Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘If they riot, then we know how to settle things,’ answered Dolabella roundly, nodding at Artemidorus, and beaming with self-satisfaction. ‘We had enough practice in controlling riots last Mars in Rome.’

  After cena, Artemidorus excused himself and retired to the bedroom he had been assigned, leaving the other guests to philosophical and political debate. And amphora after amphora of Trebonius’ best wine. He had been assigned a sizeable chamber that contained not only a bed but also a desk. The bed, as with all Roman beds, was tall and ornate. The headboard and footboard were carved with intricate designs. The whole thing stood so high that there was a footstool at its side to allow the sleeper to climb aboard. The room was bright with a range of lamps and candles, smelling of scented oil. One of the palace body-slaves was waiting to help him get ready for bed, but he sent the man in search of an amanuensis secretary instead. After a while, the slave returned with a young Greek carrying a writing box, a stylus and tablets, ink and papyrus.

  Artemidorus dismissed the body-slave and began to dictate the report he planned to send – or take – to Antony. He was just putting the finishing touches to it when the chamber door opened and Puella entered, carrying a lamp. ‘I thought I’d never find you,’ she whispered. ‘This place is like the maze of Daedalus. And you will be my Minotaur; part man, part bull…’ Her eyes widened when she saw that they were not alone, but Artemidorus dismissed the scribe. Then, in spite of the temptation of the pleasant distractions she presented, he settled Puella in a comfortable chair and read the report to her.

  One read-through was sufficient to establish that he was thoroughly satisfied with what had been written. He put the papyrus scroll aside. She came to him at once and, with the practised movements of a well-trained handmaid, she helped him to disrobe. She herself was wearing a light tunic, and when he had been stripped down to his, he held her hand. Literally. As she was just about to lift the tunic over his head. She looked up at him, the faintest of frowns marring the perfection of her forehead. Wide eyes gleaming in the lamplight. But questioning. Then filled with sudden understanding.

  ‘You cannot leave her down there,’ she said. ‘You would rather let her escape than let her share Governor Trebonius’ fate. Despite the fact that she betrayed you. Caused Caesar’s death with her treachery. Even though, as Ferrata says, she wants to see you dead and burning. And is more relentless than the Friendly Ones and Nemesis combined…’

  vi

  Now that they were guests, their weapons had been returned to them. Together with all their personal items from their baggage. Which, in the spy’s case, included two pouches. One containing the Balearic sling he habitually carried nowadays. The other full of the keys with which he had broken into Minucius Basilus’ villa in Pompeii. Keys designed to open locks like those on the storeroom doors – in case the legionary with the scratched face had taken the key to Cyanea’s cell away when he stalked angrily down the corridor. Artemidorus strapped his sword-belt on, therefore, and fastened the pouch of keys to it. Beside the winged phallus good-luck charms Ferrata had given him. Beside the tiny pouch that held the sling. He took the largest of the lamps. ‘Come on,’ he whispered.

  Puella and he crept into the corridor side by side. Puella’s search for her lover’s chamber had the unexpected benefit of familiarising her with the maze of corridors they were passing through. Dolabella seemed dangerously overconfident, thought Artemidorus. Had the spy been in the governor’s place – with Trebonius crucified and slowly dying, scant pedes feet away – he would have posted guards inside the palace as well as outside. But there were none. And, in spite of the reputation of the legion and its lax commander, it seemed that everyone was in bed. Perhaps exhausted by all the pillaging, carousing and ravishing they had performed on the way here, he thought wryly. The only sounds the pair of them heard as they slid silently through the shadows was that of distant snoring.

  Even if Puella had not been so confident a guide, thought Artemidorus, he would probably have found the storerooms. Simply by following his nose. For the heady scents of cena still hung heavy on the air. Getting stronger and stronger as they approached the culina kitchen. After leaving Cyanea, he had subconsciously counted the number of storeroom doors separating her makeshift prison from the kitchen itself. And he counted them back now, knowing that there should be six. For some reason far beyond his understanding, he pushed his hand against each of them as he and Puella passed. They all remained solidly shut. Until he reached the sixth.

  The pressure of his palm against the cool wood made the door swing open at once. He froze. Puella, sensitive at his shoulder, froze as well. The door swung inwards through several pedes feet then stopped as it came up against something solid enough to halt its movement. Artemidorus slid his pugio out of its sheath – regretting as he often did the fact that he had given the dagger with the almost magical blade to Caesar Octavius. But this one was almost its equal, he consoled himself, as he stepped forward, following the brightness thrown by the lamp. Feeling Puella stirring into movement behind him, even as her left hand brushed his hip intimately. As she lifted his gladius out of its sheath. Then she was at his side. Armed and ready to face whatever was going on.

  The brightness of two lamps lit the whole storeroom. But neither the spy nor his companion paid any attention to the bales of herbs or sacks of grain that lined the walls. Their attention was taken by the head and shoulders of the body that had stopped the door from opening. It was dressed in a tunic. Lying on its back, facing upwards. The face was that of the legionary Cyanea had scratched. The red trenches still marred the skin of his cheeks. His left eye seemed to stare balefully at the intruders. But where his right eye should have been there was only a gaping red wound.

  ‘He must have come back to take his revenge,’ breathed Puella.

  ‘Underestimating his victim,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘And still wearing his dagger, the stupid bastard.’

  ‘Well, she’s got it now. And she’s out there somewhere…’ For the first time since the Ides of Mars, Puella sounded nervous.

  No sooner had she finished speaking than there came a pandemonium of shouting and screaming from somewhere up above them. ‘FIRE! FIRE!’ someone shouted. ‘Quick! The palace is on fire!’

  Side by side they turned and began to retrace their steps. As they did so, the sound of snoring was replaced by the noises of people stirring. Waking, beginning to react to the warnings. Even so, they made it back to Artemidorus’ room before they met anyone. The spy looked over the bedchamber and what was in it, making a rapid mental calculation of what he needed to save. But then Puella took his shoulder and he realised she had been speaking. ‘I hear the warnings,’ she was saying. ‘But I don’t smell the smoke…’

  Puella was right. Artemidorus decided to risk leaving the contents of the room just as they were. Together they ran out into the corridor again. And this time it was full of confused people milling about. Most of them looking for a fire. There was panic and puzzlement. Until, just as Artemidorus was about to take command and restore some sort of order, Dolabella himself appeared, accompanied by two boys and two girls. Slaves who had clearly been his bed companions, though they were scarcely more than children. ‘Down to the atrium!’ he ordered, his voice cracking with the strain of shouting over the disorder. Everyone obediently trooped off while the governor, proving what an effective leader he could be – commanded a series of slaves and soldiers to check for a fire and report back.

  While everyone went down to the atrium, Artemidorus collected his contubernium around him. ‘Cyanea has escaped,’ he said. ‘Keep careful watch. There is no telling what she has planned. Though, knowing her as I do, I suspect she will be after Trebonius’ treasure. Or as much of it as she can carry safely away with her…’

  ‘She won’t be coming after you?’ wondered Puella.

  ‘She will eventually,’ he agreed. ‘But I doubt she will tonight. She has other priorities. And as long as I’m alive, she can afford to wait. Kno
wing her and her appetite for vengeance, she’ll probably wait until I’m at my happiest, my most fulfilled – with most to look forward to. And then she’ll strike. Probably starting with my wife and children. Working her way towards me…’

  ‘That’s horrible!’ whispered Puella.

  ‘That’s Cyanea,’ answered Ferrata.

  vii

  None of Dolabella’s teams found anything to report. The whole thing had clearly been a false alarm. So after a while everyone was told to return to their rooms. Artemidorus and Puella returned to his. But they had hardly settled – had yet to start undressing – before a slave was knocking discreetly but insistently on the door. ‘Wait here,’ ordered Artemidorus as he followed the slave.

  Who led him to Dolabella’s bedchamber. And to the enraged governor. ‘Look at this!’ Dolabella shouted. ‘Just look at this!’ He was so angry that he hardly seemed to have registered that his catamites and little girls were huddled in his huge bed. Their eyes wide with terror. The footboard of the massive bed stood open. A secret panel gaped, revealing a hidden compartment. Out of which stuck a metal-bound strongbox. Its lid thrown back, to reveal that it was less than half full. Two bulging leather sacks were squashed into the bottom of the box. And clearly there had been at least two others on top of them. But the topmost ones were gone now.

  Disregarding the outraged Dolabella, Artemidorus crossed to the box and eased the last two bags out of it. They were tied together at the neck, which made them easy to carry – slung across a shoulder, saddle-bow or the withers of a horse, he calculated. And they needed to be easy to carry for they were very heavy. He swung them down onto the floor and squatted, pulling the neck of the nearest wide. To reveal a hoard of gold coins. Freshly minted and still so new that they glittered in the lamplight. ‘It’s Trebonius’ treasure,’ he said. ‘Some of it at least. Whatever this part of it the bitch of no account, as you called her, has left you. Because she’s escaped with the rest and I doubt you’ll see her again. Unless you’re on her kill list, in which case you might get a fleeting glimpse of her as she slits your throat one night.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s little better than a she-wolf in a lupinaria. Though I find it hard to believe she just sat there and watched as we questioned Trebonius. All he said was “Civis Romanus sum!” Even when the red hot pincers went to work. And she could have stopped it. With one word she could have stopped it!’

  ‘She did that once before,’ Artemidorus said, wearily, straightening. ‘Stopped someone being tortured with a word or two. Or thought she had. But actually she hadn’t – he was still beaten to death. And in the end, those were the words that got Caesar killed.’

  Dolabella swung round and looked at Artemidorus, frowning. ‘So that was her!’ he said. ‘I thought you threw her to the mob.’

  ‘I did. She came back. Left a good few of them dead into the bargain. That reminds me, there’s a dead legionary in the storeroom you had her locked in down by the culinea.’

  ‘By the gods below, I’ve had enough of this!’ snarled Dolabella. He slammed out of the room, calling for soldiers and lamps. Artemidorus followed him as he stormed through the palace, the dark heart of a gathering river of brightness as the attendants he summoned joined him. Out through the door they went and into the forum. Which was still dripping but no longer rainswept. There wasn’t even enough breeze to stir the lamp flames as they all ran up the steps of the curia’s colonnade.

  Without hesitation, Dolabella strode up to the crucified man. Trebonius seemed to be deep in an uneasy sleep. Dolabella woke him with two explosive slaps – forehand and backhand – across his ruined face.

  ‘Civis Romanum sum,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Your bitch, who is definitely not a Roman citizen, just ran away with a good deal of your treasure,’ snarled Dolabella. ‘I just wanted you to know I’ll be back in the morning. And I’ll be asking about the rest of it.’ He snatched at the front of Trebonius’ loincloth and tore it off. Grabbed the testicles his action revealed. ‘And this is where we’ll start the questioning,’ he spat.

  *

  Artemidorus and Puella were woken next morning by Quintus. ‘There’s trouble brewing,’ he said. ‘Apparently the loincloth was a step too far. A Rubicon Dolabella shouldn’t have crossed, you might say.’

  There was no modesty within the contubernium. He didn’t even turn his back as they climbed out of bed and into their clothing. The other three were waiting for them outside the bedroom door. All six went down together, stepping three abreast out of the big double doors of the governor’s palace into a clear, blustery dawn. And into a forum that seemed packed with people. All, at the moment, standing quietly. Looking at the naked wreck of their legally appointed governor. And at the man who had tortured him to the very edge of death.

  Dolabella stood in front of Trebonius, in parade armour and helmet; every inch the general. Flanked by his tribunes, backed by his centurions who were in turn standing in front of long lines of legionaries.

  As riots went, it was a quiet, short-lived, almost sedate affair. The shops, stalls, courts and public buildings round the forum were all closed. There was nothing to break or to burn. A few of the assembled citizens had armed themselves with stones, but as soon as these were thrown half-heartedly towards Dolabella and his troops, he ordered the legionaries to clear the square. Which they proceeded to do, employing a great deal more violence than anything that had been used against them. Dolabella himself took the lead in both elements of this, striding forward, safe in his full armour, laying about him with his gladius. Thankfully mostly with the flat of the blade rather than the edge or the point.

  Artemidorus watched as the lines of soldiers followed their leader, leaving Trebonius guarded by the two lines of legionaries. Who moved to the forward edge of the colonnade, the toes of their caligae boots overhanging the top step of the marble stairway, watching their colleagues at work. He looked at the tortured man hanging naked and shamed from the cross half a dozen feet behind them. The marble beneath him soiled with all sorts of solids and liquids. Having nothing left to look forward to but more agony and eventual emasculation. On a sudden impulse, the secret agent stooped. Picked a round stone off the cobbles of the forum and walked purposefully towards the western end of the colonnade, nearest the governor’s palace. ‘You are all dismissed,’ he said to his companions. ‘I don’t want you to see this.’

  As they moved obediently away, Artemidorus glanced around. It seemed that Trebonius and he were alone in the forum except for the guards who stood with their backs to both of them. So they were unobserved. For the moment at least. He pulled his sling out of its tiny pouch on his belt, unrolled it, put the loop over his index finger and slid the stone into its soft leather pocket. Level with the dying man, perhaps forty paces distant from him, and out of sight of everyone, even the guards, the secret agent turned, whirling the sling with deadly expertise. Releasing the string at the moment of maximum power. Sending the stone faster than the eye could see down the length of the colonnade.

  There was a crisp SLAP! As the stone connected with Trebonius’ temple. But none of the guards moved. The hanging head jerked sideways. Artemidorus remembered Quintus’ melons. The way they burst and leaked red flesh from gaping wounds. He could see no new wound on Trebonius’ already battered head. But the way the body slumped in the ropes securing it to the cross was a giveaway. As though every bone in his body had suddenly melted like wax. Especially the bones of the neck, which seemed oddly to stretch under the sudden weight of the ruined head. There was no doubt in his mind that the fragile bones of Trebonius’ skull must be shattered.

  And he was dead.

  viii

  ‘Dead!’ spat Dolabella. ‘This just keeps getting worse and worse. I have only found a tiny fraction of the treasure he was supposed to have brought. And I only have that because that bitch of his left what she couldn’t carry when she took the rest out of the box hidden in their bed. Now she’s vanished and he’s beyond
my reach! It must have been one of the stones the rioters threw that did it! The guards saw nothing but there was a stone in the excrementum shit on the ground beside the cross. And the side of his head was caved in!’

  The governor was pacing up and down across the tablinum office area of the palace, waving his arms as he shouted. His tribunes were there, and one or two senior centurions. Together with the leading citizens he had entertained to dinner yesterday evening. And Artemidorus.

  ‘What I think I’ll do is to search out the ringleaders of that mob. Maybe replace Trebonius with one or two of them…’

  The leading citizens paled at the thought. Clearly calculating the likelihood of ending up there themselves.

  But Artemidorus stepped forward. ‘General, Governor,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you have thought through the implications of the situation you have discovered here. Which I will report to my General Antony at the earliest opportunity. But it seems to me that if Brutus and Cassius have the money and arms sent south by Trebonius, they will have built an army several legions strong in a very short time.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Dolabella. ‘But I don’t see how it affects me…’

  ‘If Brutus is recruiting in Greece and Macedonia and Cassius is busy in Egypt and Arabia, then what are the provinces most at risk?’

  ‘Asia,’ breathed Dolabella, in the grip of a sudden revelation. ‘Asia and Syria! My province…’

  ‘And the Syrian capital of Laodicia must be almost a thousand miles from here, General. You have another long march in prospect, unless you want to ship your legion south…’

  ‘Legions!’ snapped Dolabella. ‘I’ll be taking Trebonius’ men under my imperium leadership. But I see what you mean. Yes. I must get matters settled here and move on as swiftly as I can. It could take me until Aprilis to get to Syria if we go by land. Even if the roads are clear and the weather clement. And it would be a disaster to arrive, only to find Cassius waiting there for me. Gentlemen,’ he swung round to face the city’s leading citizens. ‘I will need a precise accounting of all the vessels in the immediate vicinity large enough to transport my men! Under the circumstances I will not be able to hire them. So I will have to commandeer them. A final gift to you from your late governor!’ he added with a sneer. And as they hurried out, dismissed by his abrupt announcement, he turned back and met Artemidorus’ level stare. ‘But there are matters that must be attended to before I leave,’ he concluded.