by Peter Tonkin
‘Take care Caesar,’ he said, his voice carrying in a sudden, breathless silence. ‘With Hirtius dead and Pansa so badly wounded, you have the command of these eight legions in your grasp. You’re doing well for someone only nineteen summers old. But I’d advise you not to slip again.’
The battered, boyish face split into a weary grin. ‘Cicero says it. You do it, Septem. What did he declare? Laudandus, ornandus, tollendus. You’ve elevated me, congratulated me. What comes next? Exterminate me?’
Even had he wished to answer Caesar’s question, Artemidorus got no opportunity to do so. Agrippa and Rufus appeared with the re-formed Praetorians then, crowding into a threatening line of cavalry just beyond the ditch full of corpses.
‘It’s all right,’ called Caesar. ‘My friend Septem and I were just discussing jokes and gifts.’ He swung the eagle so that the dagger was clearly displayed, held in his grip against the standard’s pole. ‘Antony never sent me this pugio, did he? You did.’
‘That’s right, Caesar.’ The spy was too weary to lie. ‘I thought a conciliatory gesture would help you both come to an understanding.’
‘But it is the dagger Brutus used to kill my father Divus Julius?’
‘It is, Caesar. I swear it on my life.’
‘Even though Cicero says Brutus brought it dripping from the murder?’
‘Even so…’
‘Then we will all have a settling of debts. Brutus and I. Antony and I. You and I. But not today. Today I have other work to do. Other accounts to settle. Which, I must admit, you have managed to bring to my mind with your typically clear analysis of my position. There are some horses over there that you left uninjured. Take them and go.’
*
The six of them took three uninjured horses from the pandemonium they had created on the Via Aemilia and rode two-to-a-horse back the way they had come. Off the roadway, over the corpse-filled ditch and onto that part of the battlefield Gretorex and his men had guided them through.
It was quieter now. For the XXXVth, the Sabines and the Larks had vanished from the burning wreck of Antony’s camp. Leaving only dead and dying in their wake. Pansa’s legions and now Hirtius’ were leaderless, rudderless. Unopposed. With nowhere to go. Caesar’s legions hardly more focused or motivated, for the moment. Decimus Albinus’ starved soldiers had reached the end of their strength. Some of them, no doubt, looking at the dead horses. Their mouths watering. No one tried to stop three mounts carrying six assorted legionaries as they galloped south out of the battlefield, past the walking wounded and the deserters. Down to a grove of trees where six strong cavalry horses were waiting to carry them south to Arretium.
And, when they arrived there, they discovered not only the promised mounts but also Gretorex and his alae cavalry wing. ‘Ah, Septem, you have survived! And your cryptaia suicide squad into the bargain. All still alive. I am surprised but very pleased. Well done all of you!’ boomed the Gaulish decurion and legate to the general. ‘Antony asked us to look after you if you managed to make it this far. He’s worried you might have become tired out by your exertions today. So he wants us to take you south and make sure you get safely to General Publius Ventidius Bassus. And the three legions he has promised to take to Antony.’
XV
i
‘This is it,’ said Antony. ‘The end of the road.’
‘You can say that again,’ grated his brother Lucius.
And Enobarbus nodded his silent agreement.
Their horses whinnied softly, tossing their heads and shifting their hooves, as though overcome by their situation. And the enormity of what confronted them.
Behind them the Alaude legion, the Sabines, the XXXVth, what was left of the Gaulish cavalry with Gretorex away, Antony’s Praetorian Cohorts together with bits and pieces of the VIth and VIIth, all stretched in a line almost as far back as Castra Torinorum. The last camp on the Via Aemilia. Where they had overnighted. And finalised the plans that had brought them here to this desolate place. The end of the road indeed. Almost, it seemed, the edge of the empire. The end of the world.
Ahead of them reared the Alps. Green-grey and white capped. Like the fangs of some unimaginable wolf trying to tear the throat out of the stormy sky. A bitter wind whirled down off the peaks, cutting into them like cold steel. They sat astride their nervous horses at the mouth of a valley which wound into the mountains, vanishing out of sight all too swiftly between the sheer slopes of interlocking spurs. Which filled their vision almost as far as they could see on either hand. And even when looking up towards the low, scudding overcast. There was a river flowing out of the sheer-sided valley, steel grey, swollen by spring rains and early run-off from the lower ice fields. But there was no road. No path. Not even any track. Only the desolate slopes gathering into rocky scree and absolute precipice before them.
‘Are you sure about this, Antony?’ asked Lucius.
Antony gave his great, booming laugh. ‘Look, Lucius,’ he said, his voice echoing back from the mountains and carrying down the roadway to the men behind, borne on that bitter wind. Full of cheerful virility and utter self-confidence. ‘Haven’t you read your Polybius? This is where Hannibal crossed! If some Punic general could get over these mountains a couple of hundred years ago with a bunch of Carthaginians and thirty bloody great elephants, then I can do it with an army which is mostly composed of Larks!’
*
And, thought Enobarbus with a secret smile as they began to move forward into the jaws of the trackless valley, most of an alae cavalry wing composed almost entirely of Gauls – who know their way around these mountains pretty well. Who are also related to half the Alleborge barbari who still guarded the passes.
Last night’s meeting had made Antony’s plans and the reasoning behind them very clear. The death of Hirtius gave them a considerable breathing space. Even if Pansa was still alive. Which Antony maintained was unlikely. As he was certain he’d inflicted the fatal wound himself. The one remaining consul was in no condition to lead an army in pursuit. If he was dead, then the Senate would almost certainly order Caesar Octavius to hand over the consular legions to the command of Decimus Albinus. Who was, according to Cicero, an experienced and capable commander. On the assumption that Albinus would come after Antony like Nemesis.
‘I can’t see Caesar doing that,’ Enobarbus said. ‘I don’t know him as well as Septem does, but we’ve talked over his likely actions and reactions to a range of scenarios at briefings of our contubernium. The Senate has been made very nervous by the general’s actions as we know. As I have seen – and as Lucius Piso keeps reporting. Consequently Cicero has been pleading that they grant Imperium to Caesar Octavius as well as to Hirtius and Pansa. Because the old man is still certain he can control the young man like a puppet and get rid of him if he gets too big for them to manage easily. Maybe grant him a gold statue or something of the sort to keep him quiet in the meantime. Then when his usefulness is at an end, the Catiline approach – a bowstring round the throat one night. You heard the joke he made. Everyone has. “Adolescens laudandus, ornandus, tollendus – He’s a young man we can congratulate, elevate, exterminate.”
‘The Senate has done what Cicero advises on this assurance. But Cicero is wrong. They all are. Look at it from Caesar’s point of view. He’s been given powers no ordinary nineteen-year-old could ever dream of. He has four legions of his own – which will become eight now that Hirtius is dead. And probably twelve if Pansa goes too. Which will follow him to Hades if he asks. Not only for the pay he offers them but also because of his name – Caesar! The only thing he lacks to take absolute power is a consulship. He’s not going to hand all that back.
‘No. Pansa will die if he’s not dead already. The Senate will tell Caesar Octavius to give his armies to Albinus so that Albinus can pursue us. He will refuse. He may come up with some excuse – he can’t control the legions any better than Pansa; they won’t work with one of Divus Julius’ assassins – some such. But he will refuse. Albinus will hesi
tate. The general will escape, and we will escape with him. Caesar Octavius will demand a consulship as the price of stopping us. Something he can afford to do. Because he will be the only imperator with a serious army left in Italy. Only when he gets that assurance will he think of joining Decimus Albinus and coming after us.’
‘There!’ said Antony. ‘That is the whole point of maintaining a contubernium of spies and secret agents – so that they can come up with an analysis that agrees precisely with what I want to hear! Well done, Tribune! Keep up the good work!’
Enobarbus smiled and allowed the gust of laughter to pass.
‘And, don’t forget, General, although they seem to have missed Caesar Octavius himself, Septem and his spies were, it is reported, intimately involved in the deaths of Hirtius and Pontius Aquila. And if anyone can get Ventidius Bassus with his three legions to you, it is Septem. Who, may I remind you brought you Trebonius’ head as ordered, and has sworn to bring you Decimus Albinus’ head as well.’
ii
Publius Ventidius Bassus was a hard man. A balding, square-faced, square-bodied soldier. With short, thick legs and the arms of a blacksmith. A down-to-earth no-nonsense leader. He had been one of Caesar’s closest associates, in spite of his unusual birth and background. A commoner who had been taken prisoner as a child and paraded in chains at a triumph; a slave who had sold mules to make a living before joining the army as a common legionary and working his way up by sheer merit. Who in time had become one of Caesar’s most able and reliable commanders. Campaigning with him in Gaul and Britain as well as against Pompey.
And becoming a close friend of Antony’s into the bargain. Antony who, typically – and almost uniquely in the snobbish, patrician Senate – saw the soldier not the slave; the man and not the mule-seller. Artemidorus, also the result of a chequered career, also saw the man. Bassus, in return, saw how vital the secret agent’s work could be – and how much more useful a properly organised military intelligence unit might become in the future. Not to mention a full-blown secret service. Consequently, the pair of them had always got along very well.
Bassus welcomed them to his camp in Arretium, one hundred and fifty miles south of Mutina through the trackless Apennine mountains, therefore, when they arrived three hard-riding days after the battle. Just as Antony was entering the mouth of that valley three hundred and fifty miles north. And taking the first steps of his epic journey across the Alps.
The Greek centurion and secret agent knew the route that Antony proposed to adopt. The Gaulish cavalry commander knew the best way to follow their general across the mountains to Governor Lepidus’ province of Gallia Narbonensis. The widely experienced general of three legions knew how vital it would be to bring more than just his men with him. And to that end he had begun to assemble supplies of everything an army on the move though harsh and hostile country might require. But carts and cattle, sheep and supply wagons, goats and grain transports all travel slowly. And Antony, as ever, was in a hurry. So there was a delicate balance to be struck. Which the contubernium, the Gaulish legate, General Bassus and his senior officers debated far into the night. Before setting out at dawn next day.
*
One of the many benefits of taking the coast roads from Arretium rather than going back north through the Apennines, Artemidorus thought on the afternoon of the second day, was the fact that it was the quickest route from the north-west section of Cisalpine Gaul to Rome. It was, therefore, the route by which the governor of that province, finally marching his legions in pursuit of Antony, chose to communicate with the Senate.
Decimus Albinus’ messenger sat, his face flushed with outrage, on the ground beside his horse. Tied hand and foot. With Gretorex’ spada sword uncomfortably close to his throat. Artemidorus broke the seal of the message tube, unrolled the papyrus scroll it contained and glanced at the contents. Which weren’t even in code.
‘Decimus Albinus sends greetings to his friend Marcus Tullius Cicero and the Senate,’ he paraphrased. Glancing up at his audience – which consisted of his contubernium as well as General Bassus and his senior officers. ‘The governor expresses great concern at the situation in which he finds himself and lists a series of complaints as the cause. First, that Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Governor of Gallia Narbonensis, is apparently hesitant about stopping Antony should Antony succeed in crossing the Alps. A disappointment paralleled, secondly and thirdly, by Albinus’ mistrust of both Governors Plancus in Transalpine Gaul and Pollio in Further Spain. Compounded, fourthly and perhaps most importantly, by Caesar Octavius’ continued refusal to lend him any of the legions he now commands as a result of the deaths of both Consuls Hirtius and latterly Pansa.’
Artemidorus paused, glanced round, added – speaking slowly. Giving what he was saying added weight. ‘A note here adds the observation that Pansa’s quaestor second in command suspects that Pansa may not have died as a result of his wound but because he has been poisoned. The physician Glycon is suspected. And, it is observed, Caesar Octavian visited the ailing Pansa on the night he was found dead.
‘As a result, Governor Albinus, with the legions from Mutina, still weak and half starved though they are, will pursue Antony alone and unsupported…
‘Ah! Now this is very interesting too. Apparently Albinus has also received word that Antony’s friend General Publius Ventidius Bassus is on the move. He has asked Caesar Octavius whether, as he refuses to pursue Antony, he would consider cutting off General Bassus’ legions if they come north. He assesses that Caesar is unlikely to do this either. Therefore he will take his own legions through Castra Torinorum and perhaps as far south as Genua in the hope of coming across Bassus himself. Even so, he concludes hopefully, his legions should easily outmatch the ones Antony currently commands. If and when he catches up with him…’
Bassus gave a great bellow of laughter, reminding the spy irresistibly of Antony himself. ‘Well, now we know where Albinus will be, we’ll make sure we’re somewhere else. That way when it comes right down to it we’re still going to come as an unpleasant surprise to the snivelling little back-stabber!’
iii
‘Here?’ said Ventidius Bassus incredulously three days later. ‘He went in here?’
‘That was the plan, General,’ Artemidorus assured him. ‘If anyone’s to blame its Polybius the Historian. Antony’s taken his description of Hannibal crossing the Alps as a personal challenge.’
‘But it’s a desertum wilderness. No tracks to follow. Nothing to scavenge! And you said he had no supplies with him. Hardly anything at all to eat or drink. And, what, three thousand men? Maybe more?’ General Bassus shook his head in wonder and disbelief. ‘How long did he calculate it would take to get across?’
‘Apparently Hannibal took sixteen days to come the opposite way,’ said the spy. ‘And he had thirty elephants. The general believes he can do it in two of Divus Julius’ new weeks. Maybe less.’
‘Well, we’d better get after him then. Gretorex. Is there a way round? Or do we just have to follow in his footsteps and hope we can catch up?’ Bassus had already discussed the danger of coming up against the rear of Antony’s army on a path too narrow to allow overtaking.
‘General Antony is following the most direct route,’ answered the Gaulish legate. ‘But if we strike south, there, I can take you to a lower pass. The route is longer but we may be able to move more swiftly. And your men are fresher, fitter and better supplied. Then, after the lower pass we can swing north again and meet Antony as he descends into Gallia Narbonensis. Just in case Governor Lepidus decides he wants to side with Cicero after all.’
‘Very well. The legions are all briefed and prepared. We will follow your longer but swifter route. Lead on.’
Artemidorus and the contubernium, now more or less part of Gretorex’ alae, went with the Gaulish leader as he rode into the valley. The spy had no difficulty in seeing the tracks left by Antony’s legions as they followed the right-hand bank. But as the mountain slopes closed around them and t
he light dimmed in the valley foot, Gretorex led them across a section of the river where it ran wide and shallow to the left bank. After a mile or so, a smaller, tributary valley led off southward, and soon the route taken by Antony and his legions was left far behind.
They camped the first night in a pine forest. The trees broke the power of the wind while the pines scented the restless air. The wild scent of the great black forests of northern Gaul and Germania. Not the civilised aroma of Roman pines. But the ground was made soft by layers of pine needles and the pinecones made good kindling for the legionaries’ cooking-fires. Bassus was a strong disciplinarian and he liked to do things according to military tradition, but, accepting Gretorex’ assurances of absolute safety from local tribes, he did not insist that the legions build a palisaded perimeter. Though he set extra guards. Protection against wolves, bears, lynx and other predators.
The next day took them slowly higher and the third higher still. Until the forests at last gave way to great grey-green meadows. The route was not hard to follow, though as they climbed higher, some of the men began to find it more difficult to breathe. Two further days took them out of the meadows and into the snow fields. Where the challenge of breathing went hand in hand with that of keeping warm – particularly at night. For the nights were crystal clear and icily cold, the chill of the altitude outweighing the gathering warmth of spring. The stars so huge and low that it was only the difference in colour that distinguished them from the legions’ campfires.
iv
Enobarbus crouched at the top of the cliff, gasping for breath. He was so high that he really felt that if he stood erect and stretched his hands up he would be able to touch the sky. Or the clouds at least. Behind him was the slope he had just scaled, coming at it crabwise from a good way back along the path that Antony and the rest of his command were following. The tribune had read his Polybius and knew that this was one of the points at which the local tribes nearly brought the Carthaginian invasion to an abrupt end by raining rocks down upon Hannibal’s army. If this was indeed the path that Hannibal took – something that was still open to debate. Everywhere but in Antony’s mind apparently. And there were rocks piled nearby. Large, rounded boulders which could never have arrived here naturally. Indeed, the whole slope was dotted with great grey rocks of various sizes. Apparently left ready to resupply anyone rolling those nearest over the edge.