Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Not always,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘But often. It’s what lawyers do, I’m told. It’s certainly what politicians do. And he is both.’

  ‘Do you think Caesar’s messages convinced him? Will he support Cornelius in the Senate?’

  ‘I really cannot tell,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘But I doubt it. Cicero may pretend to be balanced and unbiased where Octavian is concerned. But once the Senate started laughing at the suggestion he and Cicero should replace Hirtius and Pansa as consuls, he lost the old man’s favour – no matter what he says.’

  ‘You did your best,’ said Quintus. ‘You even had me convinced young Caesar Octavian is the soul of modest generosity wrapped in the skin of a lamb, terrified of offending the citizens and Senate, whose one simple desire is to live and die in the service of his country. Something he will be able to do more swiftly and efficiently if they do what he wants them to do. For their benefit and not his own.’

  ‘You think Septem pushed it too far?’ asked Felix.

  ‘I think he delivered Caesar’s message better than any man alive could have done. But delivering the message is only half of the game, isn’t it? It’s how the message is received once it’s been delivered that really counts. And I have to agree with Septem’s assessment there. Cicero lost one chance for power as consul with Octavian. He’ll be looking elsewhere now.’

  ‘And we’ll find everything out tomorrow,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Tomorrow in the Senate.’

  ‘Here’s Pedius’ villa,’ said Felix.

  ‘We need to get the girl if she’s awake, then move on as fast as possible,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I have one more visit to make. Two if we have time. And then there’s the debriefing with Cornelius.’

  ‘Where are you headed next?’ asked Quintus.

  ‘Atticus’ villa,’ answered Artemidorus.

  ‘I know where that is,’ said the solid legionary. ‘You go on. I’ll collect the girl if she’s awake and catch up with you. Warn the janitor that I’m coming if you get there before I do.’

  ‘Good,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Come on, Felix. Too much to do. Too little time.’

  ***

  The janitor of Atticus’ Roman villa was even more hesitant than the others to let two plebeian strangers into his master’s sumptuous domus. He didn’t even open the door when they knocked, preferring to peep through a metal grill as he curtly demanded to know their business. But Artemidorus had a magic word instead of a secret letter. ‘Tell the lady Fulvia that Septem is here to see her,’ he said. ‘Did you hear that? Septem. And be aware that another man called Quintus will be arriving soon and asking for me. He may be escorting a woman.’

  The panel behind the grille slammed shut.

  This time the wait was much longer. ‘The doorkeeper’s gone to tell the steward,’ Artemidorus explained. ‘The steward has gone to tell Atticus. Atticus has gone to ask Fulvia just who in the name of Hades this Septem character is. Given the list of her past husbands and activities, we could be anything from gang members to gladiators or generals in disguise. She was married to the gang-leader Clodius you know. When Anius Milo killed him – in the days before Quintus Pedius got rid of Milo in turn – she personally started the riots that destroyed half of Rome including the Curia Hostilia.’

  ‘She sounds like quite a woman.’

  ‘You have no idea. Even Antony is wary of getting on her bad side.’

  ‘Then why did he marry her?’

  ‘Love,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘And you know the thing Antony loves above everything else is danger...’

  The bolts behind the door squealed open. It creaked wide. The janitor shook his head, clearly unimpressed by these two plebeians who were to be admitted. Behind him stood and even more offended steward. ‘The Master requires you to follow me to the Lady Fulvia’s rooms,’ he said. ‘I will wait outside them to guide you back again.’

  ‘To overhear what we have to say to the lady, no doubt,’ said Artemidorus. ‘And to make sure we do nothing... ah... inappropriate.’

  ‘Indeed. Just as you say.’

  Artemidorus turned back to the doorkeeper. ‘Remember,’ he said. ‘Quintus. May have a woman with him. Will ask for Septem or Artemidorus.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the steward, nodding at the doorkeeper. ‘If you and your friend would follow me...’

  ***

  The steward led them through the huge villa to what Artemidorus guessed must be the guest wing. Then through the smaller version of the atrium and the open tablinum, with views through to a neat little peristyle. But Fulvia had chosen to meet them in an oecus or private salon.

  Antony’s wife was lying on an exquisitely padded and cushioned bench that could have been taken from the triclinium. There was certainly room on it for several other people. But she was lying there alone, propped on one elbow. One of Atticus’ slaves stood behind her waving a fan of peacock feathers which did little more than stir the humid air. She was dressed in silks from beyond the eastern edges of the empire which clung to her perspiring form as though she had been painted with purple, silver and gold. Atticus sat in a chair at her side, close enough to get what benefit could be derived from the fan. But, noted the spy, not too close.

  ‘My lord,’ said Artemidorus in brief acknowledgement of the man’s presence. But his attention focussed on the lady. Like that of a man out on an afternoon stroll in the country watching a viper which has suddenly appeared in his path.

  ‘Septem,’ she purred. ‘So it is you...’

  Felix choked a little.

  ‘I bring you news of your husband, lady,’ said Artemidorus carefully.

  ‘Of... Not from...’ Fulvia’s aristocratic features – never very open or cheerful – folded into a dangerous frown. Artemidorus had the sensation that Atticus was leaning back, putting more distance between himself and the dangerous expression.

  ‘My lady,’ explained the spy, ‘Lord Antony, my General, sent me with messages to Octavian. Octavian sent me with messages to Quintus Pedius. But I could not be in Rome without bringing you news of your husband. And offering to take any messages that you wish to send back to him.’

  ‘You were always solicitous of my welfare, Septem.’ Fulvia rearranged herself on the sofa, her body moving like liquid in its dazzling silken skin. ‘And of my children as I recall.’ Her expression softened.

  ‘And always will be, my lady...’

  ‘So. Has he yet found a way to spirit his Egyptian whore across our sea, over the mountains and into his bed?’

  ‘Queen Cleopatra is still in Alexandria, my lady. Antony is alone. He thinks only of you.’

  ‘Only of me!’

  ‘Of you, his children - and of revenge, my lady.’

  ‘Ah. That’s better. But it’s not like you to be mealy-mouthed, Septem. Surely Octavian would never send messages only to Quintus Pedius. Had he no words for his old friend Cicero?’

  ‘A list of demands, my lady, that will be presented to the next Senate meeting.’

  ‘That will be tomorrow,’ said Atticus. ‘And Octavian must know that Cicero will never accede to anything he demands.’

  ‘Until he’s forced to,’ said Fulvia. ‘Or even better, removed from the situation altogether so there is no more string-pulling among his puppet senators.’

  ‘Your thoughts are logical, my dear,’ said Atticus. ‘But hardly unbiased.’

  ‘I will never rest until I have that man’s head!’ she spat. Atticus winced. Fulvia carried on as though she had not noticed her host’s disquiet. ‘Septem, has Antony tasked you with collecting heads yet?’

  ‘Those of Divus Julius’ twenty-two murderers, lady.’

  ‘Not Cicero’s?’

  ‘No, lady. Not Cicero’s.’

  ‘Not yet! But the time will come, you mark my words. It will certainly come if I have anything to do with it! So keep your gladius sharp, Septem. Cicero may be old and diminished in body if not in power - yet. But he still has a thick neck!’

  VII

 
; CICERO

  Late July – Early August (Sextilis)

  i

  At the end of the lengthy debriefing session where the three spies had fed back to the Centurions’ council, Cornelius decided that they shouldn’t ride into the city. Artemidorus agreed. In spite of the fact that he hadn’t slept during the night which was just about to depart, he felt fresh, focused and full of energy. His conference with Fulvia had not been a long one. In the end she had asked Atticus to summon one of his secretaries and then dictated a letter for Artemidorus to take to her husband. The sort of letter one might expect to receive from a fellow-commander in a bitter war rather than from a loving wife recently evicted with her children and reliant on the generosity of friends and acquaintance. There was a great deal about plans, tactics, Cicero’s head and how soon it could be separated from his body. But nothing at all about Antonia, Antyllus or Iulius, the children.

  Felix left Atticus’ villa at Artemidorus’ side, without a further word. Stunned to silence by the bitterness of Antony’s wife. Quintus was waiting for them in the atrium under the eye of the janitor with their young captive restlessly at his side. Once through the door, they lingered briefly in the brightness of the flaming torches Atticus maintained outside his house. Quintus began to explain what he had learned from her. While she maintained a kind of mutinous silence to match Felix’. ‘I think you already know that one of the gang-leaders who took over when Clodius and Milo died was a man called the Gaul.’

  ‘Yes. We wondered briefly whether he had employed a sicarius assassin who tried to kill me. Myrtillus. He also tried to kill Antony.’

  ‘That’s right. Well this is Freya, the Gaul’s niece. In his organisation, apparently, even the family have to pull their weight.’

  ‘I see.’ Artemidorus mind raced. The girl was at best a distraction. At worst, a danger. ‘I don’t have time to deal with this any further. Let her go.’

  The girl Freya looked at him, wide-eyed with surprise.

  His eyes met hers. ‘Can you get home safely from here?’ he asked.

  ‘We really don’t have time to escort her,’ observed Quintus. ‘If you want to talk the situation over with Cornelius and the Centurions, we don’t even have time to see Atia and Octavia.’

  ‘True,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Freya,’ he repeated, ‘can you get home safely from here? It’s just down the hill to the Subura.’

  She nodded, her eyes still wide. And, he noticed, dazzlingly blue. Very much of her uncle’s Gaulish heritage.

  ‘Off you go, then.’

  She vanished into the shadows, running downhill as fast as she could.

  ‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Back to camp. We have a good deal to discuss with Cornelius.’

  ***

  ‘Dismounting and stabling four hundred horses in the precinct of the Temple of Tellus would be a confused and lengthy affair,’ said Artemidorus next morning. ‘It will only detract from the impact we are hoping to make. And, of course, a four-hundred-strong cavalry unit is almost bound to create a panic. Which Caesar specifically does not want us to do.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cornelius. ‘I agree.’

  ‘So, we march.’

  ‘We march,’ nodded Cornelius.

  They formed up and marched, shoulder to shoulder, rank after rank. Cornelius in the front with Artemidorus, Quintus and Felix at his side. And all the rest arranged behind them. Four hundred of them, armed and armoured. As though on parade before Divus Julius himself. As though marching into battle. In through the Colline Gate as soon as it opened with the nervous gate-guards wide-eyed at attention.

  The last of the sultry night was surrendering to yet another blazing dawn. The first sunbeams coming over the distant peaks of the Apennines behind them to gleam off their helmets. To brighten the blood red plumes and swirling sagae cloaks. The rhythmic pounding of eight hundred hobnailed caligae marching in perfect unison, echoed through the stirring streets and forums. Faces appeared at the windows and doors of villas and insulae. Only to vanish as the occupants ran to hide, as if from an invading army. The morning bustle grew – then died as the full impact of the marching men dawned on the citizens, the plebeians and their slaves. At last the only other people left hurrying through the streets of the Carinae were the senators themselves with their bodyguards of lictors, their servants and their litter-bearers. There was an atmosphere – almost an odour – of fear. But no panic.

  The lictors, litter-bearers and so-forth would normally wait in the temple precinct for their masters to re-emerge from the Senate meeting. However, as the centurions marched into the great square at the foot of the temple’s steps, they, too, vanished. The open space was vacant, except for the statues standing there, one of which was the statue of Quintus Cicero, erected by his brother Marcus. Marcus, whose high-pitched voice came echoing out of the temple as soon as Cornelius and Artemidorus walked past the little altar on which the morning’s auspices had already been taken, and pushed the massive doors open.

  The Temple of Tellus, the Earth Mother, was amongst the largest in Rome. There was plenty of room to accommodate an almost-full meeting of the Senate. Artemidorus was surprised, as he marched with his companions towards the consular dais and curule chair, that the benches were quite well filled.

  Cicero, standing on the dais, obviously in full-flow, stopped speaking. Turned and glared as though surprised and horrified by the intrusion. A stirring – somewhere between a sound and a motion – seemed to pass along the senatorial benches. Cicero’s men sharing his outrage. Others owing loyalty to Antony and Octavian, looking more in expectation than shock. Speech stopped. The business for which Cicero had summoned them paused. The rhythmic stamp of marching feet filled the temple for an unsettling length of time, fading only slowly as rank after rank came to a stand behind Cornelius and Artemidorus.

  As the last rank of soldiers crashed to attention, silence fell.

  ii

  But not for long. Cicero swung round to face Octavian’s messenger. ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ he snarled.

  Artemidorus was struck at once by a simple truth he had never noticed before. Fulvia was right. Cicero had a thick neck.

  Cornelius, prepared for this hostility during his briefing with Artemidorus the night before, showed no emotion at all. ‘Conscript fathers,’ he said, ignoring Cicero entirely, his voice echoing round the massive space. ‘My colleagues and I greet you on behalf of Gaius Julius Caesar Divus Fili. We are sure that you are aware of the reasonable nature of the requests he has asked us to make to you on his behalf. Which are these. That the Senate, speaking as ever for the people of Rome, ratify the will of Divus Julius. That the Senate on behalf of the people of Rome recognise a situation that is already a fact. Namely that Gaius Julius Caesar Divus Fili holds imperium over the eight legions camped with him at Bononia. Finally, that in the absence of Consular guidance since the deaths of Consul of Rome Aulus Hirtius and Consul of Rome Gaius Vibius Pansa Caetronianus during or soon after the battle of Mutina, that Caesar himself be elected Consul with his mature and respected relative, Senator, triumphator and general Quintus Pedius, as his co-Consul.’

  There was a further stirring along the benches as the Senators digested Cornelius’ words. But he raised his hand to quiet them. ‘It may be thought that Caesar is too young to stand for the post of Consul. But I would respectfully remind the conscript fathers that in times of national emergency such as this, exceptions to the rule have been made. How many great men in history have been elected, well before reaching the legal age of 43? Corvinus! Both Scipios, father and son. Pompey the Great. Dolabella. Even Divus Julius himself had just attained his forty-first year when he was first appointed. I urge you to consider these facts and to judge wisely. For ourselves, we also ask that the bounty promised to us by the Senate for undertaking battle against general Marcus Antonius, defeated, camped far beyond the Alps and now hostis, be paid in full.’

  Cornelius’ hand fell. His speech was over. There was pandemon
ium. The better part of six hundred senators were each demanding to answer the arrogant soldier. All at the same time.

  Cicero rode the moment like the accomplished orator he was, waiting for the outrage to quiet as he turned and once more faced the centurion. ‘As I am sure you know,’ he began. ‘Your general – if general he is without our authority - can call himself any name he chooses. But, again, he should be careful about calling himself Caesar before his adopted father’s will has been passed into law. Again by us. And as to his arrogant demand that he be elected Consul – with however many worthy names proposed as co-Consul - he should perhaps present himself to us. Here. In twenty-four years’ time when he has attained the age required by law for anyone seeking the post!’

  For the next three hours as measured by the Senate’s water-clocks, the debate raged back and forth. Acknowledging Octavian’s position as general with imperium would undermine Decimus Albinus, who held imperium already. But the imperium of Octavian was already a well-established fact. On the other hand, what was Decimus doing to earn continued imperium? Then again, what would Octavian be capable of should imperium be awarded to him? He would march his legions against Rome at once.

  And the same was true of Divus Julius’ will. The boy had already started dispensing money as the will required. Had opened the gardens on the Janiculum. But only, perhaps to curry favour of the people. If he could not be a Caesar perhaps he would turn into a Clodius. A Catiline.

  And as for becoming a Consul at the age of nineteen – and appointed in absentia! Such desperate measures had been employed before - but only in the most extreme of times and under the most immediate of threats. What threat was there now to support such an outrageous claim? A relatively powerless Antony, on the run from Decimus Albinus and trapped on the far side of the Alps. Beyond Antony, the only possible threat to Rome came from young Caesar Octavian himself. Granting his wishes would only add to his power and make him a more potent danger still.