by Peter Tonkin
Had Decimus been less fatigued, he might have appreciated the grandeur of the country he was riding through. The high Alps in summer were a feast for the senses of almost Lucullan proportions. The mountain peaks towered like the fangs of gigantic bears, angular and sharp-pointed. Their tips dazzling white with snow. Their lower slopes carpeted with wild flowers all in full bloom. And, between, tall green stands of trees. Whose heady scent came and went on the breezes blowing up and down the valleys. Intermixed with the aroma of those countless blossoms. None of which made any impression on the increasingly desperate man.
He looked back over his shoulder. As he had done ever more nervously during the last week, surrendering to the eerie certainty that someone, somewhere, was watching his every move. Following every footstep he had taken since Caesar Octavius refused to help or support him and his legions had leached away. Ultimately forcing the governor to leave his command and run eastwards through the mountains in hope of reaching the other Libertores. Far distant though they were and in spite of the fact that he was still in command of the entire province as far as Cicero and the Senate were concerned. Therefore he remained oblivious to the multi-coloured slopes and blazing peaks outlined against a cloudless cerulean sky stretching away behind him. But when he looked forward, up ahead, the heavens were grey and darkening far too rapidly for his taste. There was a bad storm coming. ‘Hey,’ he called to no one in particular, ‘ask the guide if there’s any shelter nearby.’
The guide was the only Gaul amongst the Roman soldiers and Decimus Albinus did not trust him. There was good reason for that. Even beyond the fact that the promised three- or four-day journey had almost doubled in length. During his term as Pro-praetorial Governor of Cisalpine Gaul, which included the area he had been riding through for so long, he had trained and motivated his legions by letting them have free rein to loot the local countryside. To fight the local men and rape the local women. Steal the local livestock and enslave the local children.
It was a strategy he had been forced into, he told himself, because the Senate, who appointed and supported him, swayed by Cicero’s eloquence, were fatally slow to pay him. They sent messengers when they should have sent money. Good wishes instead of gold. And he had needed that gold desperately. For, Decimus was bitterly forced to admit, he was not the sort of leader men would follow for love. He was no Mark Antony. He was no Divus Julius. Though he had defeated the former in battle last April. And murdered the latter in Pompey’s Curia thirteen months before that. He looked around. And saw the proof of his failing leadership. Of all the legions he had commanded, all the thousands upon thousands of soldiers, he only had ten men left.
But letting his legions loose up here was a strategy he bitterly regretted now. And regretted more keenly with every burned-out farm and deserted village they passed. For it had ultimately made matters so much worse. The legions he commanded simply made unforgiving enemies of the local tribes. To little or no purpose. Instead of winning pitched battles, booty and glory, they ended up besieged and mutinous in Mutina. Confined. Afraid. Starving, towards the end.
And even when the siege was lifted, they had been slow and unwilling to pursue the man who besieged them. In spite of the prompting of Cicero and his puppet senators. Mark Antony. Who retreated into the icy mountains and apparently to certain death, followed faithfully by men who trusted – almost worshipped – him. As he had led his legions, seemingly defeated in the Battle of Mutina, in good order up the Via Aemilia and its less imposing extension north past Placentia, Castra Taurinum and into the Alps. At the bitter end of a lingering winter when many of the passes were still blocked with snow and provisions non-existent. And, miraculously, they had survived. Burgeoned, in fact. Had been joined by three more legions en route and then merged with the legions of Gallia Narbonensis, Transalpine Gaul and Hispania.
His own legions, however, knew the reputation they now had in the mountains. And were very wisely unwilling to put themselves between Antony’s well-ordered retreating Vth, Divus Julius’ deadly Alaudae Larks, the IInd Sabines and the XXXVth and the vengeful Gaulish warriors who called these oft-ravaged mountains home.
Decimus had hoped for help and backing from young Octavius, who called himself Caesar now. But Caesar did not see him as an ally. The arrogant boy made it all too plain that he saw Decimus Albinus only as the man who led his adoptive father to the slaughter. Literally. By the hand. Overcoming the advice of his friends who warned him exactly what was going to happen. Friends like Tribune Enobarbus, centurion Artemidorus, code-named Septem, the augur Spurinna and the rest. So, in the absence of the money and support he had been promised to keep his men loyal, Decimus found his disgruntled troops sneaking away to join the boy Caesar’s legions. As the young commander waited in the warmth around relieved and grateful Mutina. Promising fortunes to everyone just for serving with him. Some other of Albinus’ ex-legionaries even following the charismatic Antony’s legions further into Gaul, hoping for fame before fortune; glory rather than gold. Leaving the increasingly pathetic governor his meagre bodyguard and his guide.
Only desperation forced Decimus to trust the Gaulish guide Gretorex without holding his wife or children hostage. For, although he had served here on more than one occasion and even spoke Gaulish, he did not know the mountain passes. Nor did the centurions who formed his bodyguard. And he was relying on sneaking slowly but anonymously through the mountains and down to the coast. Because his only hope of salvation now was to take the first available passage to the East. So he could join the Libertore army in Illyria. Help Brutus move down from Macedonia in the north as Cassius moved up from Syria in the south to crush the treacherous Dolabella in the central province of Asia. Caught in the middle between them as he was, like a nut in a nutcracker. To take vengeance for what he had done to Gaius Trebonius nearly six months ago.
A brutal wind came blustering down the valley. It felt like knives against Decimus’ cheeks. Set his squinting eyes to streaming. Blew his hood back onto his shoulders. Brought his thoughts back to the present. It did not smell of Alpine forests or flowers. It smelt of the snow and ice in the high peaks. The roaring it made lingered, echoed, became part of a low snarl of thunder. ‘Shelter,’ bellowed Decimus. ‘What does he say?’
‘Up ahead,’ came the answer. ‘There’s some kind of building. Cattle byre or stable…’
The black thundercloud came spilling over the valley head at that moment, streaming forward on the storm wind like the smoke of a burning city. A wall of hail hung beneath it like chain mail made of ice. The exhausted horses pushed onward without prompting. Lowering their heads and speeding almost to a trot. As though they knew where shelter lay as clearly as the guide did. Decimus pulled his hood up once again, to cover his thinning hair, and leaned further forward. Taking the lashing hail on bowed shoulders. As though it was some kind of scourge. Following the guide, the Romans fell into single file as they veered to the right and mounted a narrow path up the valley side.
ii
The mountain slope up which the path led became a cliff wall reaching skywards on their left. At least it cut the wind, thought Decimus. Though the hail continued relentlessly. And the thunder became deafening. But after a few moments, the path widened into a considerable rock shelf. At whose back, someone had erected a big strong-looking building. Using the cliff face itself as its rear wall. The other walls were roughly fashioned of boulders wedged in place with smaller stones. And those made sound with slate and gravel. The roof was slate. The stable doors were made of unfinished pine planks. As, no doubt, were the roof beams.
The guide reined in before the double doors and gestured. Chilled to the marrow, Decimus dismounted, staggering a little on legs that felt like wood. Handed his reins to one of the guards and entered the building. Swinging the heavy wooden door wide then letting it slam behind him. It was disorientatingly calm inside the stable. That was the first thing that struck him. No wind. No hail. The stillness of the air made it seem warm. He blinked his st
reaming eyes and realised there was more to the warmth than still air. There was a fire in a makeshift grate at the very back of the place. Giving a little light as well as warmth. With no further thought, he crossed towards it.
There was a rough table in front of it surrounded by crude stools. On one of which sat a man, very much at his ease. As Decimus’ vision cleared, he saw that the stranger was dressed in simple Gaulish clothes. His hair was wild, but not long. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, not bearded. He wore it all like a disguise; not like a native.
‘Storm coming,’ observed Decimus in his best Gaulish.
‘More than a storm,’ answered the stranger in liquid Latin. ‘Much more than a storm. Please take a seat, Governor.’
Decimus turned at that, every nerve alert as he realised that this was a trap. Simple but effective.
‘Please sit down,’ repeated the stranger gently. ‘It’s far too late to think of running anymore. Besides. You are quite alone.’
‘My guards…’
‘Gone, I’m afraid. Without even an obol beneath their tongues to pay the ferryman. Off the cliff, likely as not. It’s a good deal higher than the Tarpeian Rock.’
Decimus turned back to face the stranger. And realised in some vague way that the man by the fire was not a stranger after all. ‘I know you,’ said the governor.
‘I think “know” might be too strong a word. You have seen me on occasion, I’m sure. But you didn’t really notice me…’
Intrigued in spite of himself, Decimus moved forward. Towards the fire, the table and the seat the half-familiar stranger indicated.
‘The last time you saw me was at the Battle of Mutina,’ said the gently flowing, softly modulated voice. ‘Just at the moment young Caesar reached Consul Hirtius’ body and tried to retrieve it. The eagle bearer beside him was dead. You stepped back, no doubt calculating that the boy would not survive such a dangerous moment. One less leader likely to challenge your position and your plans. One less Caesar in the world. And I must admit that I too had orders concerning him. But Caesar freed the eagle. And I found that, unlike you, I could not leave him to his fate.’
The stranger rocked back slightly on his stool, watching Decimus with strange smoke-coloured eyes. The light gleaming on his stubbled chin as though it had been dusted with copper. ‘Before that, I delivered messages to you in rolls of lead. I swam the river outside Mutina carrying them and was allowed through your lines and into your city. Into your quarters, in fact. For I had the passwords. You were too interested in the messages’ contents to look closely at the messenger. Though, I’m sorry to say that the communications I brought you were by no means always accurate. And the replies bound for Caesar and the Senate often went to Antony instead.
‘But enough of this,’ he said, rocking forward again, as though tiring of a childish, painful game. ‘What you really need to know is the one truly important time you saw me and did not notice me. That was when I was standing on the steps of Pompey’s Curia as you led Divus Julius Caesar by the hand in to meet his murderers. I was trying to make Antony intervene, but you and Trebonius outmanoeuvred me.’
The mellifluous voice stopped for a heartbeat or two. Then continued, changing the subject suddenly. ‘You may not be aware of this, but you have been the focus of some intense negotiations as we watched you wander through the mountains guided by my friend and associate Antony’s cavalry legate Gretorex. We, being Gretorex, me, my spies, Antony and the local chieftain. Whose son your legions killed and whose wife and daughter they dishonoured. Who wishes the fullest possible recompense, as you will easily understand. Messengers have been riding up and down the Via Aemelia at full gallop day and night. Antony and young Caesar want you dead. As does the chieftain. Cicero and the Senate want you alive. And, as always, in the end it’s come down to the matter of payment. Who will pay the most and soonest.’
He hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘And you know the outcome of all that communication. Negotiation. Your life depending entirely on Cicero and the Senate acting swiftly and decisively. And generously. With bags of gold instead of volumes of words.
‘So. How would you like to die, Governor? Not like Pontius Aquila, with your head cut open to the bridge of your nose. Certainly not like Gaius Trebonius after two days at the mercy of Dolabella. His carnifexes with their racks, whips and red-hot irons. And we’re too late for you to go the way Divus Julius said he’d like to go at the cena dinner you gave him the night before you slaughtered him – “unexpectedly”. No. The best I can offer you is swiftly and relatively painlessly…’
‘Swiftly,’ said Decimus Albinus, raising his chin in an attempt at Patrician pride. Meeting the inevitable with a last show of soldierly disdain.
The stranger moved with astonishing speed. Decimus Albinus felt a searing pain on the left side of his throat. A disturbing, penetrating sensation from one side of his neck to the other. An abrupt tug, which jerked his chin forward. His torso rocked to and fro. Apparently of their own volition, understanding far more than his stunned mind, his hands reached for his throat. Only to be covered in a burning, pumping liquid. Where they should have felt a column of flesh there was only a strange, gaping vacancy. They gripped his neck with a strangler’s power. But could not close the massive wound. Could not stanch the pulsing blood.
He rocked back, unbalanced by the fierceness of the grip. Found himself on his back on the cold stone floor. He gasped with the shock of the fall, but found he could not breathe. His laggard brain began to understand that his throat had just been cut. There was a rhythmic, hissing scream. He wondered whether he was making the sound. Then realised he could not be doing so. Because he could neither breathe nor speak. It was the sound his lifeblood made as it came streaming out of his body like steam from a boiling kettle.
As though the liquid fountaining out of him was falling directly onto its flames, the light of the fire dwindled. Above the failing rhythm of the throbbing squeal, he heard the stranger say, gently, ‘Swift, then. If not quite painless. Swifter than Caesar’s at least.’
The last thing Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, Governor of Cisalpine Gaul and assassin of Divus Julius Caesar, saw was the blade of a heavy Gallic woodsman’s axe as the stranger hefted it with grim expertise. Swung it up into the shadows reaching from the last faint pinpoint of earthly fire to the top of the celestial aether at the feet of the gods themselves.
iii
Mark Antony was sitting at the map table in what had once been Lepidus’ command tent. A tent which was now Antony’s command tent. Even if he had been awarded Imperium by his lieutenants rather than by the Senate. He was sluiced, scrubbed, tonsured, strigilled, shaved, shining and sober. And, as usual, in his full battle armour. His Herculean lion skin on his shoulders. His helmet on the ground by his feet. Almost as much of a myth as a man.
And in an exceedingly sunny mood, thought Tribune Enobarbus. In spite of the fact that he was still hostis an outlaw in the eyes of the Senate. For Antony was now the leader of a gang of outlaws. An army of outlaws. Several armies of outlaws, in fact. Their individual leaders, also all in full battle dress, sat round the table beside him. Lepidus, of course, at his right hand. Outlawed by the Senate at the insistence of his own brother. Inevitably with the vocal support of Marcus Tullius Cicero. In spite of the fact that Lepidus was still Pontifex Maximus Chief Priest of the empire. Beside him sat Ventidius Bassus, whose perfidy had yet to register with Cicero and his minions. Beside Bassus, still holding a warrant from the Senate – for the time being at least – sat Lucius Munatius Plancus, Governor of Transalpine Gaul, who had been commissioned to ensure Lepidus stayed faithful to the Senate. But had joined Antony himself instead. And, finally, Gaius Asilius Pollo, Governor of Further Spain who was also here to throw his hand – and his legions – in with the general.
If this meeting continued to go as well as it had so far, thought the tribune, his general would, almost at a stroke, jump from being a fugitive in command of a couple of recently defeated legi
ons and some hangers-on to the commander of the most powerful force in the empire. With the better part of twenty legions at his command. Fair enough, most of them were still encamped in Narbonese and Transalpine Gaul and Farther Spain. Though there were eight or so camped on either side of the river outside, resting, relaxing and gorging themselves on fish.
It very much looked, thought Enobarbus, as if the general was certain to end up with an army of a hundred thousand men before the end of the day. Most of them battle hardened and ready for war. Especially against the men who killed their beloved Divus Julius Caesar and the politicians still supporting them, led by Cicero. Between here and Rome stood only whatever forces Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus still controlled and the eleven legions under the imperium (also unofficial) of the young, self-appointed General Caesar Octavius. Fifty-five thousand men at most, though word was that more were flocking in. And, as Caesar Octavius’ treatment of Decimus had shown already, if Antony was willing to make war on the men who murdered Divus Julius Caesar, his great-nephew and adopted son would be more likely to join him than fight him. No wonder there were rumours the Senate was trying to get a couple of legions over from Africa.
‘Well,’ boomed Antony. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we? The day is wasting and it’ll soon be time for a goblet of Falernian. But we have some final details to agree before then…’
Before anyone could answer, however, a tall man dressed in Gaulish clothing was admitted by a rigid guard. His hair was wild and his chin lightly bearded. He looked threatening enough to make Plancis and Pollo at least reach for their swords. Not so Antony, who swung round, his bright gaze resting on the interloper as though he was now the most important man there.