by Peter Tonkin
Quintus Gallius was hanging against the end wall in the last of the upper chambers in the prison. His wrists were shackled to hooks set into the bare stone decempeda pertica one and a half times the height of a man from the floor. All of his weight was on his wrists as his feet kicked fitfully more than a cubit above the ground. He was naked and at first glance might easily have been mistaken for the carcase of a pig hanging in the Forum Boarium meat market skinned, part-butchered and ready for sale.
Artemidorus paused in the doorway to the cell, simply stunned by the brutality of what had been done to the man. The only comparable sight he remembered was that of Gaius Trebonius hanging in the Forum of Smyrna after three days with Dolabella’s carnifexes torturers. There, he had been able to put the man out of his misery with a well-aimed slingshot. Here, like Quintus Gallius, his hands were tied.
With a shiver of surprise, Artemidorus saw the figures of two men step out of the shadows. He was so focused on what they were holding – hot irons and a skinning knife – that he did not at first recognise them. But then they moved into the light closer to their victim and the secret agent caught his breath. The two men were Tribune Popilius Lenas and the Centurion Herrenius, last seem trying to kill him and his companions so that they could steal Antony’s gold. Whose application for this very job he himself had delivered – never suspecting that Maecenas would want to add such brutal inquisitores to Felix’s growing secret service unit. Though he had added Furius to his own – should interrogation such as this ever be required.
Such was Lenas’ and Herrenius’ concentration on their grisly work that they had no idea Artemidorus was there. Herrenius leaned forward and took the flesh at the top of Gallius’ right thigh between the claws of the hot irons. White skin bubbled and smoked. The skinned botulus sausage of his penis touched the hot metal and shrank. The victim twitched and whimpered, turning his face out of the shadows towards the light. His mouth gaped in agony. Swollen lips parted revealing the stubs of shattered teeth. The way his head rolled from side to side showing Artemidorus the gaping pit where his left eye had once been.
Sickened, he turned to Maecenas. ‘Does Caesar know what you and your carnifex butchers are doing here?’ he hissed.
By way of an answer, Maecenas’ gaze flickered towards the farthest corner of the shadowed room. Where yet another figure stirred.
Caesar stepped into the light. Even in the dull gold of the lamp flames, his skin looked dead white. There were black rings beneath the hollows of his eyes. His mouth was a bitter line pulled downwards at its ends. Artemidorus had seen the young man under a range of circumstances, each more dangerous than the last. But he had never seen him so obviously frightened before.
The secret agent experienced a moment of almost religious revelation. The one thing young Caesar seemed to fear most of all was dying like his adoptive father died. Stabbed in the back by those he loved and trusted. Slaughtered by the citizens he was seeking to serve. And he was ruthlessly taking his fear out on the man who first made him aware of it by making him experience it.
Popilius Lenas turned towards Caesar, raising the broad-bladed, round-ended skinning knife into the light.
‘Yes,’ said Caesar in a brutal tone as strange to the secret agent as the fear on the young man’s face. ‘Take the other one and then we’re done.’
Obediently, Popilius Lenas leaned forward and grabbed a handful of sweat-soaked hair. Held the rolling head still for an instant. Scooped Gallius’ right eyeball dexterously out of its socket and onto the spoon-shaped blade of the skinning knife. A deft twist severed the white worm of the optic nerve. The marble-white sphere slipped onto the rough stone floor. Where Caesar’s right boot crushed it into a smear of thick dark slime.
The blind face twitched from side to side helplessly.
‘We’re done here,’ said Caesar. ‘Take him down.’ He turned and Artemidorus actually jumped with shock as Caesar’s eye met his. ‘And you, Septem, add him to the luggage in your wagons to be taken back to Antony. And his brother in the Larks. If anyone asks about him, feel free to explain that this is the price of trying to take my life.’
viii
The blind, broken husk of the man who had been Quintus Gallius until Caesar, Popilius Lenas and Herrenius got their hands on him lasted for three of the ten days it took Artemidorus and his contubernium to reach Antony’s camp.
The entire mounted unit, their legionary slaves and their two well-stocked wagons left the city at dawn next day, trotting or rolling among the bustle coming and going through the Porta Flumentana River Gate and across the Pons Aemilius bridge that led to the Via Aurelia, the most direct road northwards. The only member of Septem’s immediate group not on horseback was Puella. Typically, trapped with Glyco while the physician observed the progress of her recovery, she had also observed the Greek healer and his methods. Which she applied to the best of her ability now, nursing Quintus Gallius as the little band moved northward, following the Via Aurelia along the Tuscan coast. But her skills, such as they were, lay in the practical spheres of splinting and bandaging. She had no knowledge of herbs that might ease pain, or unguents which could hasten the healing of burns and wounds. And Gallius had clearly lost the will to live in any case. He drank hardly anything and ate nothing. Little by little, day after day, Puella’s patient slipped away from her.
He died just as they reached the great walled seaport of Populonia during the afternoon of the third day. Artemidorus had kept going until near dark and avoided towns until now. The weather was dry, clear and warm. Tuscany was relatively quiet and safe – even for small groups of travellers. They had made camp, cooked on open fires, slept under the stars and travelled on with the dawn. But the dead man’s condition moved him to compassion as well as anger. So he led his team through the city gates into Populonia and began to look for accommodation. Almost at once they found a taberna with stabling which was willing to accommodate people and horses; the dead as well as the living. The men composing the little group had more than a century of battlefield experience between them and just as they had seen death in many forms, they had seen funerals of all sorts as well – under the dictates of many different religions and in towns or cities all over their world.
Over a cena of whiting, red mullet and wrasse stewed together with herbs and sea-grass, served with bread and salad – and with little roasted gulls stuffed with their eggs and shrimp on the side - they discussed what to do with Quintus Gallius. ‘It has to be quick,’ observed Artemidorus. ‘We have no time to get him prepared and take him with us. I don’t want to add a decomposing corpse to everything else we’re taking to Antony. Though I realise that Gallius’ brother might well wish to oversee the funeral rites himself. How long does embalming take? Days? We can’t wait for it to be done and we can’t take the body unless it has been done. We have to deal with it. Here. Now.’
‘We have to treat him with respect, though,’ observed Ferrata superstitiously. ‘We don’t want his phasma giving us all bad luck.’
‘If his ghost is going after anyone, said Puella trenchantly, ‘it will be going after the men who tortured him.’
‘Possibly...’ Ferrata didn’t sound convinced. ‘But he didn’t die near them. He died near us. And no-one caught his spirit with a kiss at the moment of death. So it’s still out there somewhere. That can’t be good, can it?’
The others nodded nervously in agreement.
‘We have Antony’s gold,’ said Artemidorus. ‘We can buy a proper toga. Dress him formally according to his social importance. He was asking Caesar for the Governorship of the African Provinces after all...’
‘And then what?’ demanded Puella.
‘Well, normally he would be cremated...’
‘We could build a pyre on the beach I suppose...’ Hercules suggested. ‘Like they did for the heroes killed at Troy.’
‘Or we could buy a boat,’ suggested Puella. ‘A little one not much bigger than a man. Fill it with kindling, lie him on top, set it a
light and send it out to sea.’
‘That would work if the wind and tide were right,’ nodded Artemidorus who had served aboard vessels of all sorts at one time or another. ‘And might work particularly well if we can get it to go south. Send him to the Africa Provinces after all...’
***
In the end it was easier to arrange than they at first supposed. And a good deal faster. They were fairly broad-minded in assessing what sort of toga might be appropriate, and the magic of Antony’s gold smoothed the way. Then, while Puella and Hercules used the facilities of the stable to wash and dress the stiffening corpse, folding the hem of the robe respectfully over his head and the red ruin of his face, the others went down to the dockside. The wheels of commerce were once again oiled by Antony’s gold. They bought an elderly and barely seaworthy fishing cumbula with a single mast and a square sail. While Ferrata, Furius and Mercury rowed it out of the harbour and round to the nearest south-facing beach, Artemidorus returned to the tavern. The legionary slaves drove the wagon bearing the corpse and the pair who had prepared it down to the beach. By the time they arrived there, the little boat was full of dry kindling – much of which had just been gathered from the tide-line. The sail was set and the wind making it tug at its makeshift moorings trying to blow it southwards.
They laid the stiff body securely aboard. Set fire to the kindling and pushed it past the gentle surf out into the Mare Nostrum. Then they stood and watched as it drifted brightly south towards the distant shores of Africa Province. Each of them silently reciting the prayers they deemed appropriate. Even after the sail caught and became a square sheet of fire tugged away by the steady wind, the little vessel moved relentlessly southward. As they watched, entranced, the night settled and the dwindling spark of the burning boat at last became lost among the huge stars sitting along the line of the southern horizon. Only then, under the unsteady brightness of the cloud-shrouded moon, did Artemidorus realise what a treasure-trove the pebble beach might prove in the matter of sling-shots.
Artemidorus was never more grateful that he had managed to secure a private room for Puella and himself in the taberna that night. For, when they came back up from the beach and saw to the stabling of the horse, the securing of the wagon and the disposition of all the others, both of them seemed to be insatiable; they made love time after time. And with a life-enhancing vigour that would have disturbed the others had they been bedded down nearby.
ix
Three more days of travel brought them past the port-cities of ancient Pisae and more modern Luna on the Etruscan border and into the wilder country beyond the end of the Via Aurelia. But their progress did not slow. The third sunset found them at the encampment which had been shared by Plancus’ and Albinus’ legions on the south-east slopes of the Alps. But there was nothing there now except for the skeletal outlines of the huge double castrum which had been teeming with soldiers when they last came past here heading south. It was strange to cross bridges over ditches and pass through unguarded gates sagging open in high earthen walls. To ride along clearly-marked roadways to well-defined forums only to see that the command tents, the sacrificial altars in front of them, the secure tents housing the eagles and the legions’ pay-chests were all long gone.
The sixth night after leaving Rome they set up camp in the space once occupied by General Plancus’ command tent. The atmosphere was strange, almost haunted. A good thing, decided Artemidorus, for it scared off anyone with evil intentions. A quiet night would be good preparation for the crossing over the mountains and through the territory of the less than peaceful Gauls, starting tomorrow. He was as certain as he could be that this would be the last good night’s sleep he would get until they were safely back in Antony’s camp in three or four days’ time. A situation he wished to be in as soon as humanly possible. So the next morning they set out as the sun threatened to gild the eastern horizon, climbing into the light as they began to mount the east-facing slopes of the Alps themselves.
Mercury knew the various ways between here, Mutina and Bononia like the back of his hand. He knew the way from Bononia to Rome almost as well – no matter which of the great roads he wished to follow. But his knowledge of the alpine passes was not quite so detailed. Nothing daunted, he led them up towards the tree-line where a steep-sided valley opened, promising to lead them swiftly into the heart of the mountains. This late in the year only the topmost peaks still boasted a little snow-cover. Most of the country through which they were passing varied between alpine meadows lit by galaxies of flowers and contrasting stands of pine-trees of almost interstellar darkness. The meadows seemed to stretch away forever in front, behind and on either hand. The great vistas guaranteeing that no-one could mount a surprise attack. Though to be fair, there seemed to be no-one nearby in any case. Hardly surprising after the depredations of Decimus Albinus’ legions – death squads led by the likes of Popilius Lenas and Herrenius, thought Artemidorus grimly.
On the second night, things became more difficult for they were back on the pine forests with Quintus, as usual, getting twitchy about sight-lines, fields of fire and ease of attack from impenetrable shadows further cloaked by incessant rustling, whispering and the constant singing of the birds. But, again, they survived the night.
The third morning saw them crossing the bare rock of the watershed, on the saddle of a high col, looking down into Transalpine Gaul. ‘Nearly there,’ said Artemidorus, gasping as the thin air starved his lungs. ‘It’s all down-hill from here.’
***
The attack Quintus feared – and which the others therefore were thoroughly prepared to face – came that night. They were encamped in the pine forest. Because of the legionary’s concerns, they had taken time to find a large clearing. To erect a proper defensive barrier with a shallow trench outside of it. They arranged the wagons so they could corral the horses between them. They lit a fire and they kept it burning after they cooked their evening meal. Adding kindling so that the entire clearing was bathed in brightness as well as warmth. Those who slept did so with gladii and pugiones close at hand and the others kept watch.
The Gauls appeared after moonset – not that much moonlight had penetrated the black canopy of pine branches. They moved silently and swiftly. Had anyone other than Quintus held the watch they might have managed to overrun the little camp with their first wave. But the old legionary saw them as soon as they came out of the shadows, running forward, crouched almost double, with their faces torsos and arms smeared black with mud. Only their eyes glittered; their teeth. Their blades.
‘Cave! Watch Out!’ Quintus yelled.
As though they were all animated by one fierce spirit, the contubernium sprang into action. They leaped awake and erect in one instant. Falling into attack positions, with swords and daggers ready. The first wave of Gauls hesitated, still on the far side of the barrier and the ditch. The second wave came out of the shadows behind them and froze in confusion.
‘Oppugnate! Attack!’ yelled Quintus, seeing their hesitation.
Artemidorus slid a shot into his sling, took aim at the central figure in the front rank – the leader – and swung the sling round his head.
But before he could fire – before the bellicose Quintus could lead his charge - the leader of the Gauls straightened, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Pax!’ he called in a familiar voice. ‘Pax you bloodthirsty bestiae! Don’t you Romans understand a iocus joke?’
‘Not really, Gretorex,’ answered Artemidorus, lowering his sling. ‘Perhaps we Romans, Spaniards, Africans and Spartans don’t share your Gaulish sense of humour!’
x
Antony had not been shaved or barbered for months now. Having sworn that he would not visit the tonsor until he was ready to return to Rome. With Lepidus’, Pollio’s and Plancus’ legions with his own behind him. He looked more like a lion than ever, or an ill-kempt Hercules, with his beard spreading thickly down his chest and his hair curling over his shoulders. In contrast, Enobarbus seemed as perfect as a recentl
y-carved military statue. Both men met Artemidorus in Antony’s command tent as soon as the crestfallen Gretorex had guided the secret agent and his contubernium to the general’s castrum. In spite of the fact that dawn had not yet broken, the camp was bustling, the commanders up and about. There was a definite air of expectation and excitement about the place.
‘At last!’ growled Antony, seated at his map table with an amphor of wine and a loaf of bread in front of him to serve as breakfast. ‘You’ve taken your time, Septem!’ As he spoke he waved to a chair. Artemidorus placed the satchel of scrolls he had brought with him on the table and sat. Antony pushed the wine and a glass towards him, ever the generous host. Artemidorus pushed the satchel back in reply.
‘I came as quickly as I could, General,’ answered Artemidorus pouring a little wine but leaving it untouched. ‘I have been not only in Bononia but also in Rome. With Caesar, who sends a range of messages through me, and with the Lady Fulvia who does the same...’ he gestured at the letters. Enobarbus reached across for them. Artemidorus continued, ‘...in writing and by word of mouth. The lady Fulvia’s for your eyes and ears alone, of course. Caesar sends his not only to yourself, but to Generals Plancus and Decimus Albinus.
‘Oh, he does, does he?’ Antony sipped his wine. ‘Well, I’d better have and hear them all. Except for Fulvia’s at this moment. Though I’m sure we can all guess pretty accurately what my dear wife has to say.’ As he spoke he glanced at Enobarbus who was sorting through the pile of scrolls, checking names and seals. ‘Let’s begin with your overall assessment.’
‘Caesar has outmanoeuvred Cicero and snatched absolute power from the Senate,’ said Artemidorus, reciting the report he had been preparing as Gretorex guided them down out of the mountains. ‘He holds Rome in the palm of his hand. He and his relative Quintus Pedius are co-Consuls, as I’m sure you’ve heard. They have pushed laws through the Senate ratifying Divus Julius’ will and outlawing his murderers amongst other things. He commands eleven legions, which are currently encamped half way round the Servian Wall. Which he plans to bring back to Bononia, however, where he will wait for word from you.