Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Do you know which god the temple is sacred to?’ asked Artemidorus, unable to remain silent. Remembering the temple of Apollo in the village of Forum Gallorum where he and Gretorex had sheltered at the beginning of the battle that bore the village’s name.

  ‘Lenus, by the look of it. The local equivalent of your God Mars,’ answered Gretorex gruffly.

  They fell silent as they approached the burned-out building. On the outside of the only wall still standing an old man hung, crucified. Judging from the state of his back, he had obviously been nailed there before the building was burned and Artemidorus sent a swift prayer to Achilleus that he had been dead before the flames took hold. Something that suddenly seemed unlikely as they came close enough to see beyond the building. To see the trunks of half a dozen trees. To which an assortment of elders and their wives had been tied. Naked. The pale flesh of their heads and chests mottled with the tell-tale round bruises left by sling-shots. Their faces smashed and bloody from where the stones had broken bones and torn skin. Their torsos and limbs pieced with arrows. ‘Target practise,’ said Gretorex grimly.

  Artemidorus nodded.

  They reined to a standstill in the midst of the horror. A strange silence descended which only seemed to be emphasised by the gentle moaning of the wind in the ruins and the faint crackling of the cooling charcoal.

  Until it was broken by a supercilious voice. ‘You and your barbarian friend admiring our handiwork, Centurion?’

  ***

  Artemidorus turned slowly, his mind racing. He felt he knew the voice but could not place it. Even when he was facing the stranger, recognition was still slow to come. A square, brutal man in the uniform of a military tribune. Equal in rank therefore to Enobarbus. At the tribune’s shoulder, also on horseback, sat Artemidorus’ equivalent – a dangerous-looking, hard-bitten centurion. And, behind the mounted centurion a squad of equally unpleasant-looking legionaries. All of them unsettlingly lean and hungry.

  It was that leanness which prompted Artemidorus’ memory. These men were from Mutina. The legionaries who had been reduced to eating their cavalry-horses and pack-animals. Stray pigeons, crows, sparrows. Dogs and cats. Rats and mice. Provender almost as disgusting as that which Antony and his men had been forced to consume as they crossed the Alps a couple of months ago. These were Decimus Albinus’ men – the ones he had been most worried about. Their leader was the late Pontius Aquila’s tribune Popilius Lenas.

  ‘Tribune Lenas,’ said Artemidorus, drawing the words out as he registered the surprise in the tribune’s eyes. ‘Was this strictly necessary?’ He gestured at the destruction.

  ‘Centurion Herrenius here had word from an informant that there was gold hidden in the temple. We found none, but we thought a little persuasion would not go amiss. And the locals objected. Violently. So, of course...’ He too swept an all-encompassing hand over the devastation. ‘Even half civilised Gauls must learn not to argue with Rome. But tell me, Centurion. Who are you and how is it that you know me?’

  All of the cover stories he had prepared for just this occasion flashed through Artemidorus’ mind. But instead of using any of them, he simply told the truth. Or as much of it as he dared. ‘I am Centurion Iacomus Graecas Artemidorus, late Primus Pilum of the disbanded VIIth legion,’ he said. ‘My companion is Gretorex, legate of the cavalry alae attached to Legio V Alaude the Larks. As, for the moment, I am myself. We are leading a small command across the mountains and Gallia Cisalpinus to Bononia with messages from our general Mark Antony to young Caesar Octavianus. I know you because we have been enemies. You were tribune to Pontius Aquila who died at Mutina. I saw you there and knew who you were - so I recognised you now.’

  ‘Messages from Antony to Octavian, eh?’ mused Lenas. ‘And what do these messages say?’

  ‘I have no idea of the detail. They are carried under Antony’s seal. I guess they are likely to be overtures towards a peace treaty. Some sort of political accommodation. As I understand it, neither of them trusts Cicero and the Senate. Though of course Antony has far more reason to see them as enemies. Unless Octavian blames all of them for the murder of his adopted father, whether they carried the daggers or not. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does. Which may well define the middle ground between them. My enemy’s enemy is my friend, so to speak...’

  ‘I believe you. Which is fortunate for you as I have in fact captured the rest of your party with their wagons. But, tell me, Centurion Artemidorus, friend of my late general’s enemy and recent foe of my own, why should I let you all live - any more than I let these pathetic Gaulish barbarian peasants live?’

  III

  PLANCUS

  Late July

  i

  The last ridge of the eastward-facing Alps overlooked one of the largest single castr that Artemidorus had ever seen. Unlike the two camps on either side of the river Argentus that contained Antony’s troops and Lepidus’, this was a single combined encampment housing two generals and the fourteen legions they commanded. It lay like a gigantic chessboard stretching almost as far as the eye could see in every direction. There were nearly 72,000 legionaries housed here in 9,000 eight man contubernium tents. Then there were the cavalry auxiliaries, support staff, slaves, families, hangers-on. Well over one hundred thousand people stretching the number of tents laid out in the perfect legionary grid-pattern to ten thousand tents in all. The day was drawing to a close and the smoke from thousands of camp fires rose in the still summer air as cena was prepared.

  ‘It looks more impressive than it is,’ Popilius Lenas told Artemidorus, pulling his mount to a stop at the centurion’s side. Chatting as though they had become fast friends on their journey here. ‘There are actually only four battle-ready legions there,’ he continued dismissively. ‘Two that General Plancus brought from Gallia Comata Long-haired Gaul along with five or so of his raw recruits. And our two which survived Mutina and have come along with General Decimus Albinus, who has also been gathering recruits – as you can see.’

  The tribune gestured over his shoulder to the column of dazed and terrified young men he had ‘recruited’ in the village he had also destroyed. ‘Like Agamemnon at Troy,’ he had said more than once on the brief journey and repeated now. ‘Burning their villages as he burned the Greek boats – so there’d be nothing to go back to. Gets the idea of desertion right out of their heads. The target practise sharpens my men up and frightens the life out of the prisoners. And of course the odd crucifixion drives the point home too,’ he chuckled at the grim play on words. ‘But,’ he added thoughtfully, kicking his horse into motion as he continued the literary analogy, ‘We have also burned our boats – but it seems we have no Troy to conquer. No Achilles, Ulysses and no wooden horse of Troy. Or,’ he concluded thoughtfully, ‘if there is a wooden horse, then it’s somewhere in the middle of our camp. Not the enemy’s’

  Artemidorus understood the strained analogy all too well. He kicked his own mount into motion, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of his command as they followed him down the hillside. Surrounded by Lenas’ legionaries, led by the brutal Tribune’s equally ruthless Centurion Herrenius.

  ***

  Tribune Popilius Lenas was one of the leading malcontents in Decimus’ army. Since Mutina, the tribune had been happy to explain, Decimus was a changed man. Preoccupied, hesitant, isolated. No fit leader for any situation – let alone this one. General Plancus had arrived apparently to help Decimus carry out the Senate’s orders to pursue and destroy Mark Antony as passed down to them in letter after letter from an increasingly impatient Cicero. But Plancus had seen at a glance that Decimus had lost the will to lead. Almost the will to live. The governing general of Gallia Comata lingered here simply because he had not yet worked out where to go to next – to Antony or to Octavian. For, he clearly reckoned, if the Senate was reduced to relying on men like Decimus, then they – and Cicero as their leader – were in truly desperate straits. Were certainly no fit associates for ambitious generals with large contingents
of soldiers under their command and their sights set on senatorial – perhaps even consular - power. So, if not Decimus’ friends Cicero and the Senate, then who? General Plancus lingered and pondered.

  In the meantime, Octavian, like Ulysses with his wooden horse, was sending agents with promises of unimaginable fortunes to anyone willing to desert from Decimus’ army becalmed in the middle of nowhere and join his own in richly burgeoning Bononia. The legionaries, their individual centurions, even the centurions’ councils of the legions were being tempted.

  A potent enticement to which Popilius Lenas was not himself immune. Which, in the final analysis, was why Artemidorus and his little crypteia were alive and unmolested. Had been, in fact, solicitously escorted out of the war-torn mountains and helped along their way. For the cannily self-serving tribune also had a message that he wished to send to Octavian. And he was not just happy – but very keen indeed – that his message should be delivered by Mark Antony’s messenger. For, should Octavian not wish to avail himself of the brutal tribune’s expertise, then a good word might also be dropped in Antony’s less fastidious ear when his trusted messengers returned. The only player in this game that Lenas did not wish to stay aligned with was the exhausted, unsupported, effectively bankrupt Decimus.

  The Porta Principale to the huge encampment had not yet been secured for the night as Lenas’ command, their guests and their prisoners arrived. The tribune sent his centurion forward with the password, so that the column of was allowed entry. ‘Centurion Herrenius will see to the feeding and accommodating of your men, Centurion,’ said Lenas to Artemidorus. ‘But I think you and I should report directly to the general.’

  ‘To Decimus?’ Artemidorus was suddenly apprehensive – though he did not show it. A vital element of his duties as Antony’s secret agent during the siege of Mutina had involved smuggling fake messages to Decimus and taking the besieged general’s replies to Antony – instead of to Octavian and the Consular legions as Decimus intended. If general Decimus recognised him, then things could get nasty.

  Lenas gave a cynical bark of laughter, however. ‘No,’ he said, as he slid off his horse and lingered a moment, trying to pummel some feeling back into his buttocks. ‘Not Decimus. Plancus!’

  ii

  General Lucius Munatius Plancus was a solid, good-looking 44 year-old with a full head of hair, a square, powerful face, level eyebrows, a battered nose and a cleft chin. The only physical flaw in his make-up was the faintest weakness on his left side. His left eye drooped very slightly. The left side of his mouth turned down. His left hand trembled unless he covered it with his right and held it still. Which, habitually, he did. Was doing so now, in fact, as he sat at the work table in his command tent looking up at the two men who had just been ushered in. And, thought Artemidorus, when he got up, he no doubt walked with a limp.

  But if his body was very slightly flawed, there was certainly nothing wrong with his mind. Behind those eyes, drooping or not, shone a quick, incisive intelligence. The centurion felt that he had been sized up and catalogued even before Lenas had finished his short introduction.

  ‘Carrying messages are you?’ mused the general. ‘From Antony to young Caesar Octavian? You did well to bring him in, Lenas. And you did even better to bring him straight here to me. I think the three of us should dine together. We clearly have a certain amount to discuss. Centurion, would you care to avail yourself of my bath as my household freshen up your clothing. It is only a campaign facility – as I fear the food is merely plain soldiers’ fare – but it is better than nothing. At least the water is hot so one can lie back and dream of Rome.’

  Artemidorus would have preferred to be with his crypteia. He was not the sort of leader who indulged in luxury while his command had to fend for themselves. And he was worried about Puella, especially after her tearful reaction to the Gaulish attack and her violent part in its resolution. Though he recognised that this was probably needless. She had shown no further signs of reaction. Demonstrated no traits of femininity – either mental or physical. Her armour and helmet had effectively disguised her sex as they followed Lenas and his men out of the mountains. But her disguise would not last long in camp.

  However, the simple fact was that if he wished to fulfil Antony’s orders to the best of his ability, bathing and dining with General Plancus was the best possible way forward. Enobarbus and Antony had envisaged him and his little command trying to persuade as many legionaries as possible to change sides. And suddenly here he was with the chance of turning a general – who would take seven legions with him. Seven at the very least.

  ‘Thank you general. That is very kind. I would be honoured,’ he said.

  ***

  Plancus’ portable field bath consisted of three huge leather troughs supported by strong frameworks of wood. Each could clearly be disassembled, collapsed and carried relatively easily. When erected each one might well accommodate three or perhaps four, thought Artemidorus as he surveyed them from the vestibulum of the massive tent in which they were housed. Though to begin with he could see only sections of the big brown tubs – for each was curtained off to create the traditional areas of frigidarium, tepidarium and calederium. While he stripped, assessing their size and function, slaves solicitously took his armour, tunic, boots leggings and underclothes. Then he was led to the first bath – icily cold. The second one was tepid and the third scalding – both filled with water from the cooking fires close-by. As he rose from the third bath, a slave wrapped him in a massive woollen cloth and led him back to the leather-walled tepidarium where another massive slave was waiting with a bowl of warm, scented oil, to massage his weary back and legs.

  The sensuous indulgence, which he enjoyed alone except for the silent slaves, gave him time to think and plan. Events had taken an unexpected turn which he wanted to use to its best advantage. For a start, he did not want to go through the promised meal with Plancus and Lenas alone. There were others in his little command who might usefully be involved - if he could manage such a thing without arousing too many suspicions. Furthermore, while it had been almost supernatural good luck that Lenas and his men had not searched the wagons, this was the precise place and time that the gold concealed beneath their flatbeds was due to be employed. What were the risks in that? And in any case, if Artemidorus’ plan was to try and persuade Plancus to take all his legions over to Antony, someone would need to smuggle the gold into Decimus’ section of the massive camp as well and try to tempt his men to desert – and go to Antony. Or, now he thought of it, to Octavian.

  If the letters he was carrying promised to cement a kind of friendship between the two. The avengers of Caesar’s death. The nemesis, therefore of Cicero, his friends – such as Brutus and Cassius – and his faction in the Senate. It wouldn’t matter – in the short term at least – whose Caesarean army the deserters went to join. Longer term it might make a difference, of course. Antony and Octavian really did not like each-other. The only thing forcing them together was the power of their enemies. Once that was gone, they would be at each others’ throats again. Then who commanded which legions would be crucial.

  Artemidorus’ train of thought ceased abruptly as the hands massaging changed. There was a familiarity about the touch of his new masseuse. ‘Puella?’ he whispered.

  ‘You don’t need to whisper. We’re alone,’ she said. ‘I dismissed the bath slaves as I came in. Tribune Lenas and his centurion Herrenius have been settling us all into our temporary quarters. Sending the wounded to the camp doctors and so-forth. Though the way they’re doing it is just a thin cover for a kind of interrogation. More interrogation. They may appear to be convinced by our story and amenable to aiding us, but there’s a lot more going on here than there appears to be.’

  ‘They’re thinking of going over to Antony or Octavian,’ he said. Still unable to speak above a whisper as he talked of such treasonous matters. ‘That means deserting not just Decimus, but Cicero and the Senate. And we all remember quite clearly what hap
pened when Catiline tried something similar. Cicero had everyone associated with him executed without trial. Important Senators. Antony’s stepfather Publius Cornelius Lentulus amongst them. Cicero apparently led him to his execution personally. By the hand. Like Decimus led Caesar on The Ides.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said noncommittally. Then she changed the subject. ‘It didn’t take them long to work out my sex, so I told them I was your body slave and the others backed me up. I said I’m particularly precious to you so you disguised me as a legionary in case of trouble. The others all backed me up on that too.’

  ‘They know what’s good for them,’ he chuckled. ‘Though one glance at a woman as lovely as you would convince the most hidebound Cynic.’

  ‘They do,’ she said, disregarding the clumsy gallantry. ‘So you have me now at your side or your back until we leave here.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Artemidorus sat up and caught his breath. Puella was clothed in a stola robe of fine white wool with a bright orange palla shawl that set off the rich browns of her hair, eyes and skin.

  ‘They have camp followers of all sorts, shapes and sizes. This outfit probably belonged to a whore from Mutina,’ she explained.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Artemidorus, amused. He stood, caught the woollen sheet and wrapped it round his waist to conceal the immediate and marked effect her touch had had on him.

  ‘Herrenius sent one of his men to fetch it – to fetch any woman’s clothing actually. This is what he came back with. But what’s important is that all of their troops are the ones that were bottled up in Mutina...’

  ‘Is that where we are bivouacked? In Decimus’ side of the camp with the legions he brought to hunt and annihilate General Antony?’

  ‘Yes. No big surprise, surely,’ she answered practically. ‘Lenas and Herrenius are Decimus’ men, after all. For the moment at least if what you say is true.’