Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘News of Porcia’s death hit poor Lucius here particularly hard,’ Messala was whispering urgently. ‘He heard it just as gossip down by the port in Brundisium. You know the way bad news travels. And they said she killed herself! And in such a terrible fashion! Under the circumstances, I was worried about my Calpurnia too, of course…’

  ‘Is it true?’ choked Lucius, his voice breaking. ‘That Mother killed herself by eating hot coals?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ answered Puella, while Artemidorus was still seeking some way to honey over the dreadful news.

  ‘I must go to her! Even in death…’ The young man moved further into the light and Artemidorus realised that his left leg was bandaged from the foot to the knee.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want either of you to go anywhere near Rome. It looks as though you’ll have trouble getting out of this hiding place, let alone covering a hundred miles or more up the Via Appia.’ He gestured at the bandaged limb. ‘Besides, there’s nothing you can do. Either of you. Your mother’s funeral rites and cremation are over, Lucius. They were overseen by Servilia.’ He glanced away from the stricken boy and met Messala’s steady gaze. ‘Servilia has also taken Calpurnia under her wing. They are both safely in Atticus’ villa. All you can do if you go back is to undo the good work you have done so far. And almost certainly put yourselves at serious risk.’

  ‘But we have the documents Octavianus signed…’ said Lucius.

  For the time-being you do, he thought grimly. ‘Which may turn out to be worthless or worse,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s death has changed the game completely. I don’t think you’ll be safe until we get you both out of Italy and beyond the Triumvirs’ immediate reach.’

  Lucius opened his mouth to argue, but a new voice cut his protestations off. ‘Septem’s right, you know,’ it said, not bothering to drop to a whisper. ‘The faster you can get to Brundisium and across to Macedonia, the safer you will be.’

  They all swung round, and there, with his head and shoulders poking up through the trap-door, was Lucius Flavius Felix.

  *

  Felix’s voice was followed at once by Ferrata’s, more distantly, echoing up from below. ‘Is this all OK with you, Septem? Furius and I have the three down here surrounded. We followed them as they were following you. Tramping around like a herd of bullocks. They’d better pray they never come across the Ghost Warriors in the Germanian forests! And they just brought fists to a knife fight.’

  Felix gave a bark of laughter that sounded genuine to Artemidorus. Instead of answering Ferrata, he asked Felix, ‘So, where do we go from here?’

  ‘Finding these two doesn’t change anything for me. I have no orders concerning them. So if they want to get to Brundisium and you want to get to Brundisium and we are going to Brundisium, I suggest we all travel together.’

  Artemidorus paused, deciding whether Felix’s words were the open invitation they sounded like – or an order with an unspoken threat to back it up. He strongly suspected Octavianus’ squad of soldiers would not let Ferrata and Furius sneak up on them again. He sensed a rivalry beginning to build between the two groups.

  ‘I don’t think the young man will be able to ride with his leg like that,’ observed Puella softly. ‘He needs to see a physician.’

  He met her frowning gaze and nodded. Then he turned to Messala. ‘We have a physician as part of our contubernium. He should be here in a day or two. With Quintus and the rest. Why not leave Lucius here until Crinas can see him? Then he can come on along with Quintus and his group. They have a chariot and a cart. If he can’t ride a horse he can sit in one of them. In the meantime you can choose – either come with us or wait with him.’

  ‘You go on, Messala,’ said Lucius quietly. ‘Acilia will look after me until Septem’s second quadriga team arrives. Then I can come on with them as he suggests.’

  ‘I can bind his leg in the meantime,’ said Puella. ‘See whether any bones are broken. Make him more comfortable.’ She nodded towards Lucius.

  Artemidorus thought for a moment, then called down to Ferrata, ‘It’s all good here. We’ll be down in a heartbeat.’

  iv

  They arrived in the bustling military port-town of Brundisium a little less than four days later, as the afternoon of the fifth day since their departure from Rome was drawing towards evening.

  They could have arrived much earlier had Antony not given Artemidorus more than one set of orders. To be delivered to various recipients along the way. The first set concerned the legions which were stationed in a huge encampment just outside the port. The IIIrd was there as were the reconstituted VIth and VIIth, both manned and officered with legionaries familiar to Artemidorus, Messala, Felix and Ferrata. As they came through the main gate and into the familiar geometric layout of the massive camp, the travel-weary group were welcomed by the officers in charge not only as bearers of orders and news from Rome but also as old friends.

  Their arrival prompted a convocation of the legates and tribunes who were currently in camp, and senior centurions as well. Which, although it took some hours to assemble, nevertheless allowed Artemidorus to pass Antony’s, Norbanus’ and Saxa’s orders, both to specific officers and more generally to the men who oversaw the legions all at once. But the price exacted for this was their attendance at one of several informal cenae feasts hastily thrown together to welcome them. Felix and his companions dined with the other tribunes of the IIIrd; Furius and Ferrata with the centurions of the VIth; Artemidorus, Messala, Puella, and Hercules with the tribunes and legates of the VIIth. The slaves and gang-members ate with the troops.

  ‘That’s about it is it?’ asked Flavius Servius Clio the Legate of the VIIth as they sat round a map table piled with steaming piles of roast mutton, amphorae of unwatered wine and field ration bread. Not even attempting to imitate the formal layout of a triclinium. Seated on camp-stools and chairs rather than reclining on klinae couches. Attended by legionary slaves, however, as though in Antony’s own villa. The wind battered against the leather walls of Servius’ command tent, making the cooking-fires outside roar and flicker like volcanic eruptions as the slaves rushed in and out with trays of food. ‘We wait ‘til Generals Saxa and Norbanus show up, and put ourselves under their imperium? Then we’re off to Macedonia?’

  ‘Exactly the same as this time two years ago,’ said Publius, the senior centurion, and Artemidorus’ replacement now he had been seconded into Antony’s secret service. ‘When we were waiting for Divus Julius to lead us into Parthia.’

  ‘Except that the VIIth was on Tiber Island if I remember correctly,’ said Hercules.

  ‘Even so,’ said Servius. ‘All we do is wait.’

  ‘Not quite,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘You need to pick a small command of your best men, led by one of your most trusted centurions. A standard century of eighty should do. They need to be ready to come with me and my group and wait at strategic points to guide you when generals Norbanus and Saxa get over to Macedonia and start to move upcountry from Dyrrhachium. We’ll be crossing at the first possible opportunity. Maybe a hundred mounted men and their back-up in all – counting your command and mine. Much easier to move than several legions. All we need is a week or so of calm days, a couple of triremes and a couple of transport ships. You need the best part of a month of good weather to move your legions, ancillaries, horses and equipment.’

  ‘True enough. I’ll start sorting out your men tomorrow. A century you say.’

  ‘Maximum. Fifty good men would suffice. Speed is paramount. Keep them here until I send for them. If I take them into Brundisium and have them hanging around in some billet there, there’ll only be trouble.’

  ‘True. Now, what’s this I hear about Antony being haunted?’

  ‘Oh that story’s got around has it? He’s dreamed he’s seen a ghost once or twice.’

  ‘Cicero’s?’

  ‘He can’t be certain. It has no head or hands.’

  ‘That narrows the field – well no hands do
es. There must be thousands wandering around with no heads. Being joined by yet more, day after day. And it talks, they say, even though it’s got no head?’

  ‘It says Actium, apparently.’

  ‘Actium! What in the name of the gods is there at Actium?’

  ‘It’s part of my mission to find out!’

  ‘They say Divus Julius still visits Brutus,’ mused centurion Publius.

  ‘And Brutus’ wife Porcia.’ Servius asked. ‘What’s this I hear about her?’

  ‘She’s Messala’s mother in law – or was,’ Artemidorus said quietly. ‘Perhaps he should explain…’

  *

  The guards at Brundisium’s main gate were uneasy about letting armed soldiers past with their weapons still at their belts. But both Artemidorus and Felix carried warrants from their Triumvir masters. And what Octavianus’ imperium did not cover, Antony’s certainly did. For both were well known and popular in Brundisium.

  Artemidorus and Felix had also been here before, more than once, on duty. But Messala had visited the town most recently, so they took his advice about accommodation. He guided them down to the harbour where a sizeable hospitium stood facing the sea. It was positioned on a hill-slope above the largely empty troop-billets, stables and storehouses that were designed to accommodate entire armies as they moved, legion by legion, between here and Dyrrhachium.

  The hospitium’s setting was excellent. The prospect less so, thought Artemidorus. Looking eastwards towards Macedonia, all he could see was a low grey sky resting like the roof of a granite cave on a restless, leaden sea. The vessels in the port all sat at anchor, oars stowed, sails furled, hulls pitching restlessly even in the comparative shelter of the inner harbour. The merest glance revealed half a dozen transport ships. Wide-bodied and barge-like, with tall masts rigged for square sails, their sides smooth wooden cliffs without holes or boxes for oars. However, secured to the quayside and slightly less restless, were two fully-decked triremes with gang-planks reaching from deck to quay, guarded at each end. Their sides were protected by fenders made out of straw bales. The boxes designed to contain the teams of rowers projecting over the quayside, clearly high enough to accommodate the rising and falling tides. The vessels’ hulls were well over 120 pedes feet long and looked to be over twenty wide. Probably designed to double as transports as well as warships.

  ‘I’ll go in and see if the landlord can accommodate us all,’ said Felix, breaking into Artemidorus’ thoughts and nodding towards the hospitium as he slid off his horse and jumped to the ground, throwing the reins to one of his men.

  A few moments later he was back. ‘Looks like we’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Food and shelter for all – and a short walk to the local baths.’ He turned and strode off.

  ‘Good,’ said Artemidorus. He dragged his gaze away from the anchorage and turned. At his gesture, everyone followed Felix towards the inn with its stables and promise of food and rest – except for Artemidorus himself and Messala.

  ‘After we’ve dumped our kit, Messala, you and I will take The Gaul’s men and look for a local magistrate. See what we can discover about your two dead minders. Once we know more we can let Felix in on the situation. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Messala, dismounting and leading his horse towards the inn. ‘They must have been killed almost immediately after we left…’

  ‘Looks like you had a narrow escape then,’ said Artemidorus, walking beside him, their two horses following, steaming in the icy wind. ‘Because I doubt that a couple of Roman gang members will have been anyone’s prime target.’

  Once the stable slaves had taken the horses, Messala joined Artemidorus’ contubernium, following Artemidorus, Puella, Ferrata and Furius to the rooms assigned to them.

  ‘So,’ he said as he returned to the massive, table-filled atrium at Artemidorus’ shoulder, much of the travel dirt sluiced from hands and faces. Still strongly redolent of horse, however; still in need of a bath. ‘You think whoever killed our guardians was really after us?’

  ‘It must have occurred to you as a possibility,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Even if you only found out a couple of days ago, you’ve had plenty of time to mull it over.’

  ‘Do you think they’re still here, then?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Not likely enough to call for armour but enough to warrant swords and daggers. Even within the city limits, so we’d better be ready to explain ourselves if we bump into the magistrate’s vigiles patrols. Maybe Puella, Furius and Ferrata ought to watch our backs; for the time-being at least.’

  *

  The capitaneria harbour master’s office was easy to find – and he was able to direct them to the villa belonging to the local praefectus magistrate, which was fortunately close to the port and also to the Temple of Hercules, where the bodies were still laid out. The praefectus was a tall, thin, balding patrician called Jovinus Caesennius Sospes. His janitor was reluctant to admit them, but Artemidorus’ orders from Antony on their scroll with his personal seal, were referred to the atriensis steward, who brought it to the attention of his master, who agreed to see them, apparently without bothering to open and read them. Sospes had just finished his cena when they arrived, but he was in no mood to let their questions interfere with his evening’s entertainment. And the odour of horses that they still gave off threatened to upset his delicate digestive processes. So he called for one of his cohort of vigiles, whose name was Cessy. He took them to view the corpses and answer their questions.

  ‘We found them down an alley behind the docks,’ said Cessy as they followed the backstreets leading to the temple. ‘There’s been a lot of trouble in that area recently. Above and beyond our usual gang stuff. I guess you get that up in Rome too. Our gangs are nothing much in comparison to what I hear about Roman ones. No. We have a couple of military triremes sitting at the quayside.’

  ‘We saw them,’ said Artemidorus. ‘They look like handy vessels if they are well-crewed and commanded.’

  ‘They’re trapped here by contrary winds. Their crews are bored and restless. They’re all out for trouble, both the sailors and the oarsmen when they’re allowed ashore but especially the marines. The two sets of marines seem to have taken a dislike to each-other. They fight whenever they meet, which is often, because there are only so many tabernae near the waterfront. They’re stuck here until the weather moderates or the wind changes. Keeping them fed and watered is a hell of a task. So they’re allowed ashore on a regular basis you see, because the weather may not moderate ‘til Maius. But the bottom of it as far as I can see is that the centurion commanding the troops on one of them, the Aegeon, is an arrogant little nothus bastard as rich as Croesus and has a habit of slipping my boss Gistin the Head Vigile a bag of sestercii to get his men out of trouble even if they’ve started it, which they usually have. But the other one, young Gaius Licinius of the Galene hasn’t got two obols to rub together so his men always end up with the dirty end of the stick which puts them under lock and key in the praefectus’ carcer prison – until Gaius Licinius can get enough money together to buy their freedom. Still, he does his best for them and they love him.’

  The vigile’s words gave Artemidorus pause for thought. He had served on galleys in the past and knew the standard structure of crew and auxiliaries. The hull, sails and propulsion were under the command of the captain, the navarchus. He consulted with his gubernator who doubled as pilot and helmsman. Together they guided the ship, reading signs in the sea and in the sky. Beneath them there were the deck-crew of twenty or so sailors, who controlled the simple square sail. And then there were the oarsmen, volunteers on the legionary payroll rather than the slaves popular with Cilician pirates. They were usually trained to use swords and daggers though they were by no means as handy as marines in battle. There would be one hundred and seventy of them in a trireme like Galene or Aegeon, arranged in three teams, each team responsible for one bank of oars. To a certain extent, they were led by the pau
sarius, the hammer-man, who beat out the rhythm. The men sang as they rowed. So all the pausarius did was to dictate the rhythm of the celeuma or rowing song as the navarchus captain ordered. Unless the ship was rowing into battle, when the men rowed in silence.

  But from Cessy’s words it seemed both triremes were fighting vessels, as well as transports. So each also housed a complement of marines – legionaries discriminated from their land-based colleagues by their blue uniforms and standing below even praetorians in the military pecking-order. If Artemidorus ended up moving large numbers of men eastwards with him, the marines could come ashore and wait for the ships’ return.

  v

  ‘But they don’t usually kill each-other.’ The vigile interrupted Artemidorus’ thoughts. ‘Even if they did, it would be a broken head or a stab with a dagger. Certainly not cut throats. No-one from either crew recognised them, though, when we paraded them all past. So the dominus says to hang onto them for a while in case someone comes to claim them. Save the municipal purse the expense of disposing of them with any luck. Which is OK I guess because it’s winter and cold, so they aren’t going to ripen like they would in the summer.’

  As he spoke, the watchman led them all to the Temple of Hercules and, with a nod to the priest janitor, into the cool shadows inside. The bodies were laid out in a small interior room which was so dark that they could make nothing out until the temple slaves brought lamps. The moment they did so, they all stepped forward and stared at the dead men. Their throats had been cut. But that wasn’t the half of it. Before the daggers slit their jugulae gullets, someone had beaten their faces to pulp. And taken a hammer to their hands, judging from the state of them. ‘I suppose that’s Otho and Saccus,’ said Castus, one of The Gaul’s two gang members with a quiet intensity that Artemidorus found worrying. ‘They didn’t die easy.’