by Peter Tonkin
ii
Triton sat in the shallows as close to the beach as possible, her upper works painted blood red by the light of the setting sun. The rope ladder hung off the right side of her stern, its bottom rungs dipping under the glass-green water as the waves passed and the hull heaved. Hunefer climbed down first, stepping off the lowest rung into water that came up to his shoulders. Artemidorus came next well aware that the water would come up to his chin. Then he let go of the ladder and plunged downwards into the chilly sea. Quintus was next, then Ferrata. None of them were wearing armour but all of them had a dagger at their waists.
Artemidorus waded unsteadily ashore, swimming the first part then half-floating until his feet found purchase on the firmer sand. The water might be cold but there was still heat lingering from the sunshine which had been unbroken all day, and the westerly wind was warm. Hunefer was waiting on the sand, looking like one of the massive statues south of Memphis. The spy turned and watched Quintus and Ferrata, neither of whom could swim, floundering ashore. Noting with surprise that one last figure was swarming down the ladder, clearly preparing to follow them. The fact that it seemed to be composed entirely of shadows told him it was User.
Artemidorus Quintus and Ferrata met User at the tide line. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Artemidorus, very much in character as Septem, the ruthless secret agent. ‘You weren’t part of this plan.’
‘I thought I could help,’ explained User blandly. ‘I know the country and the people almost as well as your giant warrior. And I’ve brought extra inducements in case we need to negotiate.’ He shook a pouch at his belt which jingled.
‘We thought of that and brought our own,’ said Quintus belligerently.
‘You never know when you might need extra though,’ said User. ‘Extra inducements of one sort or another…’ He rested a hand on the handle of his sword. The spies only had daggers – even Hunefer only had a dagger, though it was almost as long as User’s sword.
‘As long as Triton’s safe,’ said Artemidorus, capitulating.
‘Safe in the hands of my gubernator. She isn’t going anywhere anyway. And I get bored easily. No telling what mischief I might get up to if you left me aboard…’
Artemidorus had already considered the danger of leaving Puella to User’s tender mercies. The recently-made widower was beginning to look at her with longing. His first thought had been to take User along rather than be distracted by worries about what he might be up to. But the beautiful young warrior was more than capable of taking care of herself. When she rode with the Gaulish cavalry auxiliaries they called her Bellatrix, war-goddess because she could be more lethal than any man. In any case, her duties tonight focused on Lucius, so Artemidorus had set his concerns aside. Now, however, it seemed that his original plan had been put in place in any case.
‘Let’s go then,’ he said.
*
There was almost no light by the time the five of them were ready, but the massive Egyptian assured them there was a village nearby. The village, Rafa, was the last township in Syria Province rather than the first in Egypt but Queen Cleopatra had been careful to seed it with her spies. And in any case the Syrian villagers were not well-disposed to Cassius and his rapacious Roman legionaries who were consuming what little food the locals had in storage, and were stealing their stores, livestock and youngsters, boys and girls.
As night continued to gather, Hunefer led the little group over the dunes inland of the beach and along a dry river bed. Full darkness came as they moved quietly, following the riverine twists and turns, their feet careful and quiet on the pebbles of the watercourse, heads just high enough to see over the reed-loud, bush-lined banks on either side. But the darkness was ameliorated at once by the massive number of stars, and by the appearance of a new moon that had grown nearly a quarter full within the last week. Then the heavenly illumination became irrelevant as they spied the lights of a village in the distance.
As soon as they were close to the village, Hunefer led them onto the river-bank, which had been flattened by villagers coming fetch water or wash clothing or with their livestock to drink. There was a pathway also beaten hard across the ground, leading between the desiccated scrub of parched bushes to the village itself.
It was a sad-looking place, especially after Alexandria. A collection of mud-walled huts mostly roofed with palm fronds. Some had doors, most did not. The steady light of the lamps that had helped guide them here shone out of these. The embers of a communal cooking fire still smoldered in the middle of the place. Hunefer strode past it, gesturing for the others to stay still. He ducked into one of the huts. He could not have straightened up, thought Artemidorus, or his head would have come through the roof. A moment or two later, Hunefer returned, with a wiry figure following in his wake. The newcomer was wrapped in black robes, blending with the shadows and making the man – if it was a man – almost impossible to see.
He whispered a word in a language Artemidorus did not understand. ‘Come,’ translated Hunefer. ‘Then he added, ‘Naramsin will guide us to the Roman army.’
In spite of his heavy robes, Naramsin set off at a fast lope, like a wolf from the Germanian forests. Hunefer ran at his shoulder. The others fell in behind. The village soon vanished. After a while, the ground began to slope upwards and it became obvious they were running up the back of something shaped like a huge sand dune. Looking up beyond the two almost invisible figures ahead he could see the curving line of a hillcrest etched across the midnight-blue sky. But then, as he looked past the crest itself, he realised that the lower sky was somehow stained as though the blue-black silk of the heavens was being dirtied by grey clouds and dull yellow brightness. He smelled smoke. He heard a distant, muted thunder.
Naramsin and Hunefer slowed as they approached the crest, and Artemidorus realised immediately that this must overlook Cassius’ camp.
iii
Moments later, the six of them were belly-down, peering over the hill-crest. And there below them, spread out like a map, the camp of Cassius’ legions reached as far as the eye could see. It was a grid of pathways, as geometric as Alexandria’s streets. It was lit by flambeaux and patrolled by groups of tiny figures whose helmets and armour gleamed in the flickering light.
Or, thought the spy, that should be camps. Each legion seemed to have its own site, though Cassius appeared to have been content with one vast perimeter. Each one a perfect marching encampment with cooking fires, command posts, latrines. Through the middle of it all flowed the one thing that explained why it was sited where it was. The one thing that Naramsin’s parched village lacked – a river. Though from here it looked low and sluggish.
Although there were twelve legionary camps down there, each square cantonment was separated from its neighbours by a dark space rather than by a ditch and a wall. But the ditch and wall surrounding the entire gigantic castrum was almost titanic. No mere two-cubit ditch with wall to match and palisade on top. The ditches as far as Artemidorus could make out were deeper than Hunefer was tall. The earthen walls correspondingly high. The palisade punctuated by watch-towers.
‘Where’s Cassius?’ growled Quintus, jerking Artemidorus back to the present.
Artemidorus turned to Hunefer. ‘Does Naramsin know which is the praetorium, the General’s tent?’ he whispered.
The Egyptian and the Syrian conducted a brief conversation. ‘Right in the centre of the entire camp,’ said Hunefer, ‘closest to the river. From here it is just visible. It is the one immediately beside the largest tent, the general’s command tent. It is surrounded by vexillia flags and has a smaller secure tent beside it, Naramsin says, for the legionary standards and eagles.’
Artemidorus found it, and traced the pattern of roadways leading to it. One wide main road that led from the tent to the perimeter, passed through a gate in the wall and stockade, stepped over the ditch on a wide wooden bridge. The gates and the bridge were guarded. The watch-towers each contained a four-man team. And pairs of legionaries patr
olled the palisade just as squads of soldiers patrolled the vias of the camp itself. He re-focused his attention on the bridge, which stood nearly two military miles distant, he calculated.
‘Have you sent anyone in there?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Yes,’ came the answer. ‘We’ve sent many in but only a few have made it back out. That’s why Naramsin is able to describe the placing of most things. But the knowledge has been gathered at a high price.’
‘The men they sent in probably didn’t have a good enough cover story,’ said User. ‘Are you planning to go in – and come out again?’
‘Yes,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Ideally, we’ll go in with Brutus’ messenger. But yes in any case. That’s why we brought Lucius after all. But I suspect we’ll have to be very fast indeed, because that looks like a camp on a war-footing to me. I think Cassius is fed up with waiting. I think he’s preparing to invade.’
*
‘Is there any way we can be sure of that?’ demanded Hunefer.
‘We’ll have to get closer. Try and pick up some soldiers’ gossip. The legions will know the General’s mind. And what the legions know, the legionaries discuss, particularly during long night-watches and especially if it promises gold or death.’
‘So,’ said User. ‘We go in now? Like Naramsin’s missing spies?’
‘We certainly get closer,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘Hunefer. Can Naramsin get us closer? Preferably down to the ditch.’
A moment or two later, Naramsin’s terse answer ‘Nem,’ was relayed. ‘Yes.’
The Syrian spy led them round the southern end of the hillock overlooking the camp. The ground was rocky and uneven – not suitable for a legionary parade ground or practice area. The men squirmed silently forward, all of them alert for snakes and scorpions. Luckily, the local mosquitoes were congregated close to the river, low though it was, with an entire army of legionaries to feed off. The restless westerly blew in behind them, stirring the dry branches, covering any sounds they made as they snaked towards Cassius’ castrum and the defensive works surrounding it.
They reached the ditch unobserved. It was impossible to see right into its depths, so Artemidorus took a pebble and dropped it. He was half-expecting to hear a splash – the river would make a convenient moat – but there was a rattle and a click instead, which in itself made sense. If the river was low, the water it contained would be too precious to waste, even on strengthening the already considerable perimeter. It made their next move easier, though. He went first, swinging over the edge. He held his arms out to Hunefer. ‘Lower me slowly,’ he ordered. Hunefer obliged and the spy found his footing just as the edge of the ditch rose past his face. Four cubits deep, he thought. But dry – floored with some pebbles but mostly just dry earth. The light from the blazing torches in the watch-towers and dotted along the palisade did not reach down here. His companions were black shapes, with occasional dots of silvery brightness where the moonshine glinted off metal dagger-sheaths and sword-handles. His mind raced. Getting in here was easy enough. But getting out again would be more difficult. They would have to lift one after the other up over the edge, then turn back and reach for the last man. Or they could leave someone here to lift them out and guide them back. Logic suggested Hunefer and Naramsin. But would Hunefer be willing to wait and help? Would Naramsin?
‘Hunefer,’ he said. ‘I want you to lower the others. Then wait with Naramsin for our return so you can pull us up again. I will tell you anything we discover, on my oath.’
The Egyptian was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘The divine queen, Cleopatra, says you are a man of honour and a friend to Egypt. If she trusts you then so do I. I do not trust Triton’s captain, however. Do you wish him to come with you or to stay with Naramsin and me? Or is this a good moment to cut his throat?’
iv
‘I don’t like that big bastard,’ said User, his voice just audible to Artemidorus who was in the lead.
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ said Quintus.
‘Because he doesn’t seem to like you much,’ added Ferrata.
‘Or trust you at all,’ concluded Quintus.
‘Well, he’d better watch his back when he comes back aboard Triton. That’s all I can say!’
‘How close are you to your brother and his family, User?’ whispered Artemidorus, looking back over his shoulder.
‘Close enough. Especially now…’
‘Better leave Hunefer well alone then. Remember what Cleopatra said if anything happened to Hunefer. “As though you and your family had never even existed.” And if by some miracle your wife and children survived what Brutus did to Xanthus, she’ll hunt them down and wipe them off the face of the earth as well.’
A brooding silence fell. The little four-man squad jogged along the bottom of the ditch, heading for the right-turn that would take them to the bridge and the main gate behind it. The air down here was cooler and damper. There was an overpowering smell of earth, as though they were already in their graves.
Artemidorus was concentrating on counting his steps. It was the only way he could think of that would give them some idea of whether they had reached the rendezvous on the way back. He was up into the thousands before they reached the corner but he stopped counting as soon as he turned. The distance from the corner back to Hunefer was crucial, the distance from the corner to the bridge irrelevant. They paused to catch their breath, then ran on silently. In the sky above them the moon rose higher and higher. It had reached it’s apogee by the time the bridge came into sight and was beginning to set by the time they reached it.
‘This had better be worth it,’ hissed User.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ Quintus pointed out. ‘You volunteered.’
‘That shows you’re not a soldier at any rate,’ added Ferrata.
‘Quiet!’ commanded Artemidorus. He was sweating with tension, half-convinced that Hunefer was right and that he had made a fatal error in bringing User. One false move or noise would ruin the mission and likely get them all executed – Cassius like Crassus had a predilection for crucifixion; one of the worst ways to go – and the closer they got to the bridge, the more exposed he felt. There were great flaming torches at its outer end. Sconces on the wall beside the gate and also up in the watch towers on either side of the entrance. It was disturbingly bright down here. The brightness somehow made worse by the measured tread of the sentries as they patrolled the length of the bridge between the gate and the outer torches. Above the sound of their footsteps and the creaking of the boards, a rumble of indistinct conversation came and went on the wind. If anything made them stop and look down then Artemidorus and his companions would be hanging from crosses by dawn.
*
Looking around in the flickering light, Artemidorus made a rapid calculation. If they waited far enough back to be sure they wouldn’t be visible in the unsteady brightness, then they could hardly make out what the guards were saying, which would make the whole adventure utterly pointless. They would have to take the risk, therefore, and move forward into the safety of the shadows immediately beneath the bridge itself. He sent Quintus first. The legionary, widely experienced in this sort of thing, vanished like a puff of smoke. User went next, Ferrata watching him fiercely with his one good eye. Artemidorus found himself wishing he had thought to bring his sling. But if the merchant made enough noise to require silencing with a slingshot, they were all as good as dead in any case. When User had vanished into the curtain of shadow hanging beneath the bridge, Artemidorus struck Ferrata on the shoulder and the second legionary moved as silently as the first. A few heartbeats later, Artemidorus joined them.
It was not as dark here as it first appeared. The boards comprising the bridge’s surface were not all butted hard against one-another. Blades of torchlight sliced between some of them, striping the four silent spies like tigers. And, disturbingly, the shadows of the guards came down as well, as their patrol took them back and forth. Accompanying the slow passage of those shadows, came
regular, measured footfalls from above. And, mercifully, a conversation, low but clear.
The first thing that happened, however, was that a long steam of golden urine came arcing down to spatter at User’s feet. He started back with an exclamation of disgust – rapidly stifled by Quintus’ hand over his mouth and Ferrata’s dagger at his throat. They stood in silence as the steaming waterfall continued apparently endlessly.
‘By Cloacina,’ came a gruff voice from above. ‘Don’t you ever stop?’
‘You know the latrines are all but useless now the river’s drying up. We need to sacrifice to Crepitus as well as Cloacina in the hope that either the Goddess of Sewers or the God of Shit will help us out.’
‘No need. Word is that General Cassius is getting ready to move. We can’t stay here with the river drying and food running low. He’ll have to make the choice soon. Back north to join General Brutus or west to invade and pillage Egypt.’
‘It’ll be Egypt pretty soon.’ The cascade eased and then stopped. ‘I mean Syria’s all very well, but Egypt…’ The legionary’s tone became dreamy.
‘You ever been there?’
‘To Egypt? No. But I hear it’s like the country of King Midas in the stories – gold everywhere. And the women wear hardly anything. Was it you who told me about the carvings? Someone who was there with Divus Julius in 706 brought carvings back and you wouldn’t believe…’
‘That’s it is it? Girls and gold?’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Not for the likes of us.’
‘Not for the likes of General Cassius either. Gold is power to a man like that: the more gold you have the more legions you can buy so the more power you get.’
‘Didn’t work to well for General Crassus at Carrhae, they say the Parthians finally killed him by pouring molten gold down his throat.’