Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Antony and Caesar! A neat trick if you can pull it off.’

  ‘If you’re going to kill us,’ said Quintus suddenly, ‘then you’d better be sure to kill us all and be swift and secret about it. Young Caesar is on his way with eight legions behind him and he will tear the city apart looking for the men who attacked us.’

  The Gaul looked up and down the Via Subura, clearly making a mental tally of the number of men and women standing witness to the confrontation. Too many for even his gang to silence. And Quintus’ threat rang true.

  ‘If I let you pass,’ he said at last, ‘it is because you showed my Freya respect when you could have hurt or dishonoured her.’ He raised his voice. ‘And not because I fear the boy Caesar and his legions.’

  ‘You must be the only man in Rome who doesn’t fear Caesar and his legions,’ whispered Felix. ‘If what you say is true!’

  But the Gaul didn’t hear the wry remark. Artemidorus was speaking over him. ‘That is lucky,’ he said. ‘Because we are being hunted. There is a squad of Senatorial Guards looking for us. We would be most grateful if you could find a way to distract them if they come this way.’

  The Gaul nodded once. Then he was stepping back and gesturing Artemidorus to proceed.

  So the little group went quickly and quietly along the Argelitum and down into the Forum Romanum. They turned left at the Well of the Commitium and hurried along the Via Sacra past the statues, shrines and buildings until they reached the Regia and the Statue of Vesta. As they did so, the restless hum of activity from the Subura stopped for a heartbeat. Then pandemonium was let loose. Artemidorus and Felix exchanged glances. Cicero’s guards had just met The Gaul and his men. And were being distracted - quite forcefully by the sound of things.

  A moment later, Artemidorus was knocking on a tall, ornate door. Knocking with respect and restraint, just loudly enough to be heard. After a few moments, the door was opened by a lovely woman of middle years wearing beautiful but old-fashioned costume. ‘What do you seek at the Temple of Vesta?’ she asked in a soft, musical voice.

  ‘Sanctuary,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘For the mother and sister of Caesar Divus Fili.’

  ‘With the Vestals?’ gasped Atia, caught between shock and amusement. ‘We’re to hide with the Vestals? But Octavia’s a mother to two little girls. And I haven’t been a virgin since I was fifteen years old!’

  VIII

  GALLIUS

  Sextilis.

  i

  Felix strode into the peristyle of Quintus Pedius’ villa where the other seven were at breakfast. ‘They’re here,’ he announced.

  Artemidorus glanced up, the automatic lifting of his spirits quashed by the expression on Felix’ face. ‘Not Caesar, then,’ he said.

  ‘No. The African legions and the new recruits to back them up. They’re setting up camp on the Janiculum Hill. In Caesar’s gardens as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I don’t know whether that’s ironic or not,’ said Artemidorus. ‘But I think we ought to go up there and take a good, close look.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Ferrata, cupping his hand to his ear, ‘I think I can hear Cicero cheering!’

  Artemidorus’ mind was racing. ‘Felix,’ he said. ‘I suggest that you and your men take the fastest horses we have and get off up the Via Flaminia as quickly as you can. Caesar will need to know about this. Meanwhile, as I say, I’ll take my little crypteia up the Janiculum and see precisely what’s going on up there. There will be lots of citizens and a good few Senators making their way up the hill. We’ll mingle with the crowd.’

  Quintus Pedius came out into the garden then, his expression worried. ‘Have you heard?’

  Artemidorus nodded. ‘We were just planning what to do about it,’ he said.

  ‘Cicero may have won the day after all,’ the retired general continued, shaking his head with frustration.

  ‘We can let him think he has won, sir, though I doubt that he really has. But we won’t know that until Caesar himself arrives and everything is settled.’

  ***

  Artemidorus’ assessment was proved right. The tight little four-man group joined a throng of people from all stations and walks of life streaming through the Forum Baorum meat market, past the square, towering western end of the Circus Maximus, out through the Porta Flumentiana gate, onto the Aurelian Bridge. In a strange, festive mood, too excited to be aware of the combined stenches of animal waste from the market and human waste from the Cloaca Maxima sewer emptying into the river below.

  On the western bank of the Tiber, the Via Campana led away along the river into Trastevere immediately on their left. But rather than go south at once, they followed the steep incline of the Via Aurelia upwards until it was joined by the Via Janiculum. Then they streamed off up the equally steep hillside towards the gardens Caesar had promised to all Romans in his will. And the palace that had housed his visiting lover Cleopatra until the day of his death. The views across the city were breathtaking, but the spies paid them no attention. Like the crowds of which they were an indistinguishable part, they only had eyes for the camp that the African legions were erecting.

  ‘Ferrata, Quintus,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Do you have any old friends amongst these legions?’

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ answered Ferrata. ‘The Ironclads are still active. Not like the Seventh. I’m only here because I’ve been seconded, remember.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Quintus. ‘There might be some old friends from the Seventh, though. By no means everyone wanted to settle down to start farming and breeding once the legion was disbanded. Especially as Antony contrived to find our veterans a mudhole that looked like the anus of the world.’

  ‘I’ll maybe mention that to him when we get back,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘And pigs will maybe fly,’ answered Quintus, cheerfully. The three old soldiers began to scan the faces of the African legionaries, looking for someone familiar.

  But oddly enough it was Hercules who was most help to begin with. As tutor to the son of Publius Cornelius Dolabella, he had been resident in Rome for some years, able to make a surprisingly large circle of friends. One of whom he met now, hurrying back down the hill, big with news.

  ‘Marcus,’ called the gigantic tutor. ‘What news?’

  The friend stopped, happy to share the information he was clearly finding it hard to contain. ‘Three legions,’ he blurted. ‘Under the command of general Gaius Cornutus. They are getting ready to stand against young Octavian if he dares to show his face. The Senate and people are safe! The City is secure! Cicero can stop trying to prepare for a siege! I must go and inform my master...’ And off he rushed.

  ‘His master is one of Cicero’s closest friends,’ said Hercules.

  ‘General Cornutus,’ said Quintus. ‘He’s not in Divus Julius’ league. Or in young Caesar’s, if he continues to marshal his forces like he did at Mutina.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he’s been given the African command,’ said Ferrata. ‘It can be a bit of a dead end...’

  ‘For Generals, Governors and for legions,’ nodded Quintus. ‘Who is the current Governor of Africa?’

  ‘I think that was offered to Cassius. He turned it down and went east instead,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘Probably wise,’ said Quintus. ‘Especially given his reputation in the east. Pulled thousands of men safely out of that blood-bath at Carrhae. They’d follow him to Hades and back.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced your friend Marcus has got hold of the full picture, though,’ said Artemidorus to Hercules. ‘I’d want to speak to a soldier. Get a sense of what the men on the ground might be thinking.’

  The camp was still being constructed, but it had clearly-marked entrances and Cornutus was a good enough general to have them guarded. Though the officious patrician senators strode in as though they were in command themselves – which, theoretically, they were. Their Senatorial stripes and togas being enough to let them pass unchallenged as soon as they stepped out of their litt
ers and hurried away from the sweating, gasping slaves who carried them. Most of them in such a hurry to greet their saviour that they hadn’t even bothered to assemble the lictors who normally accompanied them.

  Suddenly Quintus pushed forward, coming face-to-face with one of the legionaries on guard. For a moment, Artemidorus thought the old soldier had been stopped – betrayed by his plebeian disguise. But no. As the other three approached, he turned. ‘This is Remus,’ he said. ‘We were in Gaul together. Remus, this is the Centurion Artemidorus, primus pilus of the old Seventh, seconded to Antony and young Caesar. Tell him what you were telling me.’

  The battered old legionary looked around. Once he was certain he could not be overheard – and was not being particularly observed by the other guards or the crowd they were trying to control, he began to speak in a low, hurried half whisper. ‘The men don’t like it, sir,’ he growled. ‘Even the Council of Centurions is worried. Two of our legions backed up by a bunch of untried boys going against the Martia and the Fourth, if the rumours are true.’

  ‘They are,’ said Artemidorus. ‘And the Martia and the Fourth are just the forward legions. Young Caesar has two more right behind him and two more behind them. Six crack legions blooded at Mutina. Where they whipped Antony’s Alaude Larks and the legions he had supporting them.’

  Remus shook his head. ‘It’s worse than we thought, then. And what are we here for? To protect a bunch of ancient windbags who stabbed Divus Julius in the back.’

  ‘Against legions whose main motivation is that those same windbags are still refusing to pay them the money they were promised for beating Antony out of Cisalpine Gaul,’ nodded Artemidorus sympathetically.

  ‘And you know,’ added Quintus, ‘that nothing motivates a legion like fighting to get back pay.’

  ii

  ‘We did good work there,’ said Artemidorus as they made their way back down the Janiculum. ‘What we told Remus will spread like wildfire.’

  ‘Especially as it’s true,’ added Quintus.

  They paused at the mouth of the Janiculum Way looking across the Via Aurelia towards the Campus Vaticanus straight ahead and the Campus Martius on the city side of the river. The great curve of the Tiber catching the late-morning light between them. In the far distance, it was just possible to make out the straight line of the Via Flaminia and the slope of the Collis Hortorum Hill of Gardens immediately beyond, rolling into the outer slope of the Quirinial Hill outside the Servian Wall.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Hercules suddenly, pointing towards the Flaminian Way. The others strained to see what he was talking about. The heat made the straight line of the Via seem to waver. And there, right at the outer edge of vision, was a plume of smoke. It was as though the great old road was ablaze. There were even tiny gleams and shafts of light, like flames at the base of the billowing grey column. ‘It looks like the road is on fire!’ Hercules continued. ‘Is that possible?’

  Artemidorus caught his breath. ‘It’s not a fire,’ he said. ‘It’s Caesar with his legions!’

  The four of them swung round and pounded back up the hill. They had no trouble shouldering their way through the confused crowd ebbing and flowing through the unfinished camp gate. Remus saw them and joined them. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Caesar and his legions are here,’ answered Quintus.

  Artemidorus realised that they were by no means the only ones who knew of Caesar’s arrival as he finally made it to the camp’s makeshift Forum. Here, on a dais outside the command tent, a bluff, square, grey-haired man dressed in a soldier’s tunic and wearing the insignia of a General was in the middle of a confrontation with a sizeable squad of officers – from Centurions to Tribunes – and even a couple of Legates.

  ‘You will stand!’ General Gaius Cornutus was shouting to the soldiers as the citizens who had come so eagerly to greet them began to melt away and slink back down the hill towards the city.

  ‘We will not!’ answered the officers’ spokesman. ‘If we stand against Caesar’s legions we will be slaughtered. Better to join them than to stand against them!’

  ‘You refuse to obey my orders?’

  ‘In this we do, General. Order us to join Caesar, the Martia and the Fourth and we will obey at once!’

  ‘I can never do that! I am under orders of the Senate. I will not disobey!’

  ‘Look, General! All the Senators who came running up here to greet you a few hours ago have vanished. They support you only when they think it is safe to do so. Their word means nothing. Their orders mean even less. But this is not a negotiation, General. We are here to inform you of the action we have all agreed to take. Whether you order us to stand or to go, we will join Caesar Divus Filli and there’s an end to it!’

  ‘No!’ shouted General Cornutus. ‘That is not the end of it! This is the end of it!’ And there, in full view of the men who had betrayed him, he tore out his gladius, reversed it, and with all the strength at his command, he drove the point of it into his body, just above the buckle of his belt. The blade vanished into his belly and blood poured out over his hands. His face set in a rictus of agony, he heaved again, driving the blade even deeper into his torso. His legs folded and he crashed to his knees on the lake of blood pouring across the wooden boards. Balanced for a precarious moment. Heaved again, trying to drive the sword through some vital spot. Fortune took a hand then. His sword was angled downwards. The pommel level with his groin but sticking out. So that when he toppled forward, it hit the wooden boards and his own falling weight drove the blade right up into his chest. Face down in the steaming sea of red, he gave one enormous shudder. And then lay still.

  There was a moment of silence, then the spokesman for the group – the Legate – said, ‘Right. I’ll go and inform Caesar. I need a squad to take care of the general in the mean-time. He died well and deserves respect. The rest of you get our men ready to do whatever Caesar orders us to do. But I’m not moving until we finish setting up the camp. I’m told he doesn’t like sloppy soldiering. Any more than his adoptive father Divus Julius or his great uncle Marius.’

  ‘General Cornutus was lucky,’ said Quintus as they hurried back along the almost deserted roads towards the city. ‘When General Cato tried that, he just cut half his guts out. His son and servants were going to shove them back in and sew him up, but stopped them and pulled the rest out with his bare hands – kept pulling and pulling ’til he eventually died. Gutless.’

  ***

  By the time they got back to Quintus Pedius’ villa, Felix had arrived. ‘Caesar is just about to set up camp,’ he explained breathlessly to the crypteia and their host alike, before anyone else could speak. ‘He’ll put the legions up on the Collis Hortorum to begin with. That way they can overflow onto the outer slopes of the Quirinial, stay out of the city and leave room for the other legions when they arrive. They’ll go down on the Campus Martius. Frighten the life out of whoever that is up on top of the Janiculum.’

  ‘Does he know?’ Artemidorus got a word in at last.

  ‘Know? Know what?’

  ‘That the legions on the Janiculum have already declared for him. We saw their general Cornutus fall on his sword less than an hour ago.’

  Felix’s eyebrows rose nearly as far as his hairline. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Then maybe we should go and tell him!’ said Artemidorus. ‘Break the good news. What do you think?’

  iii

  Artemidorus and Felix galloped knee to knee out through the Porta Fontinalis, scattering the citizen on foot. Making one or two litters dash for cover like boats before a storm. Setting the horses pulling wagons, carts and occasional chariots rearing in their wake. The Clivus Argentarius opened from the gate leading north out of the city. It led straight to the Via Lata which was, in effect, the southern end of the Flaminian Way. The Hill of Gardens rose above their right shoulders. Unoccupied as yet, for Caesar had not quite reached the end of his long march.

  What had seemed like smoke from a di
stance now revealed its true nature in clouds of dust kicked up by the thousands of caligae on the feet of the Martia and Fourth Legions. Divus Julius famously accompanied such expeditions in a carriage in which he could dictate his correspondence and hold meetings with those men – and sometimes women – most important to him. His son and heir was too acutely aware of appearances to be seen doing the same, for the moment at least. He was leading his men astride the most impressive stallion he had been able to find. In almost every respect equal to Caesar’s own three-toed mount – which in turn was a modern version of Alexander’s legendary Beucephalis. The stallion was huge and powerful. Black as night. And even from a distance Artemidorus could see Caesar working hard to control the skittish animal. He and Felix slowed to a trot, therefore, allowing the young general to approach them sedately, his horse under full control.

  Even so, the strain of the moment told. ‘Well?’ snarled Caesar.

  Felix looked at Artemidorus, suddenly overcome.

  ‘General,’ said the spy quietly, as he turned his own horse to fall in beside Caesar’s. ‘The African legions have come over to you. As has the reserve legion the Senate has just recruited. Their general fell on his sword when they disobeyed him.’

  ‘Did he? A brave act. Though I would not have wished it.’ Caesar’s tone moderated. A hint of relief entered it. There would be no military confrontation after all.

  ‘His men are arranging a suitable funeral,’ continued Artemidorus.

  ‘But you should be aware, Caesar,’ added Felix, ‘that most of the Senators who went hurrying up the Janiculum to greet their would-be liberators this morning and thank them for saving the City from you, will be fawning at your feet before sunset.’

  ‘With just the same amount of sincerity,’ said Caesar with the ghost of a cynical smile. ‘The same amount of honesty. And, I wonder, will my old friend Cicero be the first of them to greet me? Or the last?’