by Peter Tonkin
‘But,’ said Artemidorus, quietly, ‘there is one other navy powerful enough to defeat Murcus and Ahenobarbus. Only one. And that is Cleopatra’s. However, Queen Cleopatra is not popular in Rome and she knows it.’
‘Nor in this house,’ added Fulvia with an icy glance at her husband.
‘Which might well motivate her to take as little action as possible,’ continued Artemidorus smoothly. ‘And wait to see who comes out of the inevitable confrontation victorious – Antony and Octavianus or Brutus and Cassius. But, on the other hand, she must be well aware that the Roman people may be more indulgent if she joins the war of revenge for the murder of Divus Julius. By whom, after all, she had a son and heir, Caesarion. However, the situation is further complicated. She has shown her hand by sending Allienus and his legions to help us. But now, as we have already discussed, Cassius is at her borders with ten legions. She is defenceless, her people starving and riddled with plague. She will need careful prompting if she is going to look away from more pressing problems at home to go on a naval adventure across Mare Nostrum in support of the general.’
‘But it’s a gamble she would be willing to take if I know her – and I do,’ said Antony, carefully avoiding Fulvia’s eye. ‘The odds against winning are considerable. But the rewards of victory could be incalculable. The thanks of the man who rules the Republic – a special relationship with Rome re-established, even stronger than it was in Divus Julius’ day. The ability to call on forty legions – not just four – to secure her borders and calm any rebellious subjects. A certain, inviolable future for herself, her children, her dynasty. She would gamble almost everything for a prize like that!’
‘Oh!’ said Fulvia, at her most theatrical. ‘If only we had someone we could send to Alexandria to explain all the fabulous things she could win, simply by lending Antony one little navy…’
iii
Artemidorus took Quintus and Ferrata to the next two meetings. The first was early next day and it was with the tribune Enobarbus. As befitted a man of equestrian standing, on Antony’s short-list to become his legate – a citizen of considerable potential on the cursus honorum ladder of power, therefore – Enobarbus lived in a villa on the Quirinial hill. He was an only child of long-dead parents and he had yet to marry; still more interested in soldiering than social or political climbing. The villa was far too big for him, but he had a small army of devoted slaves who kept it tidy and welcoming whether he was in residence or – as much more often – away on campaign.
His tablinum office was not as large as Antony’s. But that was because Antony’s office, like the villa that housed it, had been built by Pompey the Great at the height of his power. Unlike Antony’s, which had added curtains and doors for privacy and protection, Enobarbus’ opened from the atrium in traditional fashion and looked through into the immaculate peristyle garden, and there were no pretty praetorian guards. The stormy weather had passed and the garden was bathed in watery sunshine, whose golden tints gave extra life to the first spring flowers venturing into bloom beneath the still-dripping bushes and trees.
Enobarbus greeted the three men and called for slaves to bring chairs and jentaculum breakfast. They sat around the tribune’s table. The three put their head-gear on the floor easing the swords and daggers on their belts into a comfortable position. Their host, unarmed and dressed in a simple tunic, leaned back and surveyed his guests as though seeing them for the first time. Taking his leisure as he ordered his thoughts.
Like many in the old VIth legion, the Ironclads, Ferrata was from Hispania and had the olive skin and thick black hair usual among his countrymen. He was built like one of the great bulls common in his country. His nose was not unlike the great animals’ muzzles. His one remaining eye was dark brown. The false one painted on the eye-patch matched it, glowering threateningly. A bellicose effect enhanced by the parallel scars on his cheek and the ragged remains of his left ear. Septem had no doubt brought him for his wide practical experience, and for the fact that he was probably the most effective bodyguard in the spy’s command.
Breadth of experience was certainly why he had brought Quintus. Although apparently just an old soldier – albeit a triarius, cream of the crop in the legions – he was actually of ancient patrician blood, fabulously wealthy and master of a huge villa on the Esquiline hill which Septem’s contubernium used as their headquarters in Rome. He was apparently ageless, deceptively slight but whip strong, limitlessly energetic, impossible to outrun, outmanoeuvre or out-fight. His hazel eyes sparkled with intelligence and the broad forehead above them spoke of almost limitless knowledge. While the scars on his taut-muscled arms and surprisingly large hands hinted at massive familiarity with battles of all sorts. His on-the-ground experience was unrivalled. In whatever way Septem decided to proceed, Quintus would be deeply involved in the practicalities of planning, arming and supply. Then he would be at the forefront of any action.
Jentaculum arrived and the tribune leaned forward. Not to eat but to demonstrate he was ready to get down to business.
Ferrata’s unspoken hope that the food would be as impressive as the setting was dashed at once by the arrival of Caesar’s breakfast – emer bread and posca vinegar water. Quintus, the old soldier and rigid traditionalist grunted his satisfaction and took a mouthful of each, using the vinegar to soften the bread. The tribune spymaster and his centurion secret agent left the food untouched as the briefing began.
‘It is precisely as we calculated,’ began Enobarbus quietly. ‘But the deadlines on the one hand are shorter while being longer on the other.’
Ferrata chewed on a crust of emer bread and frowned – this kind of oratory was beyond him. He wrestled with the idea that things were going to get tighter in the short-term while they would loosen further down the line. He suspected that what the tribune meant was that Septem and their group had better move fast – while the tribune, Antony and their men could put their feet up for a while. But the frown made the discomfort in the side of his head flare into agony, so he let his expression relax. As the pain that so often pierced his head eased, he focused on what the tribune was saying.
*
‘Antony wants you across in Macedonia as fast as possible. You choose who to take with you and how best to proceed. He will furnish any supplies or funds you need if you submit a detailed list to him. Arms and armour too, though I have to say it’s more likely the Quintus here can supply all of your requirements in that area. You go by way of Macedonia for several reasons. First of all it is the quickest and easiest route east – until the sailing season starts in April. Secondly, even when the sailing season does start, any vessel heading east and south across Mare Nostrum from Italy will more than likely run into trouble from the fleets of Murcus and Ahenobarbus. Last reported around Rhodos, ready to come and blockade Brundisium. Thirdly, you will be an effective scouting party for Norbanus and Saxa. Who will arrange some men to accompany you – then wait for them to catch up so they can pass on whatever intelligence you will have gathered. Such intelligence will, of course, become more and more vital, the closer you get to Brutus and his legions. Because, fourthly, the plan is for you to get as far east as practical before heading south: Thessalonika, say, or Neapolis south of Philippi. That way you will be well behind Murcus and Ahenobarbus who will be coming west and north with their fleets – hopefully safe from their interference. You will take ship at the first convenient port and by mid-to-late March you will be in Alexandria. That’s where your real work begins.’
‘Convincing Queen Cleopatra to send a fleet to break any blockade, then to guard Antony’s supply lines,’ nodded Artemidorus.
‘As well as gathering any intelligence you can on Cassius, his position and his plans. And, because of Antony’s nightmare visits by Cicero’s ghost, discovering exactly what there is at Actium in Greece.’
Artemidorus nodded. He was of the Stoic leaning, believing the gods and all the other supernatural beings that peopled Roman superstition were distant and uni
nterested in human affairs – if they existed at all. But Antony had convinced him that the headless, handless ghost of Cicero had visited on more than one occasion. Saying – despite the lack of head, lips or tongue – he would see Antony at Actium.
Enobarbus continued, ‘Of course, if you are successful, you will be coming back with the Egyptian fleet and with enough intelligence for him to launch his campaign. Antony thinks if all goes well you could be off Brundisium by June or July, able to come straight ashore and report to him.’
‘But he’ll be in Macedonia by then, surely…’ Artemidorus frowned.
‘He thinks not.’ Enobarbus shrugged. ‘He agrees with our assessment that it will take all summer to get all his legions battle-ready. Remember he learned a lot during the Civil War – and even more at the battles of Forum Gallorum and Mutina. Both of which he lost…’
‘If it’s going to be legion against legion,’ said Quintus, ‘he will have to ensure he has the best troops as well as the best supplies and weapons, the best communications and plan.’
Ferrata, chewing the leathery bread, nodded his agreement.
‘And the best navy,’ added Artemidorus. ‘Even if it is Egyptian.’
‘Why isn’t he relying on Octavianus’ fleet after he destroys Sextus Pompey?’ wondered Quintus.
‘Because Octavianus isn’t going to destroy Sextus Pompey,’ answered Enobarbus. ‘You know that as well as I do. All of you. Antony is absolutely certain of it. Octavianus will build his ships – or Agrippa will build them for him. He’ll train his men. He’ll set sail for Sicily. And Sextus Pompey will kick the excrementum out of him!’
‘Then he’ll come back to Antony with his tail between his legs,’ concluded Artemidorus. ‘That’s the general’s plan at least. His navy – whatever is left of it – and his legions will come with him, ready to follow the general’s orders. And the war against Brutus and Cassius will begin in earnest in Sextilis or September, with Antony in total charge; nineteen legions – maybe more – against Brutus and Cassius’ seventeen or so.’
iv
‘This is more like it,’ observed Ferrata as he realised the second meeting of the morning was to be held in one of his favourite tabernae in the Subura. In place of emer bread and posca he ordered farcinem and Alban wine. ‘Not too much water,’ he told the serving girl. ‘And I want the sausages crispy. I’ll have some olives and cheese while I’m waiting.’
‘And a chicken!’ boomed The Gaul’s great voice as he swaggered across to join them. ‘The fattest you’ve got.’
‘Better bring more Alban, then,’ concluded Quintus.
‘How are the first two packages?’ asked Artemidorus as The Gaul sat on the strongest-looking stool there. It creaked beneath his weight.
‘Still stuck in Brundisium,’ he answered. ‘Waiting for a wind. Been there for a couple of days…’
‘We may catch up with them then. We leave as soon as possible and travel as fast as we can.’
‘You may catch up with them or you may not. Depends on the wind and the weather. It’s extra for added sacrifices and libations to Poseidon, Jupiter and Juno, but probably worth it. From what I understand, your two packages are keen to move on.’ He paused, then added, ‘I don’t think they’ve heard the news…’
‘They’re safe in the meantime?’ Artemidorus asked. Neither man was likely to know about Porcia, her death or her funeral, he thought. Yet.
‘In a hospitium I know with a couple of my best men keeping a discreet eye on them.’
‘Good enough. Now, the plan is for my contubernium to leave the city without anyone else noticing. We’re heading down to Brundisium as well, so that will involve travel along the Via Appia. Maybe the Via Latina if we want to split up. We’ve debated the way forward and it seems best if we travel in two or three smaller groups. Ideally as parts of larger companies. But speed is as important as anonymity.’
‘Riding, then; not walking, marching or travelling by cart or carriage,’ emphasised Ferrata with a side glance at Quintus who was almost as helpless on a horse as he was aboard a ship.
‘But who apart from messengers and soldiers would ride down to Brundisium?’ Quintus demanded with a frown.
‘Let me think about that,’ said The Gaul, just as the chicken, sausages, cheese, olives and wine all arrived at once. With a pile of fresh-baked rolls.
‘There’s more,’ warned Quintus. ‘We also need to take some equipment with us…’
The Gaul leaned forward. His voice dropped. ‘I know the sort of equipment you deal in Quintus. And it just so happens that there was a robbery down by Brundisium a while back. Army blacksmiths. Shocking I know! Depriving the legions of state-of-the-art weaponry. But I happen to know where it ended up and I guarantee it’s as good as anything you can lay your hands on. Good basic stuff – nothing strange or over-fancy. But state-of-the-art as I say. Cutting edge.’
Quintus grunted. Sat back. Grabbed a sausage before Ferrata and The Gaul ate the lot. Lowered his standards and took a soft, crusty roll as though he was undermining the entire civilisation.
Artemidorus sat forward. ‘We could go disguised as messengers or a cavalry unit,’ he allowed. ‘As long as no-one is likely to recognise us.’
‘I was thinking more of a wedding party,’ rumbled The Gaul round a mouthful of chicken, sausage and white roll. ‘Riding south to a ceremony in Lucera, say. Or a group of priests and priestesses bound for the Temple of Vesta in Tibur. Wrong direction I know – but you get the idea. Once you’re out of the city and out of sight you can allow yourselves a little latitude. Or the Temple of Venus in Pompeii come to that. The Temple of Hera at Paestum. The more I think about it…’
The Gaul had just arrived at this point in his thoughts when one of his men pushed into the taberna and rushed across the room.
‘Message from Brundisium,’ he gasped. ‘Just arrived by fast messenger. Nearly killed his horse…’
‘Yes?’ snapped The Gaul who did not relish being presented with crises in front of clients.
‘The two items we were moving…’ The messenger’s gaze flicked over to Artemidorus. Then back to his boss.
‘Yes?’ snarled The Gaul again.
‘The men watching them have been found with their throats cut. The men they were guarding have vanished. Can’t find them anywhere, living or dead.’
v
One of the things Divus Julius had done in preparation for the Parthian campaign, which he had never undertaken, was to create a fast-communication service between Rome and Brundisium. There were special manned waypoints every ten military miles with horses for messengers to exchange as they rode south with vital news or orders. The Italian system had almost fallen into disuse since Divus Julius’ death, but Antony occasionally used it last year to send orders to the legions that had been massed at Brundisium, called back from Macedonia but not yet put into the field against Decimus Albinus in Mutina. So it was still manned by bored soldiers and stable-hands with little to do but feed and groom the restless horses and stare hopefully into the distance. But once in a while, commercium traffic on the Via Appia would be thrust aside by a squad of Antony’s praetorians thundering south or north along the road with their distinctive uniforms, mounts and pouches.
Next morning, just after dawn, one such squad left the Porta Capena Gate in the Servian Wall and vanished southwards. There were seven messengers – a larger number than usual but by no means unheard-of. They were led by a tall centurion who rode with a monster at one shoulder – a massive man missing one eye and one ear. And a tall praetorian at the other shoulder of obvious Nubian descent. None of the trio looked particularly happy with their gleaming uniforms or their perfectly-polished weaponry. Behind them came a giant, large enough to dwarf even the one-eyed monster, and a soldier whose face seemed fixed in a permanent furious scowl. Behind the five of them came two more men – ordinary legionaries in the standard uniform and trappings of Legio VII. Unlike the smart and shiny praetorians, their armour was well-
used and ill-fitting – too large on one and too small on the other. Probably legionary slaves – though they looked more like gang-members than soldiers.
Except for the one-eyed monster who wore a gladiator’s headpiece and facemask, the praetorians wore the distinctive helmets of their cohort and carried the round shields at their saddle-bows with symbols of Venus Victrix, thunderbolts and scorpions. Leather saddle-bags marked with the symbol of Mercury, god of messengers as well as of physicians. They rode fully armed – sword pommels and dagger hilts all glittering brightly, even in the dull daylight. Hardly a head turned as the little squad charged by, cloaks bunched high on shoulders to cover the lower parts of their faces, protecting mouths and noses from the icy wind of their passage. Folded nearly high enough to meet their distinctive headgear; almost as though they were travelling in disguise.
Changing horses every ten military miles and following the road at a steady gallop, they had completed more than one-third of their 344-mile journey when they reined in that evening, utterly exhausted. Their leader chose a welcoming hospitium rather than the next Spartan military shelter Divus Julius had set up. He and his companions were not practised messengers, used to riding day in and day out. They were all stiff and sore. A bath, a meal and a good night’s sleep were needed now. At that moment, these seemed more important than following Antony’s orders. Not that they were in a good mood with the massive gang-leader – half convinced he had chosen the praetorian disguises as a joke at their expense.