by Peter Tonkin
At last Cicero called for a vote. ‘I shall not divide the boy’s demands,’ he said. ‘They are all equal to my mind. Equal in what measure I believe I have already established. All equally unacceptable. Therefore, conscript fathers, let us answer the so-called Caesar and his bullies. Yea or Nay.’
The answer was a resounding Nay.
Cornelius stood frozen for an instant, then he threw back his sagum and placed his hand on the pommel of his gladius. ‘Very well, conscript fathers,’ he said, his voice ringing over the restlessness in the temple. ‘If you will not settle matters, this will!’
iii
Cornelius decided that they should go back along the Via Flaminia to Ariminium on the east coast, then up the Via Aemilia to Bononia. It was further than the way they had come down. And likely to take longer. Artemidorus could see the Centurion’s point of view. He was bringing bad news – he saw no reason to hurry.
‘But Caesar will have foreseen this,’ he told his despondent colleague as they rode towards the Apennines. ‘He will have planned for it. Believe me. He won’t blame either of us. It was Cicero. He will blame Cicero and make plans to outmanoeuvre him.’
‘No-one likes to bring his commander bad news, Septem. It could be the end of my career. Even the end of my life. I’ve heard tell that Antony once attacked a messenger who brought bad news...’
‘Not Antony. Cleopatra. I’ve seen Fulvia do it too. Neither of whom has young Caesar’s dignitas. I truly believe you will be greeted and heard with equanimity and, given that Caesar believes you have done your best, he will reward you rather than punishing you. Now and in the future. Caesar is a man who understands the importance of truth in the reports he gets. Whether that truth suits him or not. I believe he has heard the story of Tigranes, King of Armenia who executed the messengers bringing him increasingly unwelcome warnings of the approach of Lucius Licinius Lucullus and his invading army. With the result that all intelligence dried up. Tigranes was consequently surprised and very nearly overwhelmed. A wise leader listens to messengers whether their news is good or bad and rewards them notwithstanding. That way he can always be sure that he will hear the truth.’
‘And it is your job, is it not, to carry the truth to Antony and reap the rewards of honesty?’
‘With Antony, things are not always quite so cut-and-dried,’ admitted Artemidorus with a wry smile.
For the first time since they left the Temple of Tellus, Cornelius laughed.
***
Four days later, on the Kalends of Sextilis, Caesar met them in the command tent at the heart of his camp beside Bononia. The leaders of the centurions, Felix and Artemidorus accompanied Cornelius as soon as they dismounted. Agrippa, Rufus and Maecenas were with Caesar as usual and, youthful though they were, they still exuded a sense of power strong enough to intimidate even the centurions. They sat side by side behind a table. Cornelius came to attention before them and made his report.
‘So,’ said Caesar, when Cornelius had finished. ‘They turned down my demands.’
‘All of them Caesar,’ said Cornelius nervously. ‘Even the legions’ demand for the bounty to be paid as promised.’
‘Sit down all of you please. This is a conference, not a trial. And Cicero, Septem?’
‘Would not listen to reason Caesar,’ answered Artemidorus as Cornelius, Felix and he sat opposite their young general and his staff while the others gathered round as best they could. ‘He would not be swayed by any argument. In the end it was Cicero who ensured the Senate refused everything you and your legions asked for. Your personal letters and messages did not have the desired effect on him at all. Quite the reverse. He is still making an issue of your age and inexperience. It was Cicero, indeed, who suggested you should re-apply for Consular status in twenty-four years’ time when you will have gained the extra maturity required by the Cursus Honorum.’
Caesar nodded. ‘I knew it was a faint hope,’ he said. ‘But it was worth trying. He is an old man hanging on to the last of his power. He cannot see beyond that. Well, he will have to be taught.’
‘Taught, Caesar?’
‘That the power of words, no matter how eloquent, is no match for the powers of gold and steel. So. Like my father, I have an alternative plan.’ He gave the merest glimmer of a smile as he glanced around them all. ‘In fact my alternative plan is my father’s plan.’
Agrippa unrolled a map and spread it across the table between them. Rufus and Maecenas held it flat. Down the leg of Italy, the vias ran in red like arteries, all converging on Rome. The rivers, in blue, meandered out of green mountains onto sand-coloured plains. The major towns were marked and named in black. Thin lines defined the limits of the provinces. The line defining the southern limit of Cisalpine Gaul ran along the River Rubicon.
Octavian ran a finger lightly along the river. ‘When my father brought his legions south of the Rubicon he was technically invading Italy. His imperium ended at the border of Cisalpine Gaul. I will not need to be so brave or foolhardy. Chance has dictated that the nature of my imperium remains a matter of debate. So, therefore, do it limitations. You see where we have outfoxed Cicero there for a start. If he had thought to recognise my imperium, he could have given it limits at the same time. Thus forcing me to break the law if I moved towards Rome. But it seems he doesn’t think as quickly or as deviously as he used to.’
‘So, Caesar,’ said Artemidorus, ‘Are you taking all your legions south?’
‘I will rather say that they are taking me. There is no doubt that the arrogance of the Senate has genuinely angered Cornelius here and the council of centurions. If I refused to lead them back to Rome, they would at least consider deserting me and going to Antony, whose hatred for the Senate is bitter and growing. It is a position that a man as young as I am - and a leader as inexperienced as I also am - could well be forced into by unruly troops...’
‘And so you find yet another way to employ the fact that they all underestimate you against them, Caesar.’ Artemidorus said, impressed by the deviousness.
‘That is my plan. However, I am a Caesar and my father earned much fame from the speed at which he could move. In that as in so much else I strive to follow in his footsteps. So I too will move like lightening. The Martia and the Fourth are ready to march. I will lead them. They will be supported by the four most experienced legions from the rest. Six crack legions will be sufficient for my immediate needs. The other two will follow on. I and my six legions will force-march back the way you came up. Down the Via Aemilia to Ariminium then along the Via Flaminia to the gates of Rome itself. Then we will see how keen the Senate are for me to wait another twenty-four years before they make me Consul.
iv
Caesar’s plans were put in motion at once. The map was rolled, the meeting adjourned, Artemidorus and the others dismissed as Caesar and his lieutenants went into carefully-prepared action.
First, Caesar assembled his four hundred messengers in the camp’s forum once again to thank them for taking his message to the Senate and to commiserate with them over the Senate’s refusal to grant their wishes and their promised pay. Then they were returned to their legions and their duties, which in most cases involved preparations for immediate departure.
As Caesar was talking to his men, Artemidorus led Agrippa and Maecenas aside into the Etruscan atrium of the command tent where they could talk quietly, undisturbed. ‘I’m sure you will have thought of this,’ he said. ‘But I would be wary of Cicero. He is growing bitter and increasingly desperate. As soon as he hears of Caesar’s approach – and no matter how fast the legions move there will be men who can move faster – he will start searching for hostages. Caesar will need to ensure his mother and sister are somewhere safe, or Cicero will snatch them and use them as bargaining counters. Caesar’s love for them is well-known. The higher they stand in his regard, the deeper the danger they are in.’
‘A pity you didn’t get a chance to talk to them,’ said Maecenas, thoughtfully.
‘The
re was no time. Besides, I knew nothing of Caesar’s plans so I could hardly have prepared them to run and hide if Cicero sent anyone after them.’
‘That’s true,’ allowed Agrippa.
‘Even so,’ insisted Artemidorus. ‘The minute Caesar moves, Atia and Octavia are in danger.’
Caesar’s lieutenants exchanged a glance. ‘We’ll talk it over with him,’ said Agrippa. ‘As you say, he may well have considered the danger. But I don’t know whether he’s decided what to do about it.’
Released from his duties at last, Artemidorus went in search of his contubernium, starting, of course, with the wounded. And, especially of Puella, who had been distractingly in the forefront of his thoughts throughout the whole of his mission.
***
‘I have known it happen with head wounds,’ said Glyco the physician. ‘I have treated many, of course, in my work with gladiators as well as with legionaries. In my experience, such a thing is usually a sign of imminent death. But, happily, not in this case.’ The hospital tent was all-but empty. A camp at rest generated few serious injuries. The only dangerous occupations being cooking, dealing with bored and restless horses, exercising and weapons training on the parade ground. There were one or two burns, another crushed foot and a nasty-looking bite, and an embarrassed legionary who had somehow contrived to run the business end of his pilum through his foot.
Puella was sitting upright in her bed, apparently completely cured. Bright-eyed; following the conversation with rapt attention. But, it seemed, with no knowledge at all of the identities of the men who were holding it. When Artemidorus greeted her, with great relief and an unusual display of affection, she had been confused. Because, he soon understood, she had no idea who he was. Or who she was herself. Where she was or how she came to be here.
‘Furthermore...’ continued the Greek doctor, ‘look at this.’ He took the dagger from Artemidorus belt and threw it towards his lovely patient. Who plucked it out of the air with all the practised efficiency of the well-trained soldier she had become. Then she looked at her hand with an expression of mild surprise.
‘It is as though her muscles have a memory of their own. Which still functions in spite of the fact that she does not remember you or me. Or, indeed, any of the men who travelled with her from General Antony’s camp beyond the Alps. The corpus, body, seems less damaged than the anima spirit. In spite of the fact that the damage was done by a blow to her head, which is of course, part of the corpus.’
‘If you have seen it before,’ said Artemidorus, ‘do you know how to cure it?’
‘Alas, no. All I can recommend is rest and patience. One of the few gladiators with the same malady who survived for any length of time, awoke one morning with all his memories fully restored. The intervening weeks having passed, he said, like a kind of dream. Then he went back to the arena and died in combat. A waste, really...’
‘Weeks.’ Artemidorus persisted.
‘It may take weeks. Or months, I assume. Unlike the wounded arm and thigh and the crushed foot you brought me, both of which are cured and dismissed to their duties. On the other hand it might take days. Or hours. The fact that her corpus seems to remember more than her anima gives me great hope.’
‘But Caesar is about to break camp. The Martia and the Fourth will be on the road south before nightfall. The rest will be following on.’
Glyco nodded. ‘I am used to situations like this. I will take her with me when I follow Caesar south. If you are going with Caesar as well, then you can see her regularly. If you are returning to Antony then you may trust her to my safekeeping. Or you may take her and tend her yourself.’
The physician’s words drove home in Artemidorus’ mind a point he had been trying to resolve himself. He didn’t know what he should actually do next. He had, after all, fulfilled his mission for Antony when he delivered the General’s messages to Octavian. And he had fulfilled Octavian’s mission by contacting Quintus Pedius and Cicero in Rome.
So he nodded silently, left the hospital tent and went in search of Quintus, Ferrata and the others, to discuss what their next move should be. Unlike the rest of the camp which was stirring as preparations for departure got under way, the little crypteia, like its leader, seemed to be at a loose end. Even Quintus seemed to have nothing to do. ‘We’ve been training with the Martia,’ Ferrata explained.
‘Just to keep ourselves as sharp as out swords,’ nodded Mercury.
‘But they’re off later,’ added Furius.
‘What are our plans?’ asked Hercules.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Artemidorus roundly. ‘Unless Caesar has orders for us, then we’ll be going back to Antony. Following your lead, Mercury, as you guide us over the Alps...’
Mercury’s ruined face twisted into an even more horrible frown than usual. ‘Leave Puella here, you mean?’ he demanded. Very much the concerned lover – even though she had been with Artemidorus exclusively for some months now.
‘He has a point, Septem,’ said Notus the code breaker, now cured of his wound, as Glyco said. ‘We can’t just leave her.’
‘I know,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘We’re a unit. We don’t leave the wounded behind.’
‘Only the dead,’ nodded Quintus.
Discussion had reached that point when Felix pushed his head into the tent. ‘Caesar wants you, Septem. And he wants you right away.’
v
‘As you will readily appreciate,’ said Caesar Octavian a little later, ‘moving an army of this size is a very precise business. Every soldier has a place. Every man from the lowliest legionary to the centurions, tribunes and legates has a clear-cut duty to fulfil.’
‘I see that, Caesar,’ nodded Artemidorus.
‘I have only two detachments which are not vital to my planned forced march on Rome,’ Caesar continued. ‘Felix’ independent contubernium of spies and your own, Septem. Your crypteia.’
‘I see that, Caesar,’ he repeated. Artemidorus saw, too, where the conversation was inevitably leading. His eyes narrowed. His heart rate speeded up. He had felt at a loose end for only a few moments and now, suddenly, here was the prospect of action. Just as he had predicted. But his relationship with the young Caesar had passed the point where he could insert his own thoughts into a conversation like this. So he waited for Caesar’s orders – even though he was almost certain what they would be.
‘As soon as Cicero gets news that we are moving,’ continued Caesar, ‘he will certainly try and take my mother and sister as hostages. I need a small group of men – disguised if need be – to get to Rome before that happens. To move Atia and Octavia to a place of safety. You two have just returned from the city and know how things are there. Felix tells me that you suggested very successful disguises. Discussed this very danger with Mycenas and himself. And, moreover, that you know where Atia and Octavia are lodged, Septem. They have met both of you and will trust you, no matter how you present yourselves. My first thought is to take them to Quintus Pedius but circumstances may dictate otherwise when you are actually there. But the long and short of it is this. I want you each to choose three of your best men. Get to Rome as fast as you possibly can. Put my mother and sister in a place of safety before Cicero can get hold of them. Take them back if he has already kidnapped them. Then spy out the lie of the land in preparation for my arrival and the confrontation with Cicero and the Senate which may well result from my appearance. Which, I hope, will occur sooner even than Cicero’s spies can predict.’
***
‘Mercury, you must stay with Puella. Watch over her on my behalf,’ said Artemidorus a little later. ‘Notus. I have no need of code-breakers at the moment, any more than I need guides like Mercury to get me to Rome, because I have just followed the fastest route - with Cornelius. So you will stay with him. Furius, I am unlikely to need a carnifex with your particular skills, so you split your duties with the slaves and keep close watch on our wagons and our gold. Which may well be coming south in a while. As will Puella, Mercury,
under the care of Glyco the physician. But Hercules, I may well need a man who has lived in Rome and knows its ways and byways well. So the unit dictated by Caesar all-but selects itself. Me, Quintus, Ferrata and Hercules. We need to gather our kit as quickly as possible, remembering that we are going disguised as citizens. So no armour or obvious weaponry other than our pugiones daggers. But bearing in mind that we may have to free the women from wherever Cicero has put them – if he’s moved faster than we thought. Then, once we are changed and equipped we saddle up to ride south. Quintus, meet us at the stables, but come via the wagons. Choose the most appropriate weaponry you can. We may be going into the city disguised as ordinary citizens, but we have already found danger there. And made enemies.’
The stablemaster to the Martia had chosen the fastest and strongest horses in the camp by the time Artemidorus, Quintus, Ferrata and Hercules joined Felix and his men. The centurion had arranged basic supplies and essential equipment. He had learned from his recent experiences with Septem. He and his men wore common tunics and light, non-descript cloaks. There were no swords or shields, helmets or armour in evidence. However, Quintus contrived to arm at least half of them with a range of easily-concealed but deadly weaponry during the time it took Octavian to dictate a letter addressed to his mother and sister. And hand it as a sealed scroll to Felix.
There was no time for further farewells. The eight of them cantered out of the south-facing gate and were soon striking across country towards the distant passes over the northern Apennines through which Cornelius had led the four hundred little more than one of Divus Julius’ new weeks ago.
Behind them as the afternoon drew on towards evening, the great camp seemed to be on fire as clouds of dust mounted towards the sky. Camp fires extinguished, tents taken down and folded. Wagons filled. Horses and oxen buckled between their shafts. But, most of all, rank upon rank formed up, fully equipped – as Marius’ mules – and marching, cohort after cohort, legion after legion, towards the Via Aemilia. With Caesar at the head, only 50 military miles –little more than two days’ march - from the River Rubicon. By the end of the first day they were half way there.