Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  The hail storm passed as swiftly as it had arrived and Plecu Apatrui led Spurinna and his acolytes out of the city and onto the Field of Mars moving as swiftly as he was able. The strangely humid breathlessness lingered even here so that even the largest hailstones melted surprisingly quickly. The ground beneath the old man’s shuffling feet smoked as though the point of his staff was summoning fire from the underworld. Hurrying now. Anxious to get their work done and the future read. Too preoccupied for more discussion. They passed the wall of Pompey’s theatre complex with its burned-out curia marking the spot where Divus Julius died. They passed the tomb of Julia his beloved daughter. And at last they came to the great altar where the first prophetic sacrifice would be made.

  The bull was restless, half roused from its drugged state by the hail’s stinging onslaught. It tossed its head as Plecu Apatrui’s assistants tried to place the sacrificial garland more neatly round its horns. Horns they had to hold to keep the bull’s head still as the next section of the ritual – the stunning blow from a sacred silver hammer – was delivered. The first blow between its eyes failed to stun it although the hammer was heavy and expertly wielded. It took a second blow to stun the beast – almost fatally undermining the religious fiction that the creature was a willing participant in the ritual, happy to give up its life so the gods could send a message.

  It gave a great bellow when it felt the blade at its throat and did not die well. Tossing its head even after its throat was cut, spraying boiling liquid over the priests and the sacred ground as well as into the ritual bowl held beneath its chin to collect the blood. At last its blood stopped spraying as its heart stopped. It heaved and foamed in the first bowl – steaming even more thickly than the ground. The bull’s carcase lay splayed on the alter. Plecu Apatrui, his robes tied in the ritual Gabine Knot behind his back, laid his staff aside at last and took the great curved disembowelling knife. With one long, expert cut he slit open the bulging barrel of the bull’s belly. The intestines tumbled out with the last of the creature’s blood. Plecu Apatrui reached into the smoking, red-walled cavern, burying his arms to the elbows, searching with practiced hands for the liver. Spurinna himself held the carefully-fashioned ritual tray which would at once hold the liver and offer guidance in how to interpret its hills and valleys, curves and colours.

  The old man heaved the liver over onto the tray and staggered, clutching the edge of the altar with one bloody hand. His right. He and Spurinna pored over the dark-red, almost jellified offal. Which did not seem to the younger man to conform to any of the sections beaten and carved into the plate.

  ‘I can see nothing here, magister,’ he said, shocked. ‘Nothing good...’

  Plecu Apatrui’s eyes met his through the smoke curling up off the hot liver. ‘It says he’s coming back,’ the old man whispered.

  ‘Coming back?’ said Spurinna, stunned by the intensity of the old man’s words. Glancing down at the blood-red hillock then up again. ‘Who’s coming back?’

  ‘Tarquin! The King! There’s a man approaching the city who will certainly take the throne – whether he calls it a throne or he calls himself a king. He will rule over Rome with the power of a king. A tyrant. I see it as clearly as you saw the death of the Divine Julius! We will all be slaves to him! All be slaves...’

  Plecu Apatrui let go of the altar and stood, wavering, his face a mask of shock and horror. He gasped for breath as though he had just run a fearsome race. His right hand suddenly clamped itself to his left arm. Then to his left breast. ‘I can’t breathe,’ he whispered.

  And fell dead at Spurinna’s feet.

  iv

  ‘I will enter the city first,’ said Caesar trenchantly. ‘I am still Consul and it is my right.’

  ‘You’re Consul until you hand over to Ventidius Bassus,’ said Antony. ‘And he’ll be at my right hand when I enter the city the day after you do.’

  ‘That means I enter third, does it?’ asked Lepidus. ‘The fact that I’m Pontifex Maximus means nothing?’

  ‘It means you can pray to the gods that we change our minds,’ snapped Antony. ‘But I wouldn’t count on it!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lepidus. ‘We are agreed. We march south. With our legions. And the lists. And enter the city one after the other on successive days as you say.’

  They vacated the island. It was almost sunset on the second day of negotiation and it seemed that Antony, Lepidus and Caesar were exhausted. There had been little enough physical strain in sitting and talking for two days. But the emotional impact of reaching their decisions had been immense.

  However, as Artemidorus and Enobarbus followed Antony over the bridge, past the three hundred legionaries guarding it and into the field where his five legions had constructed a rudimentary camp, Antony turned. ‘Septem,’ he said. ‘I have a strong suspicion that Caesar and perhaps Lepidus will be sending squads to Rome at once. There are men on the lists that we want to deal with as soon as possible. Either to warn them and help them escape – or to slaughter them before they can do so. At the very least, to make the rest freeze with fear. Still, it is not the plan that everyone on the proscription lists should die. If they run and leave us their assets, then that will do. We want money more than heads. Mostly. Take your men – your men, Septem – and ride south. I will give you a list of senators I want you to contact, with a note as to what I want done with them. Get ready to go as fast as you can!’

  ‘It’s over two hundred miles,’ said Artemidorus to Enobarbus. ‘Even if Gretorex gives us his best mounts and we swap them for stock of equal strength as we ride night and day, it will still take nearly four days to reach Rome.’

  ‘Better get organised, then,’ said Enobarbus. ‘Antony’s going to want results, not excuses. Especially if he thinks - and with good reason - that the other two triumvirs are planning to steal a march on him!’

  Once again Gretorex supplied the cream of his horseflesh to Artemidorus and his men. The spy regretfully left Quintus in charge of the section of the contubernium not coming south with him. The legionary was a terrible horseman. Four days and nights in the saddle would cripple him, even if he managed to keep up. But the men Antony had used as his messengers were much more used to the kind of riding the secret agent envisaged. Mercury, Ferrata, Furius, and Hercules were all fit and ready. Kyros, who had played little part so far, was added to the list in case they needed to communicate with the Greek boy’s ex-master Spurinna. And also because he was a quick-thinking young man capable of ruthless action when it was required. Even though it meant the squad was comprised of an even number – which Mercury and Ferrata warned was bad luck. Puella remained behind because Antony had insisted he wanted men to do his work. But she wasn’t happy about it.

  ***

  The six men therefore saddled up, loaded their saddle-bags with everything they thought they might need on a mad dash southward and set off at sunset, relying on the harvest moon to light them the first few hours of their way.

  They swapped horses at Caesar’s city of Fluentia next day. By chance, hitting upon the same stable as one of the other squads hurrying south. Who were mere hours ahead of them. But, judging by the state of the mounts left at the stable in exchange for new ones, were flogging their horses to death. If they kept that up, more circumspect messengers might well catch up with them. Or overtake them if the gods were willing.

  They followed this squad down the Via Cassia, swapping horses again at Arretium Fidens. And then again at Interramna before completing the last leg of thirty-six hours into Rome passing from the Via Cassia onto the Via Flaminia for the last few hours of the journey. As a blazing late-autumn afternoon became yet another stultifyingly humid evening.

  Even then there was no rest. They stabled their winded horses at the first taberna inside the Porta Fontinalis in the Servian Wall, dropped off their saddle-bags, planning to return for them later. Used their stiff legs to walk unsteadily into the heart of the city. The atmosphere of the place was incredibly tense, thought
Artemidorus. Like a castrum on the eve of a battle. Everyone gave them a wide berth. No-one seemed surprised that they had come across the pomerium and into the city fully armed. Which was very sinister indeed.

  ‘Who does Antony wish us to contact first?’ gasped Ferrata. ‘You have the list, Septem. What does it say?’

  ‘Tribune of the Plebs Salvius,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘We’re to warn him that he’s on Caesar’s list and that the traditional sacred inviolability of his office won’t protect him. Suggest he makes a run for it.’

  ‘He’ll be at cena dinner, lucky dog,’ grumbled Furius. ‘I feel like I haven’t eaten since we left Bononia.’

  As he had, in fact, consumed much of a pig at a tavern by the junction of the Via Cassia and the Via Flaminia this morning, none of them paid much attention to him.

  ‘Hercules, Kyros,’ said Artemidorus. ‘You both live in Rome. Any idea where Tribune Salvius lives?’

  ‘On the Mons Oppius, I think,’ answered Hercules. ‘My master Lepidus had a villa nearby. Not his main residence of course... But I think I can get us there pretty quickly.’

  v

  The main entrance to Tribune of the Plebs Salvius’ villa was ajar and unguarded. With a prickle of concern, Artemidorus pushed the heavy door wider. As he entered, he slid his gladius out of its sheath. The others behind him did the same. Then, moving as quietly as hobnailed caligae and full armour would allow, the six-man squad crept into the atrium. Which was, again, deserted. Lamps burned cheerfully, casting a welcoming golden light. The room was decorated to receive guests. There ought to be a bustle of servants to go with the odour of cooking that filled the air, he thought. The merry chatter of men and women at cena. But there was nothing of the sort. And, beneath the scent of the food, the faintest trace of iron – as though he was holding the blade of his sword immediately beneath his nose.

  The atrium, with its carp-filled impluvium pool, opened into the tablinum, office, which was, again, deserted. And that opened into the peristyle where a fountain gave a disturbing illusion of peace and calm with its gentle tinkle of falling water. Trees and bushes twinkled with constellations of lamps and candles. The air in the garden was still. The odour of metal more pronounced. Artemidorus looked down. There was a line of dark puddles at his feet. He did not kneel to check them. He knew what they were.

  The little squad moved forward more swiftly and at last came to the triclinium dining room. Here they found a standard formal layout. Three couches, each wide enough to admit three diners, were arranged around a table. The table was laden with food and drink, but none of the assembled guests was eating. Instead, eight terrified men – many in formal togas with senatorial stripes – lay silent and motionless staring at the ninth. Or they were until the soldiers entered the room. The arrival of Artemidorus and his men caused a stir. Terror and horror. Someone whimpered. But it was impossible to say who.

  The ninth man, in the host’s position, lay askew. As though he had reared back over the elevated end of the couch. Thrown his arms wide as though expecting an embrace. His shoulders lay along the top of the raised section and, oddly, there was almost no blood on the toga and tunic clothing them. For there was nothing at all above them.

  Tribune Salvius’ head was gone.

  His blood formed a huge pool behind the kline couch. His guests lay frozen with terror and horror half expecting Artemidorus to take their heads in turn.

  ‘Who did this?’ grated the Centurion.

  ‘They just walked in, took his head and told us to carry on with the meal,’ quavered one of the guests. The one who had whimpered, thought Artemidorus.

  ‘Took his head?’

  ‘There were two main ones. A tribune and a centurion with five more legionaries. They came straight in as though the villa belonged to them. The slaves and servants ran as soon as they saw them. Still in hiding I suppose. The centurion took Salvius by the hair without a word. Jerked his head back and chopped his head off. Not with a gladius. With a cavalry spada; he came prepared. One stroke. His neck wasn’t very thick. One stroke and that was that. He didn’t even get spattered by the blood. He just turned and handed the head to the tribune who told us to carry on with our meal and they all marched out.’

  ‘I see,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’m not surprised you are all so shocked. But does any of you know the name of the soldier who took Tribune Salvius’ head?’

  ‘I know the tribune who led them, not the centurion who cut the head off,’ answered one of the others. ‘The tribune’s name is Popilius Lenas.’

  ***

  Quintus Pedius’ face was grey. ‘I had not expected this,’ he whispered. ‘Nor that it would start so soon!’

  His hands shook as he looked down Antony’s list.

  ‘That young Caesar could be a part of it...’ He shook his head. Looked up at the spy and his squad with the helpless expression of a beast bound for the slaughter.

  ‘We have brought the list to you, Consul, because, as you will see, many names on it are marked for warning, not killing,’ Artemidorus explained. ‘Antony, Lepidus and Caesar are equally happy for those proscribed to escape with their lives as long as they leave their property and fortunes. This is about money more than blood. You must warn everyone that this is so, or there will be a mass panic.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see that. I must send out messages all over the city telling the citizens to stay calm. But some of the names on this list are marked for execution are they not? Salvius, who you say is already dead. Gaius Manucius the praetor... not Minucius Basilus but Gaius his cousin, though Minucius Basilus was one of Divus Julius’ murderers and is fabulously wealthy.’

  ‘I know Minucius Basilus,’ grated Artemidorus. ‘When his name is added to the list I will collect his head myself.’

  Quintus Pedius seemed not to have heard. ‘The Cicero brothers Marcus Tullius and Quintus Tullius. Their sons. The praetor Annalis and the ex-praetor Thuranius ... These are all rich, powerful and important men.’

  ‘The greater the power the greater the risk,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Especially if they have used their power to hurt Antony, Caesar or Lepidus...’

  Quintus Pedius stood up. ‘I will send messengers all over the city! At once!’ His decisive words were belied by his quavering tone and shaking frame. ‘I lived through Sulla’s proscriptions,’ he said in a ghostly voice. ‘I never thought I would have to live through more...’

  ‘You may keep the list, sir. We know all the names on it and we have work to do. And remember there is at least one more unit out there taking heads tonight. Perhaps two. The one we are certain about is the one who beheaded Tribune of the Plebs Salvius, led by Tribune Popilius Lenas and Centurion Herrenius. Caesar’s men.’

  Quintus Pedius looked down at Antony’s list and up again, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I will send out messages pleading for calm,’ he said again. ‘And I will post this in the Forum myself. Perhaps when people see how few are marked to die, they will not panic after all.’

  vi

  ‘He’s going to have to act fast if he’s hoping to calm the panic,’ said Ferrata. ‘Especially if we’re going to start collecting heads too. That will only add to it.’

  Artemidorus agreed, the night seemed to be full of distant screams and lamentations. Popilius Lenas, Herrenius and their death squad must have been hard at work. And they were probably not alone. At the moment, at the outset, only the soldiers were involved. And they were motivated by simple greed, for every head they collected was worth twenty-five thousand Attic drachmas – a vast fortune, even when divided amongst six or eight. And that was per head. No wonder Popilius Lenas had gone to work with a will.

  Who’s nearest on our list?’ Artemidorus asked. Hercules, you know the city. Kyros?’

  ‘Marcus Tullius Cicero,’ answered Kyros at once.

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Artemidorus grimly. Hercules and Kyros leading the way, they jogged down the Palatine Hill towards the House of the Vestals and Cicero’s house close behind
it. As they drew nearer the heart of the city again, the screaming, weeping and wailing intensified still further. Artemidorus had seen and heard many terrible things in his life but there was something about this that was more terrible than anything he had ever experienced. He had seen towns and villages pillaged. Men slaughtered. Women and children ravished and then despatched in ways to horrible to recall. But those experiences had been in far-flung places. Barbarous lands where barbarity was to be expected – such as the villages and their inhabitants Lenas ravaged in Gaul. But that this should be happening in the heart of Rome. The cradle of civilisation second only to Athens. That the blood flowing should be patrician blood and the wives and daughters dishonoured should be aristocrats of the highest standing...

  Artemidorus had got thus far in his dark thoughts when a man came tearing out of the darkness and actually collided with him. He bounced off the spy’s solid body and went sprawling. The spy seemed to spring awake. He looked around himself. He and his men were at the foot of the Clivus Palatinus street. Away to his left stood the half-finished Basilica begun by Divus Julius. A great dark building site. To his right, the roadway curved round parallel to the Via Sacra but one level above it. Where Cicero’s villa stood. At the corner, just above them, blazed a torch, lighting the way.

  The man who had collided with Artemidorus picked himself up and looked helplessly at the squad of soldiers. ‘Who are you?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘Gaius Largus,’ answered the man. He drew himself up in a show of resolution. ‘My name is on the list. Kill me quickly, please.’

  ‘Not on our list,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’d run for it if I were you.’