by Peter Tonkin
‘Though the fact that they brought us straight to Plancus also makes me think they won’t be with Decimus for much longer...’
iii
‘Ah, Centurion,’ came that mannered, slightly supercilious voice. ‘I see your body slave has found you. And has had the required effect upon you. Excellent. Perhaps she can now help you back into your clothes. Though it looks as though they may be too tight in some areas. For a while at least.’ Popilius Lenas came in through the vestibulum as he spoke. His voice raised as a kind of warning that he was approaching. Not very subtle. Making Artemidorus wonder, in fact, how long the tribune had been lingering outside for. How much of the conversation he had overheard. ‘But in truth, there is no immediate rush,’ continued the smooth tones, ‘for I am sent with an enquiry, not a summons to cena.’
‘I see...’ Artemidorus’ tone was guarded.
Lenas apparently failed to notice this. He strolled past Puella. Slung his arm over Artemidorus’ naked shoulders. Gave him a falsely friendly hug. ‘Several of your party, it appears, are there only as mountain guides. They plan to return when you move on towards Bononia, so I’m told.’
‘That is so,’ nodded Artemidorus.
‘One of them claims to be legate, in command of Antony’s Gallic cavalry wing. Is that so?’
‘His name is Gretorex. You may recognise him too, for he was at my side through the battles at both Forum Gallorum and Mutina.’
‘Ah. So that is why he seems familiar. I should have guessed. He is as fortunate to have survived as you yourself. You would have no objection to this man joining General Plancus for cena?’
‘The general is our kind host. How could I object?’ Out of patience at last, Artemidorus moved away from Lenas, shrugging off his arm. ‘Besides, General Plancus has the reputation of being a careful man who never lets an opportunity slip past. I assume that if he wishes to use me as a contact with Octavian, he might want Gretorex to serve the same function with Antony. To prepare for all eventualities, perhaps.’
‘Just so, Centurion,’ said the tribune icily. ‘Just so.’ He turned and walked away.
‘I don’t like him,’ whispered Puella after Lenas had strolled back out of the tent. ‘And it’s not just because he crucifies old men to the sides of burning temples, spears babies on pilae and lets his men use old women for target practise It’s the fact that he seems to be enjoying it. Like what you told me of Senator Minucius Basilus and General Trebonius. Who enjoyed torturing slaves for their personal gratification.’
‘Just so long as he keeps his hugs for me – and doesn’t get his hands on you...’
‘Just so long as none of them do!’ spat Puella.
Artemidorus found it hard to believe just how much this woman had changed during the fifteen months he had known her. Once she had been a timid body slave trapped in the household of Marcus Junius Brutus, terrified of her own shadow. Now she could almost be mistaken for Bellona, goddess of war. If the brutal Minucius Basilus did get his hands on this new Puella, he thought, it would be the degenerate senator who would most need his pity.
***
Plancus’ idea of plain soldiers’ fare was something that Antony would have appreciated, thought Artemidorus as the sun began to settle in the Summer sky. To begin with, the general’s social quarters were laid out as a traditional triclinium dining room, the three dining benches arranged round a sizeable central table. Each bench capable of bearing three diners. With plenty of space behind them for slaves and servants. Artemidorus and Gretorex shared a bench with Puella standing behind them. Lenas and Herrenius another, with a couple of legionary slaves as waiters. Plancus lay on the host’s bench alone, for Decimus, although invited, did not attend.
The meal began with a gustatio of honeyed mushrooms, boiled eggs and olives; cold roast chicken and duck. These were succeeded by a massive prima mensa of roast boar and baked carp stuffed with eels and freshwater shrimp. Served with a summer salad and fresh-baked loaves of emer bread. The secunda mensa involved pears, dates, more honey and cheese. What Antony would particularly have approved of, thought Artemidorus, was the wine. Sweet Greek Chian from Ariusium and local Rhaetic with the gustatio. Falernian and Gauarnian with the boar and the carp. The latter, as Plancus observed drily, amongst Cicero’s favourites – for it was from the vines grown just above his villa in Puteoli. And, finally, imported Baleareic and Tarraco. ‘Supplied courtesy of General Gaius Asinius Pollio from Hispania,’ said Plancus. ‘Who, although he does not approve of me, nevertheless pretends to befriend me. Such being the strange bedfellows these strange times create.’
There was a brief silence after this philosophical statement. Then Plancus apparently changed the subject entirely. ‘Artemidorus,’ he said. ‘I feel I ought to know the name. Beyond what we have learned of your illustrious military career...’
Artemidorus remained quiet, masking his silence with a deep draught of the icy river water which had been placed on the table to dilute the strong Spanish wines supplied by Governor Pollio, from the province of Further Spain which currently lay under his imperium. Like Plancus, he was drinking far less than he appeared to be.
So it was Popilius Lenas who spoke. ‘I have heard it told that a man called Artemidorus handed to Divus Julius Caesar a list of names, just as the consul and dictator for life was entering Pompey’s Curia on the Ides of March last year. A list which identified the names of all the men planning to kill him. A list which, tragically according to some, Caesar never read...’
‘But there was more than that, surely,’ added Herrenius. ‘Was there not a man called Artemidorus who acted as go-between, carrying messages from Antony to Brutus and Cassius as they occupied the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline in the hours after the deed. Carrying messages from the blood-smeared Libertores, indeed, to Cicero himself.’
Plancus’ penetrating gaze rested on Artemidorus then, calculating the meaning of his continued silence. ‘So, he said, drawing the word out thoughtfully. ‘We have here not only a centurion whom Antony trusts to send to Octavian because Octavian also trusts him. The legionary, furthermore, upon whom Octavian’s trust rests because he is the one who fought to preserve Caesar’s life to the very end – and almost succeeded in doing so. But also – and this is truly unusual in these strange times – someone who knows and is probably also trusted by Marcus Tullius Cicero himself. What a uniquely valuable piece you are in the complex game we all seem to be playing here.’
iv
Puella continued to play the part of a body-slave until they reached the tent they had been assigned to. Which they were sharing with others. Beside a second which housed Gretorex and his men. Both of which were lit by small oil lamps – though everyone else in them seemed to be fast asleep. To the sound of stentorian snoring, they disrobed, assisting each-other where necessary then he lay down on the simple camp bed assigned to him, wearing nothing but his subligaculum loincloth. Loosely wrapped in his military cloak, for the summer’s night was warm. She slid into hers, still demurely attired in the same style of loincloth and the strophium which covered her breasts. She also had a military cloak to serve as a blanket. And armour matching his at the end of the truckle bed. ‘It’s a great relief,’ she observed sleepily as she blew out the lamp and plunged them into darkness, ‘to be able to bed down without my armour on and without my sword to hand.’
Artemidorus chuckled. But he kept firm hold of the pugio dagger that was hidden beneath his pillow. In spite of the apparent security promised by the calls and counter-calls of the night-guards on patrol.
The group taking the message to Octavian and the group returning to Antony split up after an early lunch next day. Each heading in the opposite direction to the other. Their departure from Plancus’ camp slowed by Plancus himself – though they did not see him again. Any more than they saw the isolated and depressed Decimus. Instead, tribune Popilius Lenas and centurion Herrenius came early asking them to wait. Then they disappeared and the two groups snatched a quick break
fast, then readied themselves, their mounts and their wagons as appropriate. The slave with the crushed foot, his friend with the gashed thigh and Notus with his arrow wound had the opportunity to visit the camp doctor once more before they left. Then there was nothing more to do but wait. And the wait lasted to lunchtime.
Just after noon, Lenas returned, bearing Plancus’ messages in a leather message case strapped over his shoulder.
All of Artemidorus’ and Gretorex’ groups were gathered round a large table, some seated, some standing. As they consumed a large section of last night’s roast boar, a little of the stuffed fish and the cold eels – but a good number of the shrimps. With fresh-baked bread dipped in olive oil and sprinkled with salt. ‘The food was worth waiting for,’ said Artemidorus as Lenas approached. ‘I hope the messages were as well.’
‘Look for yourself,’ said Lenas, reaching into the message case and handing the centurion a papyrus scroll bearing Plancus’ seal and the inscription To General Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divi Filius.
‘Now that’s what I call giving a man his due,’ said Artemidorus as he read the inscription aloud. ‘Octavian should be so impressed with the manner in which Plancus addresses him that it hardly matters what the message actually says.’
‘Antony too,’ growled Gretorex, accepting another sealed papyrus roll. ‘“To ex-Consul and General Marcus Antonius.” Antony will love this. Given that technically he isn’t even a Roman citizen any more.’
***
Tribune Lenas escorted them to the main gate, checking over his shoulder from time to time as he did so. Then he went out with them over the wooden bridge spanning the defensive ditch and stood watching while they made their farewells. ‘We’ll just retrace our steps through the mountains,’ said Gretorex, confirming the plans they had discussed while awaiting the messages. ‘Move fast and steer clear of trouble.’
‘That reminds me,’ interrupted the tribune. He produced another scroll from the message case he was carrying. ‘If you come across any of general Decimus’ or general Plancus’ patrols, show them this. It’s a safe passage. Even if they can’t read the writing they should recognise the general’s seal. He’s obviously very keen indeed that you get safely back to General Antony.’
He looked over his shoulder once again a little nervously. Produced another scroll. Artemidorus caught a glimpse of the direction and the hand it was written in. An untidy, almost careless scrawl – in marked contrast to the beautiful calligraphy of Plancus’ secretary. ‘And,’ continued the tribune in a low voice, ‘although it hardly compares to the letters you are carrying, here is one from me. Also to Antony. But without the overblown courtesies. Soldier to soldier, eh?’
Artemidorus looked down at the tribune. He held out his own hand. ‘I don’t think we’ll need safe passage along the Via Postumia to Placentia or the Via Aemilia down to Bononia,’ he said. ‘But I’ll wager you have a letter for Octavian as well. Soldier to soldier.’
Lenas glanced up at him, and for an instant Artemidorus saw beneath the facade of cheery camaraderie to the ruthless, hate-filled man who took pleasure in crucifying priests to the walls of their burning temples. Impaling babies and staking heads. Using village elders for target practise. But then Lenas looked down, reaching into his message case. And when he looked up once more, offering the centurion a letter addressed to Octavian, the mask was back in place. ‘Well reasoned, Centurion,’ he said. ‘May the gods guide your footsteps in safety.’
‘I don’t think he meant that,’ said Puella, drawing level with Artemidorus as they rode away from the huge camp, following their guide Mercury towards the distant Via Postumia.
Quintus drew level on his other side. ‘You’ve made an enemy there somehow,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m not quite sure how you did it – but there’s no escaping it.’
‘It’s because he’s hiding something and he suspects I can guess what it is,’ said Artemidorus. ‘It may just be the fact that he’s getting ready to turn traitor to Decimus and go with the first of his rivals who’ll have him. Or it may be something more...’ Frowning, he pulled back until his horse was level with the leading wagon. Where Notus sat, his arm bandaged, forbidden by the doctor to risk his suturing and bandaging by tugging at reins. Artemidorus handed down the tribune’s scrawled letter addressed to Octavian. ‘Open that and check it through,’ he directed his code maker and handwriting expert. ‘See if there’s anything there beyond the desperate grovelling to Octavian, begging him to accept Lenas and his Centurion friend into his legions.’
‘And if there is?’
‘Then I want to know all about it. In every detail. Before we get to Bononia and Octavian himself.’
IV
FELIX
Late July
i
Mercury took point, guiding them towards the Via Postumia which would lead them east to the military city of Placenta where the southbound Via Aemilia started. Which would in turn take them past Mutina to Bononia and Octavian’s army encampment. Just before they joined the bustling thoroughfare and when he was finally certain they were not being followed or spied upon, Artemidorus led them into a quiet glade. Here, protected by a wall of tall cypress trees, those of them still dressed as Gauls changed into their legionary uniforms.
Their military clothing had been concealed alongside the gold and the extra weaponry beneath the flatbeds of the wagons. Which was the main reason for not making the change earlier. It was one thing to plan a secret extraction of the heavy leather bags well after dark when almost the only people moving about were the security patrols. It was quite another to open the secret compartments in broad daylight. In the middle of a busy camp full of soldiers on the verge of mutiny because they had not been paid for months. As soon as the planks were lifted now, however, it was obvious that a good deal of the gold that he been stored there had already been removed after all – and invested, no doubt, in hefty bribes.
Artemidorus turned to Quintus. ‘So,’ he said, gesturing to the empty space which had housed the missing bags. ‘Good work last night?’
‘Yes,’ the legionary answered. ‘While you were feasting with General Plancus and that shifty bastard Popilius Lenas, Ferrata and I were supping with some old friends and acquaintances in Decimus’ legions. If you look, you’ll see that we’ve invested more than gold...’
‘We gave them a good portion of our food supplies as well,’ Ferrata enlarged. ‘We reckoned that there’d be tabernae and hospitia once we got onto the roads and we could get food there – even if we weren’t planning to stay the night.’ He winked knowingly at Puella. ‘All of the dried fish went for a start. Men who have eaten roast dog, boiled cat and raw rat don’t turn their noses up at dried fish – no matter what it smells like...’
‘So,’ said Artemidorus. ‘The result of all this economic and gastronomic generosity was...’
‘A mixture of stuff,’ answered Quintus.
‘Tell me about it while we get back on the road,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Everybody changed and ready? Boards back in place? Then lead on friend Mercury.’
***
The Via Postuma was busy and not particularly wide. An offshoot of the broader Via Aemilia, it was currently the main artery between two huge military encampments – with a military city at its end. Legionaries marched eastward and westward, guarding supply columns. Traders followed them, hawking everything that thousands upon thousands of soldiers might want. For the most part guarded by gangs of gladiators – all too well aware that what soldiers wanted they had a habit of taking. Whether they could pay for it or not.
Mercury took the lead with Hercules and Furius close behind. Then came the wagons – with Notus riding in the second of them, trying to protect the wound in his arm, under doctor’s orders. The slave with the crushed foot and his friend with the wounded thigh could still drive so they sat on the benches and each took his turn with the reins. Artemidorus, Quintus, Ferrata and Puella made a tight foursome riding two abreast close behind the secon
d wagon.
Artemidorus leaned forward so he could talk to Notus. ‘Have you looked at Lenas’ letter yet?’
‘It’s been too bumpy so far, Septem,’ answered the young code-breaker, ‘but now we are on a smoother surface I can take the seal off without breaking it, and replace it when we’ve read the contents. All I need is a thin-bladed knife and a flame to heat it. The seal is pretty basic in any case. Lenas would never know...’
‘It’s not Lenas I’m worried about,’ Artemidorus explained. ‘The letter is for Octavian and I don’t want him thinking we’ve been reading his correspondence.’
‘Of course.’ Notus went pale. He clearly hadn’t thought of that aspect. ‘I’ll be very careful.’
Artemidorus nodded and sat back in his saddle.
‘I can see why Popilius Lenas and Herrenius are looking to move on,’ Quintus was saying. ‘The men we talked to last night were unanimous in disliking and distrusting them. If they haven’t received a dagger in the back before now it’s been a close-run thing. The odds of it happening are shortening on a daily basis. And the cohort they control is just as bad. They’ve a really nasty reputation. Brutes more than soldiers. No real skills except stabbing and raping.’
‘Which is more or less the same thing,’ chimed in Puella. ‘Different weapons. That’s all.’
‘Perhaps that’s why they needed the target practise with slings and arrows,’ added Ferrata. ‘They’re only any good when they get within nine inches or so.’
‘Nine inches!’ spat Puella. ‘They’d be lucky to raise more than six...’
‘Apparently, what we saw in the village is nothing compared to some of the atrocities they get up to up in the Alps,’ continued Quintus, disdaining to grace the byplay with a comment. ‘According to what we heard, they effectively run sections of the camp through sheer terror. Ruling through fear and a law unto themselves. Beyond even Plancus’ control. As you would expect, I suppose – they’re Decimus’ men after all.’