by Peter Tonkin
‘More recently, had you been less eager to isolate yourself from the poor legionaries who followed you out of Mutina and set up camp at the foot of the Alps, you might have spied my friends and me spying on you. Passing messages to your centurions and optios. Promising undreamed-of riches from young Caesar. Immortal glory from Antony...
‘But enough of this,’ he concluded, rocking forward again, as though tiring of a childish 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 Gaulish 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 most. And soonest.’
He hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘And you know the outcome of that communication. Negotiation. Your life depending entirely on Cicero and the Senate acting swiftly, decisively and above all 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 and his carnifexes torturers 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. What did he famously say? ‘Unexpectedly’? No. The best I can offer you is swiftly and relatively painlessly…’
‘Swiftly,’ said Decimus Albinus, raising his chin in an attempt at demonstrating stoic, aristocratic pride. Meeting the inevitable with a last show of soldierly, patrician disdain.
The stranger moved with astonishing speed. Decimus felt a searing pain on the left 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 back and forth. His hands reached for his gullet, apparently of their own volition, understanding far more than his stunned mind. 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 right back, unbalanced by the fierceness of the grip. Found himself face-up on the cold stone floor. He gasped with the shock of the fall but discovered that 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 – let alone scream. It was the sound his life-blood made as it came streaming out of his body like steam from a boiling kettle.
The light of the fire dwindled, as though the liquid fountaining out of him was falling directly onto its flames. Above the failing rhythm of the throbbing squeal, he heard the stranger say, gently, ‘Swift, then. If not quite painless. Swifter than Caesar’s death 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.
iv
Mark Antony was sitting at the map table in what had once been ex-general and ex-governor Marcus Aemilius Lepidus’ command tent. A tent which was now Antony’s command tent. Even if he had been awarded imperium military command by his lieutenants rather than by the Senate, according to whom he was still an enemy of the Roman people. Antony was sluiced, scrubbed, tonsured, strigilled, shaved, shining and sober. And, as usual, in his full battle armour. His helmet lay on the ground by his feet. His Herculean lion skin on his broad and brawny shoulders. Almost as much of a myth as a man.
And in an exceedingly sunny mood, thought Tribune Domitus Enobarbus, currently seconded to the Alaude legion and acting as Antony’s right hand in all things to do with espionage and intelligence. In spite of the fact that Antony was still hostis in the eyes of Cicero and his acolytes. An outlaw with his possessions, prospects and powers confiscated by the state. 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, on his right. The oldest present, often referred to as pater – father – by Antony. Not always ironically, though there was no love lost between them. Lepidus had also been recently 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 Republic. Stripped of his command, his rank, his citizenship, his money and his property. As Antony had been. Beside him sat Ventidius Bassus, whose perfidy in smuggling three legions to Antony’s side 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 and to bolster Decimus’ failing legions. Both of which commissions he had signally failed to fulfil. Who had also joined Antony himself instead. And, finally, Gaius Asinius Pollio, Governor of Further Spain. Who was here to throw in his hand – and his legions - with the General as well.
***
If this meeting continued to go as smoothly as it had so far, thought the Tribune Enobarbus, his General would, almost at a stroke, jump from being a stateless, powerless fugitive - in command of a couple of recently defeated legions - to the commander of the most powerful force in the Republic. Though the miracle had been slow in coming. It had taken months of careful planning and delicate negotiation, in fact. Helped immeasurably – if ironically – by the machinations of Cicero and the Senate, whose attempts to destroy Antony had only added to his strength.
Now the outlawed general had the better part of twenty legions at his command. Fully kitted, well drilled, battle-hardened and ready for action. Fair enough, most of them were still encamped in Narbonese and Transalpine Gaul or 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 100,000 men before the end of the day. Most of them 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 Brutus Albinus still controlled and the 11 legions under the recently ratified Imperium of General Caesar Octavius who was still only nineteen years old. And sickly into the bargain. Even if the rumours that he had somehow caused himself to be made Consul in the place of the late Hirtius or Pansa were true. 55,000 men at most, though the tribune’s spies told of hundreds more flocking in.
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 we
re rumours that the Senate was trying to get a couple of legions over from Africa. Enobarbus wouldn’t be surprised if he heard that they had mutinied and joined young Caesar as well.
‘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 stubbled. Bristles glittering like copper-dust even in the shadows of the tent. Smoke-grey eyes narrow. He looked sufficiently threatening to make Plancus and Pollio 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.
‘Ah, Septem,’ said the General. ‘Is it done?’
‘Yes, General,’ answered the stranger. He lifted into view a roughly woven sack which he had been carrying.
‘Well, let’s have a look, man. Don’t be shy!’
The man called Septem put the sack on the table and opened it so that its contents were visible. He stepped back so everyone could see. Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, ex-Pro-Praetor and Governor of Gallia Cisalpinus, late favourite of Cicero and the Roman Senate, regarded the assembled commanders with wide, glassy eyes. His expression one of mild shock. As though the removal of his head had been a minor insult rather than a brutally efficient execution.
‘Lepidus knows my messenger here. So does Ventidius Bassus. As does my Tribune Enobarbus of course. Allow me to introduce him to you others, in case he’s a stranger to you. Centurion Iacomus Graecus Artemidorus, late of the Seventh legion, codenamed Septem Seven,’ said Antony. ‘Messenger, spy as you see, and executioner – when I give him license.’ He paused for a heartbeat then continued. ‘Have it packed in ice, Septem,’ he ordered. ‘The gods know, there’s enough ice and snow about, even now, on the mountain tops! I want everyone to recognise it when it’s nailed to the rostrum in the Forum. I want to send a message…’
‘That this is the fate awaiting anyone who had a hand in Caesar’s murder?’ asked Lepidus.
‘That this is what happens to anyone who dares to stand against me!’ snapped Antony.
There was a tense moment as Antony’s notoriously volatile mood wavered. But Artemidorus broke the tension by stepping forward again. Closing the sack over its horrific contents. ‘Packed in ice, General. Yes. Immediately.’
He stepped back, turned on his heel and exited. And Antony, in his sunny mood once more, slapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. ‘That’s the first one I can put on display,’ he said. ‘Though it’s the third head Septem has actually brought. Given the state of Gaius Trebonius’ and Pontius Aquila’s were in when they got to me. First in the Forum but third one down. Nineteen more to go, eh, Tribune? Three down. Nineteen to go.
‘But now that I have so many legions to support my actions, I might just go back home and take you all back with me. Yes. That would be the best move, I think. We’ll all go back together. Maybe make it before the end of the Ludi Romani games, eh? I always liked a good set of games. Then we can pay a visit to Cicero and his friends in the Senate. I’ll happily let them watch me stick this treacherous bastard’s head up there in the Forum Romanum myself.’ He glanced around all of the men present. The generals with their imperium over the legions. The soldiers awaiting his decisions. The spies and assassins. The dead head of the defeated general they had just brought to him. All of whom moved at his command. Just as the generals did. And the legions.
In the absence of the spy and assassin Artemidorus, it was the Tribune Enobarbus who inserted a little practicality into his general’s plans. ‘As long as you can get past newly-made consul and general Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus and the eleven battle-ready legions he has stationed between here and Rome, General.’
‘Eleven! I have seventeen... More...’
‘Who will be dangerously unwilling to attack the heir of the Divine Caesar and the men who stand with him. As well you know, General.’
‘But, through contubernium the good offices of your spies and messengers, Tribune, especially Septem and his, we are close to an accommodation with the bloody boy. If not a truce as yet.’
‘So we need to move slowly and carefully, General. Employing our spies and messengers at every turn.’
‘Very well. Slowly and carefully as you say. And writing letters to the boy as though he was my lover, not my rival. Smoothing his ruffled feathers and salving his precious dignitas. Even if it all takes ’til well after the end of the Roman Games! But remember this,’ he grated, his tone suddenly brutal. ‘No matter who we kill - where or when. Even if it takes until after the Games of the Equus Octobribus October Horse. As soon as we get to Rome, Cicero dies.
‘Remember that, all of you. Cicero dies!’
Three Months Earlier
Part One
July – September 711AUC
I
ANTONY
Early July
i
‘Cave, Septem! Watch out!’
Artemidorus’ opponent came at him like a mad thing, even as Quintus called his warning. Charging in like a long–haired Gaul gone berserk or a naked Ghost Warrior from the darkest forests of far Germania. In one hand a gladius two pedes feet of sharp-pointed stabbing sword. And in the other, a cavalry spada one foot longer with a vicious, sharp-edged blade designed for chopping down from horseback. The beleaguered centurion whirled his own gladius, using the blade to replace the shield he bitterly regretted he was not holding in his left hand. The blades of the two short swords engaged and the centurion used an old gladiator’s trick, twisting his iron wrist viciously, hoping to tear his opponent’s gladius out of that tight-closed fist. But as he did so, the spada swung in and slammed against the side of his helmet, knocking him clean off his feet. He lay, gasping, in the mud, waiting for the sky to stop whirling and flashing. And for his ears to stop ringing.
The voice which had warned him fruitlessly to watch out, now observed, ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, Septem. She’s bested you ten times. And would have killed you six by my estimation. Lucky those swords are only made of wood.’
A shadow vaguely shaped like a head and shoulders loomed over Artemidorus, blocking out the reeling heavens and the sharp mountain peaks etched restlessly against them. It was as though he was at the centre of his own personal earthquake, he thought. A hand was thrust into focus, no longer holding the wooden gladius, reaching down to help him up. It was the strong black hand of his opponent, Puella Africana, a slave stolen fifteen months ago from the household of her owner, Marcus Brutus. Stolen by Artemidorus himself in the hope that her evidence of Brutus’ secret meetings would force General and Consul Mark Antony to warn his colleague in office Dictator For Life Gaius Julius Caesar that there was a plot afoot to murder him. A hope that had famously come to nothing.
But a series of adventures in the interim had revealed that within the apparently shy and diffident young woman there lurked the spirit of a warrior. A fighter comparable to the Greek centurion’s personal demigod Achilleus, hero of Troy. Adept with all kinds of weapons after surprisingly little practise. Uncannily able to wield them equally effectively in her right hand and her left. Able, moreover, to employ each weapon as it was designed to be used. As Artemidorus had just so painfully established. As well able to stab with the pointed gladius in her right fist as to chop with the sharp-edged spada in her left. To do both at exactly the same time.
But, thought Artemidorus as Puella pulled him to his feet, there was a bright side to this. For the fearsome woman and he were lovers. Like Theseus, legendary warrior king of Athens, and Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. So, later today, all things being equal, every scrape and bruise she had inflicted upon him was likely to be gently tended. Each one individually. Kissed better at the very least. As the beautiful young woman found ways to cure his discomfort and discomfiture.
‘Perhaps you’ll do better – conceivably even stay alive and erect longer – if we try something new,’ continued that gently mocking voice which belonged to Quintus, Artemidorus’ friend and colleague. Supplier of the most modern, cutting-edge weaponry, relentless trainer in its most effective uses. Armourer to the undercover contubernium military unit Artemidorus commanded. Who were all here now, appreciatively watching him getting defeated by Puella, time and time again.
Drawing himself to his full height, Artemidorus looked around. The faces of his secret agents surrounded him, most wearing sympathetic grins. Beyond them, the local version of Rome’s Campus Martius stretched away to a wooden wall on all four sides. Green summer grass trodden to mud by the hob-nailed caligae of countless legionaries being trained or paraded on a daily basis. Clear blue skies arching overhead. The breezes from the mountains blessedly cool. Midsummer here was balmy. Further south, it was hot. In Rome it would be fearsome.
Artemidorus knew that if he had been able to look over that solid stockade, he would have seen Antony’s castrum. The classic marching camp which, during the month or so they had been encamped here, had slowly turned itself into a proper walled fort occupying most of the land between the mountain foothills and the riverbank. General Lepidus had an equally solid, semi-permanent establishment on the far bank. Both large and likely to grow larger still as the legions under their command increased and expanded with the approach of high summer.