Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  And soon, she thought.

  ‘My Queen, we must act,’ insisted the Admiral.

  ‘And soon, Majesty,’ added the captain who stood at the admiral’s shoulder, his words eerily echoing her thought, gaining her undivided attention at last.

  Their voices were all-but lost in the roaring of the wind, the relentless pounding of the rain and the thunder of those terrible seas. The queen spread her legs and steadied herself, fighting to get a grip. The forward fighting tower had been the first to go when she ordered the vessel to turn across the wind and waves. Then the sail, whose destruction was so violent it snapped the mast and ripped the rigging apart. It had been the mast that destroyed the after fighting tower like a falling tree crushing a woodsman’s hovel.

  Now the great corvus boarding platform on the foredeck twenty feet long and ten feet wide was torn loose and vanished overboard, blown away like a leaf in an autumn gale, its counter-weight pulling the huge ship almost onto its side. The wreckage of the rear tower, which had almost crushed her when it fell, began to slide towards the edge of the deck, leaving a slimy trail like a gigantic slug. A thick red trail that even the pounding rain was slow to wash away.

  And there beyond it, just for an instant, she saw the figure of the man who had pulled her and her son free of that terrible ruin. Saw him only for the blink of an eye because, even as their gazes locked, he vanished from her sight - washed overboard, she supposed. A heartbeat later the queen glimpsed the wiry, black-skinned woman who had helped in the rescue, wriggling into the wooden-walled tomb to cut her and her son both free. The only person aboard apart from the oarsmen, consequently, who was not wearing armour. Her name was Hecate and she stood, just beyond the stirring wreckage, as she too watched helplessly while her powerless companion disappeared. But the instant before he did so, she threw something towards him. The queen recognised it - it was the dagger that had cut her free. Then it was the distant woman’s turn to skip out of the way and run for her life as the shattered tower continued to slide slowly overboard as well, greased by the flesh and the blood of all the men lying crushed beneath it.

  ‘My Queen,’ shouted the Admiral, his voice hoarse and only just rising above the howling storm. ‘We must act! Now! Or all is lost!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Ptolemy, Goddess and Queen Isis Cleopatra VII. ‘Come round and run south. Run into the storm. Run into the seas. Run to the safety of Krete.’

  Each repetition of the word ‘run’ seemed to wound her in some way, and as the sailors hurried to obey her orders, aware that the rest of the storm-bound fleet would do exactly what the great royal quinquireme was doing, Cleopatra made a silent vow to herself:

  She would never, ever, order her flagship to turn and run like that again.

  ii

  The woman called Hecate saw her owner and master the Centurion Artemidorus staggering helplessly back towards the edge of the heaving deck. She glanced around, looking for help. She saw Queen Cleopatra also staring at Artemidorus, apparently frozen with horror at his inevitable destruction as the captain and the admiral stood behind her claiming her attention. Other than that, there was no-one nearby. Between the two women, the wreckage of the fighting tower made a hill of shattered wood and mangled flesh. Which, as the deck sloped ever more steeply, was stirring into motion.

  Hecate tore her gaze away from the stricken queen and looked for someone nearer. The others of Artemidorus’ small command – his undercover diplomatic mission – were also too far away to help, even had they understood the danger. His right-hand man, the wise old legionary Quintus, was talking to the hulking brute Ferrata, a black-haired bull of a man named for his Spanish legion, Legio VI the Ironclads. The others were gathered about then, unified alike in relief that they had managed to rescue Cleopatra – or to help Artemidorus do so at least – and by their complete obliviousness to the deadly danger he was in.

  Hecate only had a heartbeat in which to act. Her master and commander, his legs like those of a Greek statue, frozen with cramp resulting from his efforts to lift the wrecked tower off the entombed queen, was staggering towards the edge with absolute inevitability.

  Hecate did the only thing she could do in order to help. She threw Artemidorus the dagger she was holding. It was the Centurion’s own dagger, originally wielded by Brutus in the murder of Caesar and retrieved from the Dictator’s corpse a little later. Lent to her during the rescue so that she could cut the deadly tangle of cordage free and liberate the entombed queen.

  As soon as the icy handle left her grasp, she realised how dangerous what she had done might be. The dagger had been purchased by Brutus’ mother Servilia, one of a pair brought to Rome from the farthest reaches of the East as a gift for each of the leading conspirators, its blade of a steel that was stronger, sharper, more deadly than any other in the entire Republic. But even as Artemidorus tottered on the edge of the precipice, he raised his hand and plucked the dagger out of the air. The one motion seemed to flow naturally into the next as he threw himself forward. He lay for a moment, face-down, spread-eagled, reaching out as though to gain some purchase on the precipitous lead-lined slope.

  Then he was gone.

  Hecate stood for a heartbeat longer, overwhelmed at last by the enormity of the tempest, the wild motion of the ship and the sudden disappearance of the one man in all the Republic she was beginning to like and trust. But then a slow, grating groan overcame the howling of the wind, the pounding of the rain and the thunder of those massive seas. Hecate turned and saw that the wrecked tower was sliding down upon her with the unstoppable majesty of a herd of elephants charging across the plains of her home in the far distant south beyond the Great Sand Sea.

  The noise it made as it slid towards her was almost indescribable, a deep grating grinding so low and powerful that she seemed to feel it rather than hear it. Like one of the great waves made out of crushed wood, armed with shattered shafts and splinters the size of spears, it cut gouges into the lead sheathing of the deck as it moved, the steepening angle sending out before it that red foaming wash which had once been the flesh and blood of the soldiers smeared across the deck beneath it.

  Hecate took to her heels and ran.

  *

  ‘This,’ said Ferrata, ‘is just one huge fornicating disaster!’ Most of the others nodded agreement.

  Triarius, senior Legionary, Gaius Quintus Tarpius looked around at them, his chiselled countenance set like rock, apparently impervious to the downpour streaming down it, dripping from the peak of his helmet, running like a river between the bright metal wings of his cheek-guards. Miraculously standing steady on the pitching deck, long past the sea-sickness that normally overcame him when he was shipborne. He had worked with most of them since soon after Caesar died, as General Antony ordered Tribune Enobarbus to appoint Centurion Artemidorus as commander of a tight-knit unit, part contubernium close-knit tent-unit, part Spartan Cryptaea ruthless death squad. Their primary mission to find and execute every man involved in Caesar’s murder; a mission in which they had been successful so far. He respected Ferrata, the big one-eyed Spaniard, Hercules, the giant ex-tutor, Kyros the clever young Greek and Nonus the forger who often worked with him. Even Furius, their torturer. And he had respected Mercury, their messenger, right up to the moment Mercury had fallen overboard during a battle with pirates some time ago, sinking unnoticed and unmourned at the time – but entering all of their nightmares whenever they were, as now, at sea.

  ‘The Tribune Enobarbus is going to be pissed off,’ Ferrata continued. ‘And as for General Antony…’

  ‘If either of them has a complaint,’ said the triarius,’ then they’ll have to take it up with Queen Cleopatra. Our Centurion could hardly have done more. By the gods, he all-but built the fleet himself! Or perhaps the General could give Poseidon a good bollocking. No doubt it’s what his ancestor Hercules would have done had the sea-god thrown up a tempestas like this one while he and Jason were on the way to Colchis and the Golden Fleece!’

 
‘Quintus!’ Gasped Hecate, pushing breathlessly into the tight knot of soldiers. ‘We’ve got trouble.’

  The young slave was a newcomer to the group – purchased by Ferrata and given to Artemidorus in the belief that raping, brutalising and beating the girl would help the centurion get over the heartbreakingly sudden departure of his previous mistress. But Hecate had not been raped or beaten. Instead she had become one of them, earning their respect and the right not only to speak but also to be listened to.

  ‘We know we’ve got trouble,’ snapped Ferrata. ‘We can all see that.’

  ‘No!’ spat Hecate in return. ‘It’s worse than you know. It’s the Centurion. Artemidorus. He’s gone over the side.’

  ‘By the gods…’ said Quintus, charging through the group along the path Hecate had taken to arrive. She whirled and was at his right shoulder while Ferrata fell in behind his left and the rest gathered close behind. But half a dozen steps were all they took. For, there in front of them suddenly towered the restless wreckage and it was all too clear to see that beyond it, the deck where their leader had been standing mere moments ago was empty now.

  iii

  Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus, late Primus Pilum, senior centurion, of the VIIth Legion, currently on secondment to General Mark Antony’s staff under the direct command of the Tribune Enobarbus and Antony’s messenger to Queen Cleopatra. Artemidorus and his command carried a demand that she supply a navy powerful enough to break the blockade holding the General and his allies in Italy and he had almost fulfilled his mission.

  Now, however, Artemidorus locked eyes with the queen for a second as he realised he was doomed to fall overboard. Up until the moment Cleopatra had given the fatal order to turn and run for shelter, Artemidorus’ mission had been a total success. He and the Queen were indeed bringing a navy to Antony’s aid that would liberate him and his legions, beginning the ultimate destruction of the men who murdered Caesar. But that one order from a terrified woman - whose generalship on land, matched by that of Caesar himself, was without question, but whose experience of the sea was fatally small - had brought it all to wrack and ruin seemingly in a heartbeat. He felt no bitterness; frustration, perhaps, that the Fates were playing tricks with his hopes and plans. But it did not even occur to him that he should blame the queen – and his sense of fair-play would have maintained that point of view even had he not fallen so completely under her spell. Which, like Caesar, Antony and even Enobarbus, he had.

  The deck beneath Artemidorus’ slithering hob-nailed caligae was slick beaten lead sloping increasingly steeply. Uphill, the wreckage of the aft fighting tower from which he had just pulled Queen Cleopatra and young Prince Caesarion was sliding down upon him, its outer edges lighter than the weighty centre, moving faster in consequence, curving ahead like bull’s horns, cutting off all hope of escape to right or left. Downhill, close behind him, the deck-rails had been smashed out of existence by the spars as the mast fell. The centurion’s legs were not working properly, cramping uncontrollably as a result of his attempts to save the queen, her son and her bodyguard from their tomb beneath the fallen tower. Now the queen was observing his destruction, her face blank with shock. The bodyguards’ flesh and blood were easing the gathering motion of the fallen tower as it slid down towards him.

  Something glinted in the dull grey downpour, flashing in the corner of Artemidorus’ eye as it flew towards him. His automatic reaction was to reach up and snatch it out of the air. Luckily, he caught it by the handle for it was his pugio dagger, its blade almost magically sharp, and if he’d caught the wrong end he’d be missing some fingers now. He glanced to his left and saw Hecate running out of the path of the wrecked tower as though it was an avalanche coming down some mountain slope in the snowbound Alps or Apennines.

  Still, he thought as the movement of catching the dagger flowed onwards, it would be safer to tackle the wreckage from the relative security of the deck. Accordingly, he measured his length on the icy lead, bruising his forearms and bashing his elbows as he did so – regretting for an instant the lack of arm-protectors. The knots securing the front of his hooped iron lorica segmentata armour seemed to dig into his chest and belly as they were crushed against the deck. But the gesture proved useless. He felt the edge of the icy, streaming surface and the vacancy beyond with his feet, toes protruding from his thick-soled leather footwear, half sandals, half boots; then with his shins, lacking protective armour like his arms. Then a force far beyond anything he could ever hope to control simply flipped him over into nothingness.

  *

  Artemidorus dropped for a heartbeat, falling parallel to the ship’s side, looking up at the roiling, rain-filled sky. Then he crashed onto solidity so hard that it knocked the wind out of him. He bashed the back of his head as well as his shoulders and backside and regretted the absence of his helmet almost as keenly as the armour that would normally have protected his arms and legs. All put aside, like Hecate’s as they went under the wrecked tower after the queen.

  But the shock of banging his head seemed to kick his brain into action. He was in the middle of the nightmare that had haunted him ever since Mercury vanished overboard during the fight against marauding pirates, pulled straight to his death by the weight of the armour he had been wearing. Most men, finding themselves in the midst of a waking nightmare would freeze or panic. Not Artemidorus. The centurion began to fight for his life instead.

  Artemidorus spread his legs as best he could, seeking to steady himself as he started hacking at the knots securing the front of his armour with that providential dagger. Only as he took decisive action did he realise where he was. He was lying on top of the rowing box that reached out from the ship’s side like a balcony and housed the rowers controlling the topmost bank of oars. But it was narrow, slippery, and sloping – no safe haven in the long-term. And even as the thought occurred to him, he felt himself sliding off. His mind was racing now. The top row of oars would be reaching out almost immediately below. He kicked as strongly as he could, rolling over, reaching out, catching the nearest oar beneath his left arm-pit as his right hand kept working at feverish pace with the dagger. His legs swung until he was hanging upright and he regretted the absence of greaves again as his shins were bashed by the next oars down. His hobnailed boot-soles scrabbled against the one below that. Had he looked to one side he might have seen the faces of the two oarsmen nearest to him in charge of this long, unwieldy oar as they sat side-by side looking out through the tiny opening through which the oar protruded. The oar that was a good deal more unwieldy than usual now that he was hanging from it, even though the dictates of the storm-wracked sea made the ship roll the other way, so that, had he still been on the deck, Artemidorus would have been at the top of the slope, watching the wrecked tower beginning to slide back amidships.

  But his focus was all on cutting the leather thongs securing the chest-section in place round his torso. He was also well aware that he still needed to cut the straps that held the shoulder-guards hard up against the upper chest hoops if he was going to stand any chance at all of getting the deadly weight off him before the ship tilted back the other way again and he inevitably hit the water.

  Fortunately, the straps securing the shoulder sections tightened and were thrown into relief because the shoulder guard above his left arm was being pushed up as the sloping column of the oar sank deeper into his arm-pit. The metal edge of the shoulder guard dug into the wood, holding him steady even as the oar sagged, pulled down by his added weight. Blinking and shaking the salt spray out of his streaming eyes, he slid the dagger up beneath the strap, then froze abruptly as he realised how easily he could cut his throat.

  But circumstances changed once more. As the ship heeled back again, a muffled order came from deep within the creaking, groaning vessel. The oars began to draw in. He slammed against the outside of the oar-box and very nearly cut his throat indeed. Of course, he thought: the captain and crew would have at the very least learned from the effect of pushing the
mast over the far side. Oars out when it went into the water would have meant disaster. Oars out on this side when the fighting tower came overboard would be almost as bad. The oarsmen in the seats immediately behind him were pulling in their oar as swiftly and powerfully as they could. The effect of this was compounded as the Alexandros rolled back further still, pushed by the power of the waves beneath the far side of her hull and the gathering weight of that restless tower sliding back towards the deck-edge. As he slammed against the rowing box once more, he felt the last strap yield.

  Then the blade of the oar slipped past him as the whole thing was pulled aboard in perfect unison with the others beneath it and he was falling, face-down into the foam-webbed waves so close below.

  iv

  The armour Artemidorus wore weighed as much as a child, as much as a fair-sized dog, as much as a bushel of apples or a sack of grain. The dead weight of the metal hoops was augmented by the fact that all the leather sections had soaked up so much water from the rain and spray even before they soaked up more - sponge-like – from the sea itself. These facts ran through the centurion’s mind as he began to sink, pulled down by that relentless weight despite being buoyed up by the enormous lungful of air he had managed to snatch just before he hit the surface. Twisting wildly, he managed to turn on his back. The vanishing surface above him was a wilderness of steely grey in frantic motion, blurred by the element he was looking through. His vision further compromised as water flowed up his nose bringing tears to his eyes. But things seemed calmer down here. Silent, though something was causing his ears to hurt increasingly painfully. What little he could see nearby was moving leisurely. Spars and rigging easing lazily round the stern of the massive ship. Rags of sail waving like banners in a gentle breeze. Dead men tangled in all of it, weighed down by armour, like him, but moving unhurriedly in the slow dance, pulling the lines taut between the jetsam floating on the surface and the dead men doomed to plumb the depths.