Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  Artemidorus, Felix and the adile went into the official’s villa to discuss what best to do.

  ‘Cicero was Formia’s most illustrious citizen,’ observed Lucius Verius Ancharius sadly as they settled into his tablinum office. ‘Not the richest, perhaps, nor the town’s patronus – that would be Minucius Basilus...’

  ‘Who was also on the proscription list,’ said Artemidorus. ‘You do know he’s dead as well?’

  Ancharius shook his head. ‘No. Though I can hardly say I am saddened at the news. The rumours about his brutal excesses were challenged only by gossip about his fabulous wealth.’

  ‘We cannot afford much time. We are called back to Rome,’ said Felix. ‘What we need to settle is whether the township of Formia can arrange a suitable funeral for Marcus Tullius.’

  ‘Well, his nearest kin are responsible under the law...’

  ‘... but they are dead in a ditch a couple of miles north of here. Also lacking their heads,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Just about the only members of the family left alive are Marcus Tullius Minor who is with Brutus in Athens and Quintus Tullius’ ex-wife Pomponia.’

  ‘Well, in that case...’ the adile’s tone was full of sadness and negativity. He shrugged.

  ‘If it’s a matter of funds, I have gold in the wagon.’ Artemidorus offered, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.

  ‘Ah,’ said Lucius Verius Ancharius, suddenly sounding much more positive. ‘Well in that case...’ He rubbed his hands together.

  ***

  ‘Do you think Antony, spirit of generosity though he is, will be happy to hear he has paid for the funerals of four proscribed men, one of whom he hated more than anyone else alive? Two of whom were his near relatives. Another of whom was so hated by everyone in his household that they chopped him to pieces? Not to mention Mercury, a treacherous double agent who turned against the Senate’s legions for love of a woman?’ wondered Felix as they all rode back along the Via Appia northwards towards Rome.

  Artemidorus gave a wry smile. As with many of Felix’ questions, this one was more light-hearted than serious. But it addressed an important point. One that Artemidorus would need to have considered before reporting back to his immediate and ultimate commanders the Tribune Enobarbus and the Triumvir Mark Antony. ‘Antony is by no means irreligious. He is an augur, as well as the high priest in the cult of Divus Julius. And of course he considers Hercules as his god and protector as well as his forbear. So he may be willing to consider that what we have done will almost certainly protect him from the vengeful lemures spirits of Cicero, his brother and his nephew who would otherwise come after him like the Friendly Ones every night.’

  ‘A good argument. The only down side is that you may have saved Popilius Lenas from the same fate.’

  And, thought Artemidorus, myself as well. The sound the slingshot made as it struck Cicero’s forehead seemed to linger unnaturally in his memory.

  ‘But perhaps the Epicureans are right,’ continued Felix. ‘The gods – if they exist at all - are distant and uninterested in human affairs. And so are the spirits of the dead – no matter how they died or how their mortal remains were treated after death.’

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed Artemidorus, unconvinced. ‘But I have always leaned towards Zeno, Socrates, Diogenes and the good Greek Stoics, who never doubted the existence of the gods or their active involvement in human affairs. As evidenced, indeed, by their direct involvement in the life and death of my own preferred demigod Achilleus, may he always hold his hands over me and protect me. Nor, indeed, the existence of spirits, animae or lemurae. No; we Stoics focus instead upon how such spirits could be brought towards perfection by the men and women whose bodies they inhabit. In life, at least. I wonder, is Diodotus the Stoic still seeking arete, pure virtue, in Cicero’s villa in Rome?’

  ‘Possibly. If he still has a head. And you yourself seek to embody the Stoic virtues of wisdom, self-control, honest dealing and courage, do you?’ wondered Felix.

  ‘What other virtues does a soldier need?’ demanded Artemidorus.

  ‘Luck,’ shouted Quintus from behind them. ‘A shit-load of luck. As indeed demonstrated by the life and death of your demigod Achilleus and the tiny part of him left mortal at his heel. You and the General should be worshiping Tyche Fascina and Fortuna instead of Achilleus and Hercules!’

  The ribald rejoinder called something to Artemidorus’ mind. He rummaged in his pouch until he felt the winged phallus good-luck charm Puella had found on the ground which had been occupied by the men who had ambushed them. As his fingers explored it, he thought that there was something disturbingly familiar about it. Artemidorus couldn’t quite pin it down. He didn’t consider getting it out and looking at it or showing it around. He had no immediate idea why it seemed familiar to him, so it lingered as a question that he couldn’t quite answer. But he knew a man who could.

  ii

  Ferrata was lying in the cart and Puella rode at his side as though the creaking, flatbed vehicle still contained the corpse of the incredibly ugly Mercury who had loved her more than honour, dignity and life itself. Ferrata’s battered helmet lay on the wooden boards beside him, for the bandages swathing his head and face were so bulky he would never be able to wedge it back in place while they were there. His left eye was lost beneath the thick padding but his right eye seemed bright enough. He took the fascinus Artemidorus offered him and squinted at it. ‘This is good,’ he said, his voice given a strange, muffled quality by the bandaging. And probably by the damage it concealed, thought Artemidorus. ‘Something to take my mind off the pain. And the worry that when I get the bandages off I’ll be so ugly that only Puella could love me. At least I’ll make a good replacement for poor old Mercury.’

  ‘Not in my bed, you won’t’ said the lady in question.

  ‘An eye patch and some heroic scars,’ said Artemidorus bracingly. ‘The whores in the Argelitum will be queuing up. Paying you for the privilege of your attentions most likely!’

  ‘At least I can grow a beard,’ said Ferrata ruefully. ‘Hide most of the damage that way. But, to the matter in hand. This is a very fine fascinus. Far better than any I have ever owned. Pure gold by the look, feel and weight of it. Not something you would find round the waist of your common legionary. Oh no! Too rich even for a superstitious Centurion, I’d say. Never a plebeian possession. Eques or maybe patrician. Would a Tribune or a Legate wear something like this?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Artemidorus, his mind drawn back to the philosophical conversation he had just had with Felix. The gods he worshipped and the philosophies he followed were far removed from reliance on Tyche, Fortuna and Fascinus, the gods and goddesses of simple luck. It was a matter of education as much as of belief. The education of the rich and powerful, which he had accrued by a series of chances that he doubted many common men would be lucky enough to share. Perhaps he should have shown it to the Tribune, he thought. ‘It is more likely to be a legionary’s than a legate’s, however,’ he persisted.

  ‘But a simple legionary would never afford a fascinus like this,’ argued Ferrata. ‘It feels like pure gold. And the weight of it suggests that it would be worth at least a year’s pay for a legionary if it is.’

  ***

  The conversations about life and death, gods and luck, continued for the next few days as they made their way to Rome. When it became clear that Artemidorus and his command were planning to stay with Ferrata and move at the same speed as the cart he was riding in, Felix decided that he and his men would go on ahead. To prepare the ground, as Felix put it.

  To get the ground ready, thought Artemidorus, for the grave of Popilius Lenas – or whichever of his men had lost the golden fascinus. Though once he had given it to Ferrata to study he never took the chance to show it to Felix as well.

  The nearer to Rome they came, the darker Artemidorus’ mood turned. And the weather seemed to reflect it. Clouds lowered, filling the stormy air either with freezing drizzle or sleety rain. It was, after all,
after the nones of December, approaching the ides; mere days until the festival of Saturnalia. Then in the New Year, soon after Lepidus and Plancus assumed the Consulship, it would be Carmentalia and, in February, Lupercalia. If the weather did not moderate, Artemidorus did not envy any young equestrian or patrician planning to run round the city clad only in a goatskin loincloth. Was it only twenty-two months ago that Antony himself had taken part- and offered his laurel crown to Divus Julius three times at the end of the race? The whole world had changed almost beyond recognition in that short time!

  The road they were following streamed with runoff from the hills. Rivers began to burst their banks and test the engineering of the men who built the bridges and viaducts. The little crypteia’s progress slowed further as they moved through the driving rain from one inn to another, leaving late and taking shelter early. After a while even Ferrata returned to the saddle, preferring the warmth of his horse between his thighs to the icy boards of the wagon beneath his buttocks. Happier to take the weight of the rain on the hood and shoulders of his cloak rather than lying full-length beneath it as the relentless rain soaked through. Even though it hurt his face beyond measure to sit up in a saddle.

  The only positive element in the whole soggy journey as far as Artemidorus was concerned was that Puella came to him for comfort as she fought to get over Mercury’s brutal death. They shared little more than warmth at first, curled hard against each-other in beds piled high with blankets. But then, slowly, she began to demand more than gentle words and caresses. Demands which he was happy to answer in full and often.

  But at last they found themselves approaching the Porta Capena just as an overcast afternoon was closing into an unnaturally early evening. Sleety rain swirled in on an icy wind from the Apennines to the north-east. Everyone in the queue of people trying to enter the city was drenched, freezing and keen to get to shelter and warmth. But progress was slow. Artemidorus rode up the line of forlorn figures to see what the hold-up was.

  The gate was double-guarded; the city gate-keepers augmented by soldiers familiar from Antony’s praetorian cohort. No-one was entering or – particularly – leaving without a thorough inspection. The spy and centurion was tempted to pull rank and jump the queue, but decided against drawing too much attention to himself or his companions. After a wait of about an hour, which seemed much longer of course, the bedraggled little group arrived at the gate itself. The praetorians insisted that they remove their swords but allowed them to keep their daggers on their belts. They looked askance at the flatbed and it was clear that had the wagon been leaving the city they would have checked beneath the boards. Only then did they check identification.

  As soon as Artemidorus produced Antony’s commission, they were hurried into the city. ‘We’ve been told to keep a special look out for you, Centurion,’ said the praetorian in charge of the gate. ‘As soon as you arrive you’re instructed to report straight to Antony’s villa. No matter what time of day or night you appear. Let’s hope he wants to see you about something nice, eh?’ The praetorian’s tone made it clear he did not think that the peremptory summons presaged anything nice at all. Artemidorus agreed with his unspoken words.

  As he led his little band into the eternal city, Artemidorus wearily thought about the new skills he had been learning during his time working undercover for Antony. Assassination, torture, slave-stealing. And now disobeying direct orders. He had no intention of reporting to Antony until he had seen Quintus, Puella, Hercules, Furius and the rest to Quintus’ villa, warmth and shelter. Or until he had delivered Ferrata to Antistius the physician. Only then would he – and he alone – face the wrath of his unpredictable commander for a mission he had so signally failed to fulfil.

  iii

  The atmosphere in Rome was like nothing Artemidorus had ever experienced. It put everything else, even that engendered by the new proscriptions, into the shade. For the first time in his life he was nervous about crossing the city alone – and poignantly regretted leaving the rest of his contubernium behind as he made his way to Antony’s villa on foot. It was not just that he was certain that he was heading for a reprimand – at the very least. His mind kept filling with images of decimation – soldiers being beaten to death by their companions for failing to satisfy their leaders. Or crucifixion. Antony would hardly demand the ultimate punishment for his failure – but Fulvia might. More immediately, as he walked wearily down each shadowed alley and across each dark and deserted forum, he wondered where the Gaul and his cut-throat gang were tonight. Especially if Minucius Basilus’ slaves had been right and the Gaul was now helping Cyanea. Whether their cut-throats would recognise him as a sometime ally before they slit him like a pig.

  The very air seemed to thrill with tension – despite the chill and the damp. How, he wondered, could streets so devoid of humanity nevertheless seem so threatening? Perhaps it was the way the wind moaned between the dark buildings. The distant sounds which might be running feet, shouts and screams; but which might just as well be imagination or the calling of restless birds. The way the rain hissed and dripped as though whispering warnings. The way the shadows seemed to attain form and the echoes of his footfalls make him certain he was being followed. Stalked. Even the patrols of praetorian guards seemed like a welcome relief. At least there was something steady and controlled about them. Even when they stopped him – as they did time after time – demanding to know his identity and his business.

  But at last he arrived at the door to Antony’s villa. Here the unsettling strangeness continued. He did not recognise any of the guards at Antony’s door. Nor did they recognise him. They even appeared to question the authenticity of the pass Antony had given him when sending him out after Cicero’s head in the first place. They let him into the vestibulum. But did so reluctantly, suspiciously – and no further. Two of the guards accompanied him, then one stayed with him while the other went on to warn Antony of his arrival. But here in the vestibulum at least a sense of familiarity began to return. For the noise of partying – accompanied by brightness, warmth and the smell of food – came billowing from the atrium. Everything else in Rome seemed to have changed. But Antony stayed the same, thank the gods.

  Or did he?

  Artemidorus frowned. Distantly, at the far end of the corridor, where he would have expected to see bodies in various states of undress – no doubt in varyingly advanced states of inebriation – he saw a staid and seemingly sober group. The music was subdued. The conversation muted. Intense.

  Even as he considered these changes from the normal, a figure approached from the atrium. It was difficult to identify at first because the light was behind it, but as it approached, Artemidorus recognised the Tribune Enobarbus. Dressed in a rich, silk tunic rather than his more usual armour. His immediate feeling of relief at seeing a familiar – friendly – face was killed at birth by the tribune’s abrupt words. ‘They’re going in to dinner now. Wait here until you’re summoned.’

  Enobarbus turned on his heel and went back the way he had come.

  As he waited, Artemidorus untied the laces beneath his chin, took off his helmet, rested it on his right hip beside the empty scabbard that had contained his sword and the little pouch which held his sling. Then, unable to stop himself, he went through conversation after conversation in his head, mentally preparing to answer anything Antony or Fulvia might accuse him of. He was not a negative person – even for a Stoic whose philosophy tended towards preparing to face the best or the worst life threw at him with equanimity. But he knew the General and his wife too well to believe that he faced anything other than a thoroughly bad time. They had trusted him to do one particular task. Had given him every opportunity and all the assistance he required. Could hardly have done more – or, to be fair, asked more.

  And he had failed.

  Popilius Lenas and Centurion Herrenius had taken Cicero’s head and hands. Had brought them back to Rome. Had given them, no doubt, to Antony and Fulvia in expectation of their fulsome thanks and
ample reward. And here he was at the end of the mission, alone and empty-handed. What could he expect other than harsh judgement, humiliation and perhaps even demotion?

  ***

  ‘They’re ready for you now.’

  Artemidorus hadn’t even noticed Enobarbus returning. But the Tribune’s abrupt words jerked him out of his reverie. Back straight, as though marching towards his own decimation, he followed the Tribune into Antony’s triclinum. There were nine men on the three couches arranged around Antony’s dining table. He noticed only the first on each – Antony, Caesar and Lepidus. He did not register the faces of the men reclining behind them, except for Enobarbus’ as he eased himself back into position behind Antony. And, at a second glance, Agrippa at Caesar’s shoulder. On chairs, beside the head of each couch, sat Fulvia, Caesar’s sister Octavia and Lepidus’ wife Junia. Slaves waited behind each couch with ewers of water, towels, amphorae of wine and jugs of water. Others bustled in bearing more food and out bearing empty platters. Against the walls, behind each of the guests’ couches stood Popilius Lenas and Herrenius, Lucius Flavius Felix and Pontius Rutillius Lupus.

  But there was no-one standing behind Antony’s couch. Where Artemidorus himself should have been.

  Artemidorus took all this in with one glance. For his attention was claimed immediately and irresistibly by the table on which the food was being served. In the centre of which sat Cicero’s head and hands. On a silver platter, which the three extremities filled to perfection. They were all as pale as death-masks fashioned in wax. Utterly bloodless. The hands looked somehow smaller but the head, oddly, larger. The eyes were open. Staring, almost questioning. Some attempt had been made to smooth the hair. The mouth was closed, the weight of the brain-pan bearing down on the lower jaw. Angled slightly forward by the short stub of neck, as though nodding. The slightest of indentations was visible low on the forehead, but only to someone looking for it. Certainly no-one there seemed to understand its origin or significance.