why were extra magistrates assigned to them? Why was the number of their lieutenants augmented? And all these measures were suggested by you. They are not homicides then. Nor patricides either! It follows that in your opinion they are heroic deliverers of their country and saviours of the Republic, since there can be no other alternative explanation for the actions you have taken!”’

  Artemidorus turned to Quintus, his face pale. ‘That’s it then!’ he said. ‘Cicero has ruled on Divus Julius’ dying words at last. What Antony has been forced into doing for political expediency has completely undermined the case he was trying to build against Brutus as a patricide. This has to mean total war with Cicero and with the Senate. There is no other way forward. And it looks to me as though the faster we start collecting Libertores’ heads, the happier the general will be!’

  XI

  i

  Kyros looked at his five companions with nothing short of awe. And at their surroundings with stunned disbelief. Born in Greece, he had been sold into slavery as a child and, apart from a brief, unpleasant visit to the slave market in Ephesus, he had lived his life in Rome. Rome was just about all he could remember, and the strict but kindly ownership of the augur and haruspex Spurinna. And here he was now, recently manumitted, a freedman, added to the tribune’s contubernium of spies under Septem’s command, all heading ad orientam eastwards. Far beyond his native Greece. Right to the far edge of the world as he understood it. Looking down at this moment on the dockside of Brundisium. Expecting to take ship on the next tide in a massive military quinquireme, with five banks of oars, bound across the narrow Adriatic to Dyrrachium in Macedonia. His mind simply reeled at the prospect. His chest threatened to burst with excitement.

  The six secret agents were attended by four slaves, military men, experienced and reliable. In a fight as well as on the road. Borrowed from Antony’s Praetorian Cohorts, many of which were being disbanded now or reassigned. But the spies who had been slaves were all, like Kyros, free. And technically one of the last independent Praetorian units still functioning. Even the striking woman they called Puella seemed to be free. Though how they had arranged her manumission was still a mystery to the young Greek. For her papers of ownership must be either in Rome or Athens – wherever the household documents of Marcus Junius B
rutus, her original owner, were stored. But Puella was mysterious in more ways than one.

  For a start, Puella was dressed and treated like a man. And she seemed to expect nothing else. Perhaps it was part of the price she paid for her participation in this adventure, Kyros speculated. And dressed not just as a man – but as a Praetorian legionary. She wore braccae leather trousers and hobnailed caligae boots. A padded tunic. A backplate and breastplate of armour over it. Adjusted, it must be admitted to allow for the added volume of her breasts. She even had a helmet with a legionary’s crest stowed somewhere in the baggage train. And she rode fully armed. Gladius on her right hip, pugio on her left. Weapons with which she was impressively competent. Able to use each one in either hand – something the young Greek had never seen before. Skills she honed relentlessly at every opportunity. Usually against the square, capable, cheerfully ribald Ferrata. Occasionally against the gigantic Hercules. And once – but only once – against the terrifying triarius Quintus. Because he wished to polish her technique and show her a new move.

  Only Septem remained aloof. As befitted the little group’s leader. Kyros suspected that the dazzling woman and the handsome unit commander were lovers. Just the manner in which they seemed to avoid each other gave the game away. But he had no evidence beyond the vague suspicion. True, her eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement whenever she looked at him. But then, her eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement almost all the time. As did his own, he suspected. Like Kyros himself, Puella was in the middle of the most exciting adventure she could ever have imagined and was loving every heartbeat of it.

  *

  Artemidorus led the little group down onto the dockside. There was stabling here for the horses they had ridden from the last mansio way station. Where they had swapped the mounts they picked up in Capua. They were planning to ride from mansio to mansio or township to township along the Via Egnatia, swapping horses at each one. Once they had requisitioned or purchased the best that they could find across the Mare Hadriaticum Adriatic Sea in the military port-city of Dyrrachium.

  In order to facilitate this, Artemidorus was once again carrying letters of authority from Antony. Letters which included one manumitting the slave Puella. As the Consul of Rome had the legal power to do. And assigning her to the command of Iacomus Artemidorus, centurion seconded to the consul’s personal Praetorian Cohorts. And, amongst his other effects, the secret agent also carried a strongbox full of gold.

  The military quinquireme was called Salacia in honour of Neptune’s queen. Her commander was a tribune called Vitus. He raised an eyebrow when a tall centurion ran uninvited up his gangplank but proved to be amenable enough. The moment Artemidorus showed him Antony’s order, he called the rest of the contubernium aboard and sent crewmen to help with their baggage. ‘We sail with the tide after our sacrifices are done,’ he said. ‘It’s a straight run over to Dyrrachium. We’re just carrying supplies to restock the warehouses over there now that Consul Dolabella has taken the last Macedonian legion eastwards to support him as Governor of Syria. The weather looks calm enough, given that it’s so late in the season – and the sacrifices will clarify that one way or another. I’m lucky to have an excellent haruspex aboard. And I’m an augur myself.’

  And so they set off. Kyros watched the haruspex sacrifice a white lamb and read calm seas and prosperous voyage from its entrails before approving the fortunate sacrifice for roasting and consumption by the officers and their guests. The young spy was unimpressed by the man’s technique, however. It didn’t begin to compare to Spurinna’s.

  He was just turning away from the bloody sacrifice, overwhelmed by the procedure of setting sail, when Artemidorus called him over. The rest of the contubernium were assembled on the raised afterdeck, near where Tribune Vitus was overseeing the vessel’s departure. The drum beat of the timekeeper ensuring the five banks of oars on each side rose and fell in unison. The deck crew scurrying around both here and high above as the great square sail bellied with the wind. The way the deck moved was a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt. The closest he could come was a vague memory of an earthquake he experienced as a child.

  No sooner had Kyros staggered over to the group than Quintus and Ferrata ran for the siderails and looked steadfastly downwards. Seemingly fascinated by the way the long, sleek hull was sliding through the water. ‘We’ll be aboard overnight at least,’ Artemidorus said. ‘This is one of the few voyages where the ship goes out of sight of land and keeps going – though slowly – in the dark. And the crew have already started looking sideways at Puella. Women aboard ships are either out of reach, bad luck or fair game. I want to ensure Puella stays out of reach, understand?’

  ‘Yes Septem,’ said Kyros. Although he didn’t really understand at all.

  ‘So I want you and Puella to go through a series of training exercises. As though she is teaching you how to use both hands to wield your weapons in the same way as she does. Work hard. Put on a show with both gladius and pugio. I want every sailor aboard this vessel to have a clear idea of what Puella is capable of doing to them if they put one finger out of place. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Septem,’ said Kyros. And this time he was telling the truth.

  ii

  Dyrrachium seemed eerily empty as they disembarked next day. There was an air of desolation about the place. Only a month or two ago, there had been five legions and all their ancillaries stationed here. Legions that had been in place for more than a year. Now they were all gone – four via Brundisium to the south bank of the Rubicon at Antony’s order. Ready to try and shake Decimus out of Gaul. The fifth with Dolabella heading ad orientem. That was thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Plus their support units. Often as not, their families. Certainly their camp-followers. Their needs, wishes, desires. But, most of all, their pay. Millions of sestertii gone from the local economy. The tabernae were deserted. The lupanaria brothels abandoned, she-wolves underused, bored and bellicose. The stalls and shops empty, their shelves bare; their holders and keepers fearing a long, lean winter. The augurs, divias fortune-tellers and strigae witches all unemployed – the future crystal clear to all of them.

  Salacia’s crew, therefore, received the warmest possible welcome when they docked next day in the deserted port. For they brought not only goods in her cargo hold, but men, money and employment. Temporary though it might be. Kyros and the others in Artemidorus’ contubernium also could have made themselves free of the city. But the spy refused to be distracted. As their equipment was being unloaded, he came ashore personally to find the hospitium that best suited their needs. Quintus came with him, instantly rejuvenated when his feet touched solid ground. The hospitium they found was also able to supply a dozen good horses for hire and several pack animals as well. The reason Artemidorus selected it was simple. It was the start of the communication system that would allow his team to swap their horses at mansios and townships all along the Via Egnatia. As far as Philippi, at least. They planned, following Ferrata’s observations, to make the city of Philippi their next destination. It lay nearly five hundred military miles distant and at least three weeks’ hard travelling away, just inland from the port of Neapolis that served it. Where they would take ship one last time. Heading for the port-city of Smyrna, their final destination.

  And so they proceeded as planned, over mountain and valley, from mansio to mansio, village to village, town to town – in the wake of Dolabella’s legion. Their welcome always curt – at the least – for Dolabella’s men had been almost rapacious. And notoriously ill-controlled. Their general infinitely greedy. Demanding extra taxes whenever he thought he saw prosperity. With gathering concern, they passed through the towns of Claudiana, Heraclea, Edessa and Pella, Thessaloniki and the local provincial capital, Amphipolis. In the end it took them more than a month to reach the soggy plain below the township of Philippi where they turned towards the coast and the port of Neapolis Orientalis. Where they found a ship willing to take them through the wintery seas to Smyrna.
A neat little trireme called Triteia.

  *

  Like Dyrrachium, Smyrna seemed eerily deserted when they arrived there with the early days of the new administrative year 711 since the founding of the city. In the consulship of Aulus Hirtius and Gaius Vibius Pansa. This might have been explained by the pounding downpour that greeted Triteia as she docked. But as soon as Artemidorus stepped off the gangplank onto the quay, he sensed an unsettling atmosphere. Which was something more subtle than a mere atmospheric disturbance. More dangerous. The port, which should have been busy even on an overpoweringly wet mid-winter’s day, seemed deserted. Once their baggage had been unloaded into a dockside warehouse, leaving the well-armed slaves to guard it, Artemidorus led his contubernium up from the waterfront slowly. As though he was taking them into enemy territory.

  There had been good reason for Dyrrachium to seem like this, Artemidorus thought. With five legions recently departed and the town yet to readjust to their absence. But Smyrna was a garrison town. There were cohorts stationed here permanently. Occasionally legions. And, as far as he knew, none of them had been reposted. It was just possible, Artemidorus reflected, that Dolabella, passing through Asia Province on his way to Syria with the last of the Macedonian legions, had borrowed some extra cohorts from Governor Trebonius. But even that should not have left behind this unsettling air of emptiness. Tension. Such as they had experienced along the Via Egnatia in the footsteps of Dolabella and his legion, as they came across looted villages and burned-out farmsteads. Towns with their gates closed and their walls manned as though besieged. Perhaps Dolabella was after more than a cohort or two from the Governor of Asia Province. Whatever the reason, as soon as they were all ashore, he called to the others, ‘Form up!’