Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  Artemidorus and Felix were sixty miles from Fluentia on the far side of the Apennines. But whereas the legions marched 25 miles in a day, strong horses, well-paced, could manage sixty, even over the mountain passes. They made a scratch camp on the watershed at moonrise and went down the western slopes in the dawn. Fluentia welcomed them for prandium much as it welcomed Cornelius a week ago. Then the little group pressed on along the Via Cassia, breaking their journey to overnight at Arretium and arriving at the Milvian Bridge across the Tiber to the north of Rome late next day. With no need to stop or disarm at the line of the pomerium, the eight horsemen rode straight towards the city, following the Via Flaminia south as the humid afternoon closed down into a sweltering night. Passing the Campus Martius where the VIIth legion had stabled their horses while the men camped on Tiber Island last March. While Caesar lay dying in the Curia of Pompey’s Theatre, which they also passed. The Curia itself now a burned-out ruin with a column standing stark to mark the exact spot where Divus Julius took his last mortal breath. Arriving at the Servian Wall just before the Porta Fontinalis gate was shut for the night. At the gate, however, they dismounted and led their exhausted mounts forward.

  ‘We need to stable the horses,’ said Artemidorus. ‘They need rest, feed and water. We can’t go charging around the city like a cavalry unit in any case.’

  ‘Where should we go?’ wondered Felix.

  ‘I know a few taverns,’ said Ferrata. ‘A couple with stables and stable slaves you can mostly trust...’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d trust any of them,’ countered Quintus. ‘These are fine steeds. Worth a fortune.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Let’s see if Quintus Pedius can take care of them for us.’

  ‘We need to see him in any case,’ added Felix. ‘He should be able to tell us whether the news of Caesar’s movements has reached the city yet.’

  ‘I rather think it has,’ said Artemidorus quietly. ‘Can’t you feel the tension in the air? I thought it was pretty bad when we were here last week. But it’s as though Hannibal is at the gates now!’

  ‘Hannibal, his Punic legions, elephants and all,’ agreed Quintus.

  vi

  Quintus Pedius’ janitor recognised three of the men at the door, even though, on this occasion, none of them was carrying a scantily-clad unconscious woman. Their familiarity was enough to make him overlook the five strangers in the shadows behind them. And the eight exhausted horses blocking the main via up the Palatine. A moment after he went to inform his master, the retired general was at the door himself. ‘Eight of you this time,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And eight horses. I can’t stable them all myself, but I can call on a couple of friendly neighbours. My Cerberus here will guide a couple of you if you can take four beasts each. Or I can summon more house slaves...’

  ‘No, thank you General,’ said Artemidorus. ‘We can handle the horses.’

  ‘They look too tired to give much trouble,’ nodded Quintus Pedius. ‘Cerberus, guide our guests to the houses of Gracchus and Licinius. You know them and they know you. They both have ample stabling.’

  The janitor bowed respectful acquiescence and led the way as two of Felix’ command took the reins of four horses each and led them away into the gathering darkness while the other six, their saddle bags over their shoulders, turned toward the accommodating patrician’s bright-lit doorway. ‘Come in the rest of you,’ said Quintus Pedius. ‘We need to talk. But from the looks of you, the horses aren’t the only ones who need food, water and rest.’

  ‘What news is there of Caesar in the city, sir?’ asked Artemidorus as he followed the old man into the atrium.

  ‘That he’s on the move,’ answered Pedius briefly, throwing the words over his shoulder as he went through into the peristyle. ‘Rome is in a furore. No-one knows just what to expect – or when. But Cicero has the Senate all wound up.’ He gestured towards the seats and his visitors sat wearily on cool marble benches under the illusory chill of the frost-silver moonlight. Household slaves bustled about bringing lamps, water, wine and a cold collation. ‘The African legions are on the way,’ Quintus Pedius continued. ‘Another legion has been recruited and is being trained up. Things have moved forward quite rapidly here during the time you’ve been away. But surely you know more about Caesar’s movements than the local rumour-mongers.’

  ‘We do, sir,’ nodded Felix waving a cup of watered Falernian in one fist and a chicken leg in the other. ‘He’s on the move, forced marching the Martia and the Fourth Legions. With two more close behind commanded by Agrippa. The other four following on; two fast – with Maecenas – two slower with Salvidienus Rufus. Caesar himself with the Martia and the Fourth at least, will be at the gates in a day or two.’

  ‘That soon?’ asked the old soldier, astonished. ‘I expected him to react to the Senate’s refusal. So did we all, no-matter what faction we support. But even Divus Julius would have been hard-put to get from Bononia to Rome that fast! It is as well you brought me warning. But it doesn’t take eight spies to carry one message...’

  ‘Caesar’s family, sir? The ladies Atia and Octavia?’ Asked Artemidorus by way of an answer. ‘Are they safe?’

  Quintus Pedius looked at the spy, his expression shifting from surprise to revelation. ‘Of course! He’s sent you to guard them! Well, as far as I know they are safe and well in the villa Balbus rented for them. Octavia’s husband Gaius Claudius Marcellus has the children with him in the country at the moment as I think I told you. He’s a close friend of Cicero’s so the children should be safe enough, even if the women are potential bargaining counters.’

  ‘But the ladies are safe and well so far, sir,’ said Artemidorus.

  ***

  What appeared to be three hayseeds just in from the country might have attracted unwelcome attention in the Subura a week ago. A tight phalanx of eight soldiers – their profession clear even though they wore civilian clothing – ensured that even the largest of the gangs would hesitate to interfere with them. So Artemidorus, Felix and their command reached Atia’s villa in the Carinae district unmolested. The downside to this, of course, was that the villa’s janitor, already awed by the responsibility of guarding Caesar’s mother and sister, took one look through the metal grille of the spy-hole at the men knocking at the door and bolted it shut. Slamming the spy-hole’s cover. Vanishing with no further ado. Leaving Felix standing foolishly, waving Octavian’s letter in the air.

  ‘It’s all very well being acquainted with the ladies Atia and Octavia,’ said Felix. ‘But it doesn’t help much if their slaves are too scared to even take them a message.’

  But fortunately Atia was considerably more forceful than her doorkeeper. Before Felix could even lower the scroll, the opening behind the metal grille slammed wide. Atia’s face appeared in the opening wearing a frown that matched exactly her tone of voice. ‘Who are you? Why have you come to disturb law-abiding families at this time of night...’

  Her words tailed off. Then, ‘Septem, is that you?’ she asked much less angrily. ‘And don’t I know you young man? One of Maecenas’ officers... Felix, is it?’

  ‘My lady,’ answered Artemidorus as Atia paused for breath. ‘We come bearing messages from Caesar...’

  ‘But Caesar is dead... Oh! You mean Octavius! Well, if you have messages from my son, you had better come in and deliver them. All of you...’

  There was the sound of bolts being drawn and chains unloosed, then the door swung grudgingly open. Just wide enough to admit them one at a time. Behind the janitor stood the steward and some hefty-looking house slaves. Balbus had clearly rented more than a mere villa to house Caesar Octavian’s mother and sister, thought Artemidorus as he followed Felix into the crowded vestibulum. Atia and Octavia stood side by side watching the messengers file in. They might almost have been sisters, thought Artemidorus. Atia had been little more than sixteen years old when she gave birth to her daughter. And only some three years older when she was delivered of her son. From some par
t of his memory he suddenly recalled the gossip that Marcus Junius Brutus had been Divus Julius’ son by Servilia. Gossip dismissed on the assumption that Servilia and Divus Julius had been too young to have started their affair. But here was Caesar Octavian’s mother who had given birth twice before she was Servilia’s age when Brutus was born.

  Atia herself broke the spy’s train of thought by calling his name. ‘Septem. Please lead your men through to the atrium. We will discuss Octavius’ message in the tablinum. It’s just beyond the impluvium.’

  vii

  As Artemidorus obeyed, Octavia fell in beside him. ‘So, Septem,’ she said quietly. ‘Octavius is worried about us? He must be or he would not have sent men like these. Like you.’

  Octavian’s sister was some five years his elder and an important Roman matron. Wife to a Senator and mother of a promising brood of girls. But she and her young brother could almost have been twins. Her face was simply the feminine equivalent of his. With many men, that would have doomed the sister to a spinster’s life. But Caesar Octavian was a handsome young man and his sister, in consequence, quite lovely. There was the hint of a dimple in her soft, round chin and others lurking at the corners of her mouth. But for all that, her jaw was square. Her lips straight and determined. Her nose was patrician – more Greek than Roman. Her eyes wide spaced, blue, thoughtful and intelligent. Her forehead broad and high, as pale as Carrera marble with the faintest blush of pink. She carried herself erectly – almost as though she was marching. And the shape of her body, not quite concealed by her modest evening stola, was a sensuous balance between slim waist and rounded portions above and below. Artemidorus looked away before he became distracted.

  ‘Yes, lady,’ he answered. ‘He is on his way here with eight legions to repeat in person the requests Cornelius and his centurions made little more than a week ago. He fears that the Senate might want to secure some bargaining chips to hold against him.’

  Octavia gave a chuckle that made him look back at her. The dimples at the corners of her mouth deepened. ‘I have been called many things in my life so far, Septem... But bargaining chip? I think you had better find a more acceptable turn of phrase when discussing this with Mother.’

  Artemidorus glanced over his shoulder as Octavia spoke, crossing the threshold of the tablinum office area. ‘Fortunately, I don’t think I’ll have to,’ he said.

  Felix and Atia were standing beside the square pool of the villa’s impluvium. The rest of the group – and the slaves – trapped behind them. As Atia paused beneath a lamp there to read Caesar Octavian’s letter.

  ‘Octavius says we should run and hide,’ called Atia to Octavia. ‘He has sent these men to take us to safety. As soon as possible after receipt of this letter,’ she added. ‘That’s just typical of the boy! No suggestion that we might like time to prepare. To pack. To organise the household and our personal slave women. Just get up and go!’

  Felix’ mouth opened and closed as though he were a fish out of water. No sound came out. It had simply never occurred to him that anyone would threaten to disobey Caesar Octavian’s orders. Octavian, however, had foreseen this possibility – which was why he sent Artemidorus as well as Felix. The man whom the women knew as Septem, whose advice they might follow more readily than that of one of her son’s officers. Because, of course, Atia did not see Octavian as an all-commanding general caught up in a power play that could well either win him ultimate control of Rome and all she possessed – or, on the other hand, an early grave. She saw him as a boy she had raised, who was making inconvenient demands – for no apparent reason.

  So he was forced to intervene after all. ‘My Lady, your son is concerned for your safety,’ he said now. ‘He is coming in person to confront Cicero and the Senate. Bringing at least six legions with him immediately with two more following behind. The city is on the verge of open riot. Those who stand against him – like Cicero and the Senate – could well become desperate. Desperate enough to kidnap you and hold you as hostages against his good behaviour. I beg you to remember how ruthless Cicero was when he confronted Catiline. He fears your son a great deal more. And logic suggests that he would be even more ruthless this time. If we don’t move quickly, we may well be too late.’

  He had hardly finished speaking when there came a thunderous knocking at the door. And an impatient voice bellowed, ‘Open! Open in the name of the Senate and People of Rome!’

  ***

  Fortunately, the soldiers Cicero had sent to arrest Atia and Octavia were simple, straightforward men. It never occurred to them that it might be wise to guard the posticum back door before starting to hammer on the front. While the janitor took his time answering, then hesitated before drawing back the bolts and loosening the chains, ten figures filed silently out into the shadowed alley that ran along the side of the house. Creeping back towards the slightly wider alley which led down the hill at the back. Well aware of the risks involved in trying to reach the wide, bright via at the front, where Cicero’s Senatorial guard squad was waiting with noisy impatience. Guided only by two lamps – covered until the men who held them were certain they could open them unobserved.

  Artemidorus took the lead with one of the lamps. Felix joined him with the other one as they entered the wider alley. The women were behind them, close enough to benefit from the brightness and for a whispered conversation. Then the other six bodyguards watched their backs, clutching an assortment of weapons, most of which were illegal within the pomerium city limits. The alley was stygian. Cluttered with all sorts of rubbish. Had they not had the lamps, progress would have been all-but impossible. But the lamps were more than a necessity. They were also a give-away. For the alley the little group was forced to follow led down the back of the Carinae towards the outskirts of the Subura. Where lamplight ran the risk of attracting gang-members and felons of all sorts like moths to the flames.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ hissed Atia.

  ‘The one place I can think of that will put you beyond even Cicero’s reach,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘But to get to safety there, we have to take though a little danger first. Stay close, all of you.’

  The alley they were following opened out into the Via Subura near the crossroads with the Argiletum which would lead round the foot of the Carinae down to the Forum Romanum. If they made it that far. Even at this time of night, the Subura was heaving. The tall tenements towering above the shops on their ground floors were speckled with open windows etched in lamplight. Every window in the whole suburb stood wide, as the insulae’s sweating occupants prayed for a breath of breeze. The shops, taverns and brothels were all also ablaze as every sort of business went on. Carts – forbidden the city during the day - creaked up from the river docks laden with everything from salt to fish. The oxen between the shafts straining and lowing with effort.

  In the mouths of dark alleys and on shadowy street corners, gangs of men stood silently. Raptores keeping lookout for easy prey. Prey, in a neighbourhood like this, was anyone who looked unfamiliar and out of place. Scanning the shops and shadows with narrow eyes, Artemidorus suddenly found his gaze held. By the strange blue eyes of a massive blond man. Maned and bearded like a lion. A kind of spark seemed to pass between them. Not of familiarity. Of something deeper and more dangerous than that. The mutual recognition of the hunter and its quarry.

  The giant moved at once, a gang of equally large men falling in behind him. And Artemidorus realised that even a dangerous-looking squad like the men in closed ranks behind him, were not after all going to be protection enough for the women they were escorting.

  viii

  ‘Eyes right!’ growled Quintus. ‘This looks like trouble.’

  They all reached into the assortment of bags and bundles they were carrying – producing a range of weaponry suited to close combat. Gladii swords and pugiones daggers – as might be possessed by any legionary. But also Egyptian koplesh swords with strange, curved blades. Khatars from beyond the eastern borders of Alexander’s empire who
se blades opened into claws. Greek curved slashing swords. Artemidorus even had a Spartan katapeltai hand-held crossbow. Passing his lamp back to Octavia, he dropped it into his hand and pulled back the string, slipping a bolt into the groove. As the giant approached, he took swift aim and fired. The tiny dart sped across the intervening space and slammed into the giant’s upper arm. He looked down at it. ‘A surculus splinter,’ he laughed. ‘Are you planning to prick me to death?’

  ‘The next one is soaked in the venom of a vipera.’ answered Artemidorus coolly. ‘If it breaks the skin you die.’

  The huge man hesitated, the arrogant confidence in his swagger and his expression wavered.

  ‘Your choice,’ continued Artemidorus, levelling the little crossbow. ‘Then as you foam and spasm to your death, my men can chop your men into pieces. Have you noticed the range of blades we are carrying?’

  The huge man stopped. Looked down at his arm. Pushed the arrow through, broke off the barb and pulled the shaft back out. All as though he felt no pain at all. A little blood flowed over his pallid skin. He raised his arm, pressed his lips to the wound and sucked it dry.

  ‘I might hesitate,’ he said. ‘If I believed you...’ He tensed himself to charge, as did the men behind him.

  The young woman called Freya, who Septem had taken captive a little over a week ago then released to return to her family, stepped out of the shadows. ‘Avunculus Uncle.’ She said. ‘These are the men I told you about. This is the man who sent me back to you unmolested. But they took Carinus and his men apart as though they were children first. They are all extremely dangerous.’

  The giant stopped, his eyes narrow. ‘So,’ he said. ‘This was you. Who are you?’

  ‘Centurion Iacomus Graecas Artemidorus, primus pilum of the old Seventh. Working now for Antony and young Caesar. And you must be the Gaul. Your fame has spread wide.’