Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘For them as well as for us, old friend.’

  ‘Unless they used the cover of the rain to turn and run for safe haven,’ said the captain, ‘which is what I’d have done if I was Murcus.’

  *

  As they waited moment after breathless moment for the signal from the forward tower that told of enemy in sight, the weather only worsened. The wind continued to strengthen. The waves pounding their stern became larger and more widely-spaced. Even Alexandros’ massive hull began to pitch and heave, her masts and rigging howling and screaming. Suddenly, the foresail carried away with a report that was clearly audible above the other pandemonium of sounds. No sooner had it done so than a signal came from, the fore-castle. ‘What is that?’ demanded the captain. ‘That’s not enemy in sight…’

  But the next wild heave answered his question. The entire tower tilted over and crashed onto the deck, crushing many of the soldiers waiting there and throwing the signaler and his companions overboard.

  Half a dozen heartbeats later Minnakht arrived back down at the command post. ‘That’s it!’ he said. ‘The Queen says we must turn and run for safe haven.’

  ‘Turn?’ repeated the captain, aghast. ‘In this?’

  ‘Her direct orders,’ gasped the admiral. ‘Do it now.’

  ‘We need to lose the sails then,’ decided the captain with a speaking glance to his gubernator. ‘Only the oars will get us round. And the rest of the fleet…’

  ‘Will see what we are doing and copy us,’ snapped the admiral. ‘Septem! You and your men make yourselves useful. Go and tell the sail-handlers to loosen the sails!’

  ‘But they need to do it gently and under absolute control!’ added the captain anxiously.

  Artemidorus led his companions along the deck at a run. As they passed the stern castle, they split into two teams, Quintus heading for the right side with Kyros, Notus and Crinas; Artemidorus for the left. He arrived at the anxious deck-team with Hercules, Hecate and Ferrata at his back. ‘The captain says you must slacken the sail,’ he bellowed. ‘But do it slowly and carefully.’

  The leader of the sail-handlers nodded. He and his men ran to the point where the rigging was secured after it had been run through the wooden blocks. They loosened the knots carefully, five of them in a line together taking the strain like children playing tug-rope. But no sooner had they taken their first step forward, feeding the line through the block to the bottom of the sail than the coconut-wood block shattered. The line snagged. The sail was stuck. Without a word, Artemidorus pounded over to the far side – only to discover that Quintus’ team was in the same predicament. Below the raving of the storm, he heard the rumble of the oars being run out. Alexandros’ head swooped down the back of a storm wave. The secret agent turned, ready to run back and warn the admiral and the captain what was going on. He had an instantaneous vision of the after castle with Cleopatra standing on the top of it, her armour gleaming like a candle-flame with the dark hulk of Hunefer beside her. Beside the castle stood the admiral, almost as gaudily armed, with the captain beside him, calling to the gubernator – no doubt demanding that he bring the ship hard round.

  But then, in a heartbeat, everything changed once more. With a great, tearing bellow, the mainsail burst. Not just half of it. As Artemidorus swung back he realised it had all failed; burst like an over-filled bladder. The whole sail reduced to rags flapping madly in the wind. The mast, which had been straining forward under the enormous pressure of the tempest, lashed back. Its movement was so fearsome that the standing rigging securing it to the bows snapped. The mast itself, the unblemished heart of a pine tree one hundred cubits high and two cubits wide, snapped like a twig. With the yards still attached and the remnants of the sail flapping wildly, it crashed back onto the sternpost as the admiral, captain, gubernator, and crew dived for safety. Then it slid down towards the deck in a tangle of oiled linen and rigging, the spars destroying the deck-rails on either side.

  And even as they did so the weight of the toppling mast itself smashed the stern castle to pieces.

  vii

  Artemidorus glanced over his shoulder as he ran towards the wreckage and saw with horror that Cleopatra’s decision had destroyed her fleet. As Alexandros was turning, so were the others, following their leader, precisely as ordered. Even those whose sails were safely down, were tossing helplessly in the cross-swell that was now smashing into their sides instead of their sterns as the wild wind tore the spray across their decks. While there had been sea-room for them all to sail northward side by side – room even for their oars to be run out clear of each-other – as they turned, they were moving too close to one-another. And the instant before he looked away, he saw the first two collide.

  But then all his concentration was focused on the ruin of the stern castle and Cleopatra trapped somewhere beneath it. The wind-driven rain and spray beat against his back. The deck heaved. The great column of the mast stirred uneasily across the castle. It had fallen to the left, upwind, side of the stern post and it was clear to the secret agent that it would need to be moved somehow to allow access to anyone trapped beneath it. By the grace of the gods, it had not fallen flat onto the deck. It was being supported on the stout aft rail behind the stern-post itself, even though the rails immediately forward of the section still standing had been destroyed by the spars. He pulled out his dagger, certain that no matter what else might be involved, he was going to have to cut his way in through the Gordian knot of cordage and get access to the area beneath the mast before the last of the rail yielded and the whole thing was crushed flat against the deck. Vaguely aware of the others gathering around him, he crashed to his knees beside the wreckage. ‘Majesty?’ he bellowed. ‘Queen Cleopatra?’

  There was no reply.

  As he sucked in breath to try again, Minnakht arrived beside him. ‘We need to get the mast free and pushed overboard,’ he bellowed up at the stricken admiral, ‘before it crushes everything beneath it. And everyone!’

  Minnakht turned, looking at the captain and the helmsman as they picked themselves up. He ran back towards them, repeating Artemidorus’ words at full bellow. The secret agent turned back to the job in hand. He thrust himself forward over the icily cold and slippery lead, snaking beneath the mast as he tried to get through into the wreckage. Pressed against the deck, with the weight of the mast restlessly above him, his whole body seemed to feel the new movement of the ship as she rolled from side to side at the behest of wind and waves; distractingly so. His mind raced, with the mast and both castles gone by the board, she was riding higher and much less steadily. There was even a chance that the unbalanced hull might roll right over. He pushed himself forward once again until he was confronted by a wall of shattered wood. There were arms and legs sticking out of it and he began to pray they didn’t belong to anyone he was here to rescue. Because the state they were in made it clear that their owners were well beyond help.

  The mast moved, rolling slightly, and settling. As fast as he could, he reversed and pulled himself free. Clearly it would be hopeless to approach things from this direction. He pushed himself upright and ran a little way down the deck, then he vaulted over the mast and ran back to the opposite side. He paused, looking around. This part of the castle was less damaged. What looked like most of the side-wall lay sticking out in a kind of ledge at waist height, supported by some debris beneath it. The edge was straight and the structure still looked strong. This was a better way in than trying to worm beneath the mast, he thought. But he would need a little help to get any distance into the wreckage.

  Activity had begun all around him. The admiral and the captain were summoning teams of soldiers and sailors to get the mast loose of the rigging and push it over the side. The gubernator and his team had regained control of the tiller-oar. And, most importantly, his contubernium had all come running to his side. ‘Hercules, Quintus, Ferrata, I want the three of you to lift this section while I go under it,’ he ordered. ‘Do it carefully, though. I don’t want anythi
ng disturbed if we can help it. I certainly don’t want anything collapsing on top of me.’ He paused to draw breath. The thought of being crushed was followed by the instant decision to keep his own armour on – but some of the others would need to reduce their bulk if they were going to go deeper. ‘Kyros, Notus, you are slimmer and slighter than I am. Get your armour off and get ready to follow me in.’

  He turned and squatted, utterly focused. Beside him, the three men took hold of the section and began to heave it upwards. Everything Artemidorus could see beneath it remained apparently solidly in place, despite the rolling of the deck and the battering of spray, wind, and rain. He rocked forward onto his knees, went flat on his belly and slithered in.

  There was definitely more cordage here. It was as though he was crawling into a tangle of wild vine stems. He began cutting it free with his keen-edged dagger, passing lengths of it back to Kyros and Notus as soon as they got close enough behind. After the rigging, he came to more wood. He could make out little in the drizzling gloom, but it looked like a solid wall of the stuff to him. No way round it or through it, which left only one alternative that he could think of. ‘Can they lift higher?’ he called over his shoulder. As soon as the message was passed on back, the ruined roof of the flattened wall began to move upward inch by inch. He slid his fingers into the gap and felt vacancy beyond. ‘Higher!’ he bellowed. The section above his head stirred, lifted. He pushed his hands and forearms into the gap. ‘If they drop it now… he thought.

  But suddenly, unexpectedly, someone on the far side of the wooden wall clasped his hands. Artemidorus was so surprised that it required all his self-control not to jerk his arms back. Instead, he called, ’who’s there?’

  ‘Septem?’ came the reply. ‘Septem is that you?’

  ‘Hunefer!’ he called. ‘Are you all right? Where is Queen Cleopatra?’

  ‘Her Majesty is beside me. Unconscious. I cannot tell how she is.’

  ‘And Caesarion?’

  ‘Beside the queen. He is hurt, but not badly, I think.’

  ‘Very well. We are going to try and lift this section higher so you have a chance to move yourself, the queen and the boy out to safety. Is there anyone else there?’

  ‘No. Give me a moment. I believe I can get in a position to help.’

  There was the sound of movement. ‘I am on my knees,’ gasped the captain of Cleopatra’s guard. ‘Lift the section higher so that I can wedge my shoulders…’

  ‘Lift,’ called Artemidorus, automatically glancing back as he did so, just in time to see Hecate stoop under the crazily-angled roof, also stripped of her useless armour, carrying a brightly-burning lamp. As the broken planks eased higher still, she passed the lamp forward so that Artemidorus was able to take it and hold it up. Shading the flame with his hand, he looked over the wooden barrier into the chamber occupied by Hunefer, Cleopatra and Caesarion. He gasped. The space was so tiny! It seemed to him to be hardly any larger than one of the ornate sarcophagi he had seen in the Valley of the Kings. Hunefer was crouching nearby feet flat on the deck, knees almost touching his shoulders which were wedged beneath the boards that Hercules, Quintus and Ferrata were holding and fighting to raise higher. Immediately beyond him, Cleopatra lay curled, her golden armour battered and dusty, her golden helmet gone, her face pallid even in the golden lamplight. Beyond her lay Caesarion, his face also pale, his eyes huge and terrified but his jaw set with brave determination. Very much his father’s boy, though the centurion proudly.

  ‘Now!’ grated Hunefer.

  ‘Heave!’ bellowed Artemidorus. He handed the lamp back to Hecate positioned himself in a low crouch bending his body just like the captain of the guard and joined Hunefer with his back and shoulders against the makeshift ceiling. Then like the others he was pushing upwards with all his might, straining his back, belly, calves and – most especially – his thighs. The top of Cleopatra’s premature sarcophagus groaned upwards by a cubit, then by another. All at once there was an unexpected movement beside the secret agent. Hecate handed the lamp back to Notus and slid her slim, muscular frame through the narrow gap the heaving men had opened. There was hardly room for three people in there, let alone four, but somehow she managed to move with swift and effective economy. A moment after she clambered in, she was guiding Caesarion out onto the deck.

  ‘Can you move the queen?’ asked Artemidorus breathlessly. His whole torso and straining legs seemed to be burning. A sensation intensified by each roll of the ship, each blast of storm wind.

  ‘Be quick,’ grated Hunefer.

  ‘She’s tangled in the rigging,’ answered Hecate. ‘I need to cut her free.’

  ‘Notus,’ hasped Artemidorus. ‘Take my dagger. I put it back in my sheath. Pass it through to her – quickly!’

  Notus obeyed. Hecate took the lethally sharp blade and went to work.

  ‘Quick!’ gasped Hunefer again. ‘We can’t hold it for much longer.’

  The guard captain’s warning was given added weight, suddenly, by a movement from the far side of the wreckage. ‘What’s going on?’ gasped Artemidorus.

  ‘They’re trying to move the mast,’ bellowed Hercules in answer. ‘They want to roll it away from us over the side. But they’re pushing it this way towards us first to get it free of the rigging.

  ‘Quickly, Hecate,’ called Artemidorus, aware that if the weight of the mast was added to the boards they were supporting, it would simply crush them all. Sweat was running down his face and neck. Beneath his tunic underneath the armour protecting his back and shoulders.

  ‘Got it!’ called Hecate. ‘She’s free.’ Holding the dagger between her teeth, she took the unconscious queen and heaved her head and shoulders over to the makeshift wall immediately in front of Hunefer. She lifted the comatose woman into a sitting position with her back to the wooden partition, then hoisted her over the wall. In spite of his twisted position and his acute pain, Artemidorus was just able to reach through the gap and grasp the queen’s shoulders. As Hecate pushed, he pulled and Cleopatra slowly slid out to safety. As soon as her torso was clear, Notus placed the lamp on the heaving deck, then he and Kyros took her and slid her out onto the streaming lead outside beside her son.

  Hecate followed close behind, the dagger still clenched in her teeth. She slid through the gap above the wooden wall, wormed past Artemidorus, picked up the lamp and replaced Notus at his side.

  ‘Now you, Hunefer,’ wheezed Artemidorus. But his mind, racing ahead, saw how impossible it would be for Hunefer to get out without a lot more help. And all the help available now appeared to be aiding the admiral and the captain in their attempt to get rid of the mast. ‘Hercules,’ he called. ‘Can we raise this any higher and hold it?’

  ‘Not without more help Septem. And… NO!’

  Artemidorus never discovered precisely what the final shout meant. But events made him pretty certain. Minnakht and his captain had clearly freed the mast. They rolled it inboard, then pushed it fiercely out praying that it would simply roll over the left side, the oars no doubt retracted to preserve them from damage.

  But rolling it inboard to the right destroyed the fragile balance between the straining men and the heavy board they were holding up. The wooden edge tore out of Hercules’, Quintus’ and Ferrata’s grip. Artemidorus felt it closing down and threw himself out with Hecate at his side. The last thing he saw in the flickering lamplight was the whole thing shutting down like an enormous trapdoor on Hunefer’s crouching figure. It hesitated momentarily on the top of the frail wooden wall that had preserved them all so far, then it slammed hard against the deck. Whatever sound was made by Hunefer’s bones as they were crushed was lost in the raving of the wind. Whatever surge of blood exploded from him as his massive body burst was washed away invisibly by the rain and the spray.

  By that time, Artemidorus was out onto the icy lead of the weather deck, Hecate at his side. Kyros and Notus kneeling beside the queen and her son. Hercules, Quintus and Ferrata staggering away from the flattened r
uin of the tower. Artemidorus tried to straighten but the torn muscles of his shoulders and chest would not allow him. His thighs cramped, and he staggered like a drunkard, shocked and disorientated. The wind clawed at him, nearly pushing him over as Alexandros, unbalanced by the weight of the mast rolling across the deck reared back, plunging her right side down.

  A huge sea grasped her at that moment. It tore the heavy boarding platform clean off. The counterweight on the left side, unbalanced, instantly pulled the ship over almost onto her opposite quarter. The mast slid down the sloping deck to tumble free on the far side of the ruined after castle. Relieved of the weight, Alexandros rolled wildly back, given extra power by the storm wind and the huge seas beating against her from the south. Artemidorus staggered first one way and then the other on legs that felt like wood. Forward towards the wreckage, then backwards towards the edge of the deck. Forward again, then back once more, ever closer to the deck-rail which was no longer there because the spars had smashed it out of existence.

  He only realised at the last moment he was going over the side. It was far too late to call for help. There was no-one near enough to reach him. The closest person to him was Hecate and she was far off as she stood there, pulling the dagger from between her teeth. He threw himself forward, seeking some kind of purchase on the deck. Measured his length, face down on the unforgiving surface. But there was only the lead which was as slick as ice, rising like a hillside in front of him as he continued to slide powerlessly backward, arms and legs spread uselessly; polished iron armour sliding smoothly across the dull grey metal almost as if it had been oiled.

  Hecate saw what was happening. Understood the dreadful inevitability and how there was so little she could do.

  But there was something.

  As Artemidorus went over the side, she threw him his dagger.

  XX: Murcus

  Admiral Lucius Statius Murcus surveyed his sixty-ship squadron as it rode safely in the lee of Cape Tenaro, one of the southernmost capes in Greece. Mentally, he thanked the gods that he had had the foresight to turn and run for shelter when the rain-storm hid him from Cleopatra’s fleet. He would have to sacrifice a good fat bull to Jupiter Optimus Maximus as soon as he returned to Rome. He had called on the greatest of the gods and promised the sacrifice as he realised how powerful the approaching storm would be. An effective prayer and promise – not one of his ships had been lost. True enough there was some mending to be done. Sails, spars and rigging to be repaired or replaced. One or two men lost overboard, the odd accident – broken limbs and skulls as might be expected under such circumstances. But if Cleopatra did still appear now that the tempest was past, the sky clear, the sea calm and the wind firmly southerly, he would have no real trouble in turning to face her.