Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  She went ashore with him and watched as Cleopatra’s shipwrights continued building her ships. It was something she seemed to find fascinating. Like a parent amusing a recalcitrant child, he took her to see the largest hull of all. The flagship, a deceres, was designed to have ten banks of 100 rowers wielding six banks of oars on each side. ‘The Queen has decreed that she will be called Alexandros,’ he explained, following the Cilician tradition of giving ships feminine characteristics. ‘Not only because she has been built in Alexander’s city but because the name “Alexandros” means defender of the people. And that is what she is designed to do. Though I think her prime function will be to defend Antony’s supply-lines rather than the people of Alexandria.’

  The silent woman’s falcon eyes widened at the spectacle of the great ship taking shape and she began to show signs of listening to Artemidorus, as he explained. His first move in this game of trust seemed to be working.

  Keelan, the chief shipwright, came over – as he usually did when Artemidorus visited. He was a tall, austere man who habitually wore an expression of superior disdain, like many of his colleagues who divided their time between the Musaeum and the real world. But, the Roman soldier was the divine queen’s representative after all. He treated the man and his companion with courtly courtesy, therefore.

  ‘How much longer until Alexandros is ready?’ Artemidorus asked.

  ‘Perhaps by the celebration of Pachons, the first month of low water,’ said Keelan. ‘Though all months have been months of low water recently. Such is the will of Osiris and of Hapi the Nile God.’

  Artemidorus did a rapid mental calculation. The feast of the month named Pachons – were there to be one – would be celebrated in the early days of the next month, Payni. That would be in mid-June according to Divus Julius’ new Roman calendar. Previous experience, however, had taught him to take such confident predictions with a pinch of salt. Besides, even when Alexandros was ready to be launched, rigged and begin her sea-trials, there was still the matter of training 2,000 oarsmen. Not to mention the crew and sail-handlers – the better part of 200 of them, all needing to be schooled in the individual ways of this particular naval behemoth. Divus Julius’ month – the recently named July – looked more likely.

  ‘But then again,’ he said aloud to his silent companion, ‘Alexandros is likely to be the last ship ready. Divine Cleopatra is planning a fleet of one hundred and fifty large vessels, though no other tens like Alexandros, with another fifty smaller ships – supply ships and so-forth. A lot of the fleet is ready, but the modern battle ships are taking longer to prepare.’

  *

  This speech was sufficient to take them back out of the dockyard and onto the quay looking out across the Royal Harbour. They arrived just in time to see half a dozen huge oneraria transport ships, their square sails stowed, teams of skiffs at their bows, tugging them through the narrow harbour entrance. And, ahead of them, a neat, sleek trireme slid into a nearby berth.

  ‘Take us to that trireme,’ he ordered the oarsmen in is personal skiff. And it seemed that it was only a matter of heartbeats before he and Hecate were running up the water-steps onto the quay. Just as Herod, Prince of Galilee, came down the gangplank to greet them.

  ‘I have brought Queen Cleopatra’s Parthian grain as you see,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Now kindly conduct me to wherever she keeps her gold.’

  Cleopatra welcomed the Judean prince and the grain he brought with a series of formal receptions – to which Artemidorus was invited as friend to both chief guest and divine hostess. Even when the formalities eased back, Herod’s extravagant lifestyle did not. Officially housed in the main palace and made free of the Musaeum, Library and Menagerie, the young prince nevertheless came and went as his own desires dictated. Artemidorus allowed himself to be swept along by the energetic, sybaritic prince. He found this a more effective way to distract himself from Puella than Hecate and Ferrata’s suggestions. Other members of the contubernium, notably Ferrata, Notus and the love-struck Kyros also came along – for as long as they could afford it. Quintus was always there, watching his back. And, increasingly often, Artemidorus took Hecate, though nothing seemed to fascinate her as much as the great ships did. However, actual communication between them remained minimal. Surprisingly swiftly, given the circumstances, Quintus seemed to be at ease with her and she with him – though they never talked. And, in spite of Ferrata’s not-too gentle nudging, Artemidorus neither screwed her brains out nor beat the crap out of her. He was playing a deeper, more satisfying game than that.

  iv

  Early on, they took the road through the Canopic Gate to the Hippodrome to see the chariot races. ‘I dislike wagering, though the One True God is not definitive in forbidding it entirely,’ Herod announced one evening. ‘Gambling is not mentioned in the Commandments He passed down to the prophet Moshe. Therefore I find some enjoyment from wagering on the races a little strange. Though I know I must show more interest when I finally go to Rome. I like ones that end in naufragia shipwrecks like this one.’ Four chariots had collided coming too tightly round the final bend, loudly and bloodily destroying sixteen horses, four wicker chariots and the four drivers with the reins wrapped tightly round their bodies. Two of whom had been dragged to death by crippled horses stampeding towards the finish line. Long smears of blood marked the sand of the arena. There was some lively debate as to whether the man who left the longest smear should be declared the winner – and wagers settled accordingly.

  The incident began another strand of change, allowing Artemidorus another set of moves in his secret game, in which Hecate’s trust was his prize because she spoke publicly for the first time in answer to the Prince. She looked coldly on the bloody wreckage with its dying men and screaming horses. ‘It is impius wicked,’ she said in strangely accented but serviceable Latin. ‘A waste of so much life. Even Ogun, god of war, fire and iron would not approve.’

  Herod looked at her, stunned that she should hold such an opinion and that she should dare to voice it. A whisper of outrage went through the entourage that always followed him – as the contubernium followed Artemidorus.

  Ferrata came to the rescue. ‘So says the witch and murderess!’ he jeered.

  ‘Then I suppose she knows what she is talking about when she starts on about wickedness and waste of life eh?’ Herod chuckled, allowing himself to be mollified.

  After that, Artemidorus was more careful about bringing her on Herod’s adventures – but the game went on as he took her to more and more places, talking inconsequentially to her, as though he expected answers – which he rarely got; or conversations – which never came.

  At least she hadn’t poisoned him or stabbed him in his sleep.

  So far.

  *

  The river docks were ablaze. Great flaming torches lit the quays and jetties. Lanterns lit the boats as they arrived and departed, packed with revellers. Herod led them to the nearest jetty where the vessel he had hired for the night sat waiting. The bridge that bore the via between the Lake Docks and the Sun Gate arched high above them, its length lit by yet more blazing torches. ‘It is as though we have come at noon, not at night,’ said the prince, awed by the spectacle.

  ‘Canopus is always as brightly lit, Majesty,’ called one of the boat crew. ‘It is never dark in Canopus!’

  Artemidorus followed Herod down into the gilded vessel which was far too big for the prince, his entourage, Artemidorus and his contubernium, in which Hecate replaced Crinas for tonight at least.

  As soon as they were all aboard, the boat pulled away, the oarsmen needing neither pausator nor rowing song to co-ordinate their rhythm, which was fortunate because everyone was deep in excited conversation except for Artemidorus and his taciturn slave – who seemed more interested in their vessel than in their destination. However, thought Artemidorus, if Canopus lived up to its reputation, it offered a range of pleasures and experiences unrivalled anywhere in the world. ‘Certainly,’ observed Herod – who was
already a little less than sober, ‘it does so now that Sodom and Gomorrah have been closed for business.’

  The city of pleasure certainly lived up to its reputation at first sight, for just as the lights of the River Docks and Alexandria dimmed behind them and the vast star-spangled darkness of the desert closed over them, so Canopus seemed to rise like a new sun dead ahead. The attendant city’s river docks were as busy as Alexandria’s had been, but Herod’s group all managed to stay together as they climbed from the canal and onto dry land, pushing through the crowds into the city itself. Canopus had no walls. Or, if it had in the past, they were invisible now. Away to their left, the old port lay open to the sea – a dark, quiet area stretching into a still, black north and an invisible cape reaching further northward still with only the light of the Pharos away to the west like a rising star. To their right – and soon enough dead ahead – the seething snake-pit of winding roads, bright-lit shops and taverns, brothels and gambling dens.

  v

  After the rigid geometric layout of Alexandria, Canopus’ confusion of wandering streets came as a relief – almost an escape. Certainly the twisting alleyways and unexpected open spaces gave off an air of freedom which was almost dangerous. ‘Anything goes in Canopus,’ enthused Herod. ‘If you have a vice you have never tried, then here is your chance!’

  Artemidorus watched warily as the over-enthusiastic youngsters pushed forward. The brightness of the lights seemed to him to conceal the darkest of shadows. Beneath the heady scents of frankincense and myrrh, sandalwood and cedar, it seemed to him there lurked the stench of putrefaction. He was not surprised to find that Hecate was walking much closer to him than usual.

  Happily unaware of all this, Herod plunged on into the heart of the place. And, in spite of what he had said at the Hippodrome, he ended up leading them into a gambling den.

  Artemidorus looked around the place, fighting to take it all in and make some kind of sense of it. The place was enormous. One gigantic atrium open to all and packed with people, thunderous with the sound of conversation, shouted advice or recrimination, cheering and lamentation. To one side a massive open fire produced roast meat as well as stultifying heat. In spite of which, patrons were crowded round it, grabbing a bite to eat between bouts of wagering. Opposite was the largest and busiest bar the widely-travelled centurion had ever seen. It too was thronged with men taking a drink as they stood – briefly – back from the action. All surrounded by men and women of all ages, make-ups, colours and costumes who established at once that there was a good deal more on offer here than food, drink and the whims of Fortuna.

  There was no doubting the main focus of the place. In one corner was a square area where two pugils were currently beating each-other to a bloody pulp while spectators bet on who would fall first or stay standing longest. Beside that, almost concealed by the crowds gathered round them, were a cock-pit and two dog-rings. The first occupied by a pair of fighting cocks whose spurs had been lengthened with metal spikes. The next contained two half-wild desert jackals currently tearing each-other to shreds with teeth that needed no enhancement. The third contained two cats currently clawing the life out of each-other, spitting and screaming like souls in Tartarus as they did so. A little way along, a pit with higher sides contained a small tessem hunting dog and a seething mess of rats which the dog was killing at lightning speed and tossing into the air as it did so. There was even, right at the back of the place, a huge bed where two naked men with set and stoical expressions were being attended by two naked women, each obviously racing to bring their companion to the peak of pleasure first.

  Nearer at hand there were half a dozen gaming tables where dice and knucklebone games were in loud and excited motion. At least two tables where the more gullible were happy to bet on which of three upturned cups a dried pea could be found under. But, thought the secret agent, narrow-eyed, there were some games that demanded skill as well as luck. That were less easy to fix with loaded dice and sleight of hand. Rota and Termi Lapili were being played at the next two tables. Both games required opponents to move counters on simple boards in attempts to achieve straight rows of three. Both were similar to Greek games mentioned by Plato but had fewer variables, yet still demanding some skill.

  These proper board games were more tempting to the centurion, especially the last one he saw. This was the famous Egyptian game which had come to Greece as Petteia, and which the Romans knew as Latrunculi or Little Soldiers. Petteia was a game which he liked because it required tactical skill to move the pebbles from one square to another and outmanoeuvre your adversary as though you were opponents in a battle. Artemidorus counted himself quite good at it. Petteia was supposed to be the game that Achilleus played while sulking in his tent outside the besieged walls of Troy, so it was above all the game Artemidorus had studied during the few moments of idleness he had enjoyed in his life so far. It was, in the form of a board-game, the very campaign he had been secretly waging against the walls of Hecate’s silence and reserve.

  *

  Herod’s group broke up at once; even the contubernium seemed to split into its constituent parts. Some went off to try their luck with the dice, led by Herod and Ferrata; others to watch the four-section reduction of an afternoon’s games in the arena – one bout with gladiators, and three different animal-contests. None seemed to be tempted by the race towards climax on the bed. Or, for the moment at least, by the over-made-up creatures available for hire at the bar. Artemidorus chose to take his time. Glancing over his shoulder at Quintus and the silent Hecate, he said, ‘Drink? Or food first.’

  ‘Drink,’ said Quintus.

  Hecate said nothing but followed the men as they shouldered their way through the prostitutes heading for the bar. ‘Any preference?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘They’ll probably only have Mareotic. Local stuff but acceptable,’ answered Quintus.

  But when he got to the bar, Artemidorus paused. ‘They have Shedeh,’ he said, surprised. ‘It’s red. Local. I thought that was only used for ceremonial. It’s the most expensive you can buy. And they have Roman Caecubum. That’s outstanding. Also extremely expensive. Some say it’s the best in Italy – makes Falernian taste like horse-piss in comparison.’

  ‘And I crossed the Alps with Antony, so I should know,’ said Quintus. ‘It was all we had to drink,’ he explained to Hecate who showed no sign of interest or understanding. ‘Horse piss to drink and tree bark to eat.’

  ‘Why not eat the horses?’ Hecate asked unexpectedly.

  ‘They were carrying stuff like tents that stopped us freezing to death. But the idea’s put me off white wine for the moment. Let’s try this Shedeh.’

  Artemidorus bought three ruinously expensive cups of wine, then the three of them drifted over to the gaming tables. Artemidorus came to a halt at the Petteia table and stood, sipping the rich, blood-red liquid as he watched what was going on. A plump young man in expensive clothes was locked in combat with a wizened skeleton, more mummy than man, with wild hair and a straggly beard. He seemed out of place here – he should have been sitting in the Musaeum rather than in an atrium full of inveterate gamblers. Not that the two were mutually exclusive, thought Artemidorus. The old man reminded him a little of Keelan the shipwright – though the gambler was much more untidy and unkempt. On the table in front of each player sat a pile of gold. The wager seemed to be on the outcome of the game and appeared to work on three levels. Each of the two opponents bet against the other; spectators also bet against each-other. Or, he noted, they bet against a sly-looking man who probably represented the house. Friends and strangers simply held up their purses as proof that they could pay. The sly-looking man seemed to be offering lines of credit which he recorded in a double sided tablet bound like a book. And with very few credit limits. He scanned the crowd. There, behind the sly man –not close enough to be obviously with him – were two huge Macedonians. Palace guards, no doubt, earning a little extra on the side. Like everyone else they wore no armour, but wher
eas most people carried daggers, they carried nasty-looking clubs.

  After a few minutes, the young man lost. Artemidorus smiled. The old man was a fox – cunningly concealing his winning move until his young victim was committed, unaware that he was falling into a trap. Dazed, he looked uncomprehendingly at the board, then pushed his pile of gold over to the old man and rose. All around him, wagers were being settled and several men, who had made arrangements with the book-keeper, tried to slink away. The Macedonian guards followed them, easing their shoulders and swinging their clubs. As everything settled, Artemidorus slid into the vacant chair opposite the ancient victor and put his purse on the table beside the board.

  vi

  ‘I’m wagering on the Roman,’ said Quintus. ‘Anyone care to take my money?’

  There was no shortage of replies.

  ‘And you, girl,’ said Quintus still treating the silent woman much as he would have treated Puella. ‘Would you like to wager?’

  ‘I have no money,’ she said. ‘I have nothing. I am nothing. I am a slave.’

  ‘Let’s imagine you have an indulgent owner, then, who treats you as though you were a person rather than a thing. What would you like to wager?’

  ‘The same as you.’

  ‘Lucky I only wagered half of my money then,’ said Quintus cheerfully.

  ‘I’d be happy to offer credit,’ said the book-keeper.