Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  But Artemidorus was not moving leisurely. He was twisting, writhing like a mad thing, fighting to get his torso, shoulders and arms out of the deadly weight of armour. His entire life had focused down on two overriding thoughts. He must get out of that armour – and he must not lose the dagger as he did so. Next after the armour must come the heavy leather hobnailed caligae and he would never be able to unlace those. Unless he cut them free they could well drag him down almost as effectively as the armour.

  Grinding his teeth together, terrifyingly aware of the speed at which he was sinking, he wrestled the recalcitrant steel shell off his body. Nearly dislocating his left shoulder, he tore his left arm out from under the layered steel epaulets. As he did so, the iron hoops that protected his torso, hinged by knots running up the back just as knots had run up the front, flapped open, still pulling him down. His left hand joined the dangerously armed right fist as he fought to get free of the thing before it was too late.

  The last of it slid down his right arm and almost took the dagger with it when it finally fell free. Its departing weight turned the centurion over to face downward once again and he almost shouted with shock. Close below him was another corpse. An Egyptian marine in ornate chain mail. He was floating face up, eyes and mouth wide, long hair waving gently, in a tangle of ropes. Artemidorus hadn’t even realised was there – or that the ropes were so dangerously close. His armour brushed against the trapped corpse then vanished lazily into the black-throated depths.

  The centurion’s first reaction was one of revulsion swiftly followed by fear that the ropes that trapped the dead marine might entangle and doom him also. But then that fear was replaced by a flicker of hope. During the heartbeats when he had been face-up and looking at the surface he had observed ropes like these leading up to masts and spars floating on the surface.

  Without a further thought, Artemidorus grabbed the nearest rope leading upwards with his left hand and pulled on it. It twisted in his grip like a live thing, sending thrills of sensation up his arm and into his straining chest. A wave passed by far above. Whatever floating wreckage the rope was secured to rose and fell. So did Artemidorus. In a flash he put his dagger between his teeth and began to pull himself upwards, hand over hand.

  Artemidorus was halfway to the surface when two things happened at the same instant – neither of them good.

  *

  The rope he was climbing gave a strange jerk. The thrill of sensory information it gave abruptly recalled his younger years aboard ships when he had gone fishing in order to augment the food stocks. He looked down and discovered he was fishing indeed – a sizeable shark was tearing at the Egyptian marine’s corpse like a tuna taking bait. Clouds of blood billowed around the fish and the dead soldier. No doubt there would be other, larger, monsters keen to join the feast, he thought grimly. And soon.

  His inevitable reaction was to pull himself more swiftly still towards the surface which seemed merely to be a couple of body-lengths distant. But even as he looked upward, the great shadow of the flagship’s side closed over like a trap-door and the wreckage of the after tower at last was vomited off the deck. By the grace of the gods, Artemidorus had miscalculated – perhaps tricked into wishful thinking by the fire burning in his air-starved breast. Great slabs of wood piled with broken shafts from the frames that had once held them up all cascaded into the water as the queen’s flagship, relieved of their burden and, although he did not know it, that of the great wooden platform of the corvus, reeled away. For agonising moments, Artemidorus was trapped beneath the sharp-edged, splintered deluge, praying to his personal demigod Achilleus, hero of Troy to hold his hand over him and protect him while ensuring the deadly torrent fell and settled before his breath ran out.

  Whatever mast or spar the rope he was holding was attached to was smashed down beneath the wreckage. The rope went slack and the drowning centurion felt himself being pulled down once more by the weight of his sodden tunic and heavy, hobnailed boots. He ground his teeth against the blade of his dagger, trying to keep the points of his lips clear of the lethal edges. Darkness swirled at the outer margin of his vision, dancing with flashes of brightness as though he was in the midst of an underwater thunderstorm. The effect was mesmerising; he began to drift away, some atavistic part of him far beneath his consciousness still refusing to let him breathe. The rope jerked, pulling him downward. Other monsters had joined the first shark, feasting on the dead marine. And Artemidorus knew that he was next on the tabula ciborum list of foods.

  v

  But then Achilleus, hero of Troy took a hand after all. The mast that Artemidorus’ rope was secured to burst through the wreckage of the tower and leaped into the air off the back of a tall wave. The centurion was jerked upward so fiercely that he almost lost his grip and the shock was more than enough to jolt him out of his near-fatal trance. He continued to pull himself upward, hand over hand, fiercely now, acutely aware how close to death he was. His lungs gave out at last as he neared the surface, sending a stream of bubbles past the dagger that was still tight-clutched between his teeth. Emptying his lungs gave him a brief respite from the agony within his chest and he used it to pull himself through the surface.

  He arrived, choking and gasping in the midst of a heaving chaos. The rope he had been following was tangled round a spar that was still attached to Alexanrdos’ broken mast. Although the column of wood was thicker than the oar, he was able to sling his left arm over it and let it support him as he pulled the dagger out of his mouth and looked around, gasping for breath and trying to get his bearings.

  The first thing he noticed was that he was utterly alone. The next wave heaved up under him and for a moment he had a good view over the tops of the others marching northward like an army invading Greece. The sturdy, steady spar allowed him to look south into the heart of the wind and the spray, where he could just make out the line of battered vessels which were all that remained of Cleopatra’s fleet as they toiled wearily into the distance, heading for the protection of Krete.

  The wave rolled northward. Artemidorus swooped down its back and his world shrank to a matter of feet as the face of the next wave approached, its crest disturbingly high above his head. Then abruptly a broad solid wooden edge lifted over the watery curve. The centurion tried to swim away from it, fearful that it would crash into him as the wave passed and it fell. As things turned out, it missed him by inches and as he rose up the back of the wave, he was able to look down on it and see that it was a sizeable, solid piece of timber that looked to him to be about ten feet wide and maybe twice as long, its surface sitting a couple of feet above the water, riding the waves like a raft; apparently heading for Greece with all the rest.

  Artemidorus had no sooner seen this than the rope that had saved his life came lazily coiling round his leg, the shock of the sensation bringing visions of monstrous sharks feasting on dead marines vividly to his mind. He relinquished his safe hold on the spar at once and threw himself down the back of the wave towards the apparent safety of the makeshift raft.

  As soon as he did so, he realised he had made a mistake.

  *

  Artemidorus slid down the back of the wave far more swiftly than he had planned, dragged under by the weight of his tunic and his sodden boots. The leading edge of the panel he was reaching for was rising all-too swiftly, the height of the wave beneath it adding inexorably to the thickness of its end. The centurion threw himself forward and upward desperately. His forearms slammed onto the surface with bruising force. He nearly lost his dagger. The platform continued to rise, its upper edge digging agonisingly into the soft flesh on the inside of his elbows. His legs began to swing under the thing, caught in a counter-motion to the top half of his body. His grip on the top began to fail, as it had on the slick lead of the deck before he fell overboard.

  He spread the fingers of his left hand, praying to Achilleus for strength and good fortune. As though in answer, his feet came in contact with what felt like a pole or spike protruding fro
m the underside. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to slow his movement and stop him being sucked under. Whatever it was gave him that one extra heartbeat of respite. His right hand plunged the dagger downward with all his strength. The blade sank into the sodden wood and gave the desperate man something solid to hold onto. He closed both hands over the handle and heaved himself upwards until the edge was beneath his arm-pits, its upper lip digging into his chest. As soon as he was steady, he jerked the dagger free, kicked off from the spike, reached further still and plunged it down again an arm’s length further on.

  Learning from his near disaster, he sought to fit his movements into the rhythm of the massive seas, he pulled himself further still, until the rim of the board was beneath his belly. As soon as the rectangle of wood was sloping down the back of the next wave, he tore the dagger free, plunged it down yet further wriggling wildly until his feet were kicking free of the heaving surface at last.

  But even when he was curled round the dagger’s solid centre, he was forced to turn his back to the seas as they came relentlessly washing across his makeshift refuge, aided by the wind which made his body, clad in a soaking tunic as it was, shiver increasingly uncontrollably. He was battered, bruised, bleeding in a number of places, shaking with cold and utter exhaustion.

  But, for the moment at least, the centurion was alive.

  II - The Floating Crow

  i

  The storm cleared to the north, taking what was left of the day and some of the night to do so. The first Artemidorus knew of this came less than an hour after he got safely up on his makeshift raft when he realised that the rain was beginning to ease. The realisation gathered strength with the falling of the wind, the moderating of the seas and eventually the appearance of a huge sky filled with big bright stars while a fingernail of new moon sat low on the horizon downwind. Somewhere to the north, therefore, he blearily calculated. Somewhere over Greece, Thessaly or Thrace.

  As the weather moderated and the sounds of wind and water quietened, so other, more worrying, noises became audible. Splashing, ripping, jerking sounds that spoke to the semi-conscious survivor of more great fish coming to the surface in search of corpses to eat. The simple size of the raft was his only refuge from the horrific feast he imagined just below.

  The massive heavens revealed by the departing overcast were darkened by clouds of shrieking sea-birds seeking to rob the sharks of as much of their floating prey as possible. Artemidorus was semi-conscious for much of this, utterly exhausted, shivering with the cold that seemed to eat through his jumping, twisting muscles to chill his very bones. Only the continued good will of his protective demigod Achilleus in the form of a warm southerly breeze that sprung up after midnight saved him from freezing.

  The next day dawned bright and clear, the arrival of Helios, whom the Romans called Sol, in his blazing chariot established where the eastern horizon lay. The rising sun also established quite a lot else. Primarily that the centurion’s sizeable raft was bobbing at the heart of a wilderness of wreckage, all of it apparently pushing sedately northwards, propelled by that clement southerly.

  Now that he was capable of rational thought, he realised what his refuge was. It was the flagship Alexandros’ corvus boarding platform. Corvus being the Roman word for crow – such platforms earning that name because of the great iron beak with which they anchored themselves to enemy ships. The great iron beak that had helped him get aboard last night by giving him something solid to kick against. Alexanros’ corvus was quite a massive affair. It was twenty feet of strong planking wide enough for three men to cross shoulder to shoulder. It made a good solid raft and rode high as long as the seas were calm. Daylight also revealed columns of dazzling white gulls still seeking to feed on whatever foodstuff still floated, tangled in the wreckage - and upon the smaller fish that came to seek the crumbs that remained from the sharks’ banquet.

  There was a surprising amount for the gulls to forage. Close to Artemidorus, for instance, the corpse of a soldier floated face-down, supported by a jumble of wood and rigging, despite the fact that he was fully armed. Artemidorus knew the dangers of wearing a mail shirt like the dead legionary’s, and realised that it would be impossible to get it off the corpse even if he wanted it, which he did not. However, he coveted the soldier’s sword and helmet. The sword was no doubt as old-fashioned and work-a-day as the mail coat - though, to be fair, he could see little more than its hilt. The helmet was of a strange, almost Persian design, coming to a point rather than a crest, with a bunch of long red horsehairs flowing out from it. He sat staring at the soldier, calculating how to reach him and slowly coming to the realisation that it would be near-impossible for him to do so as things stood. If he was serious about getting his hands on the helmet and sword, therefore, he would have to work at changing his situation and circumstances.

  *

  This brought the shipwrecked soldier face to face with just how dangerous his situation was. Even disregarding the obvious facts that he was alone and effectively unprotected on a rectangle of wood measuring ten feet by twenty feet maybe three feet thick, somewhere in the midst of the Roman Sea and no-one had any idea where he was or even that he was alive – he had more immediate problems to deal with before he could seriously consider retrieving anything from the dead soldier. He had no water and was parched – his throat lucky not to be packed with salt, courtesy of last night’s rain which had at least washed his mouth out. The heat of the sun would make matters worse unless he could create some protection from its burning rays. He had been in similar situations before. Marching without water with Caesar and Cleopatra in the desert as the parched XXXVIIth legion prepared to face the Egyptian army of Cleopatra’s brother and sister Ptolemy and Arsinoe with their eunuch general Ganymedes. Lost at sea in his days as an oarsman working his way into the Roman military, though to be fair he had been wrecked on wild shores – never like this, on the ocean.

  All in all, his experience suggested that he could survive for three days without water. Four if he could find shelter. Perhaps even longer if the gods smiled upon him and sent some rain. A speculation that brought his mind back to the dead soldier and the bowl of his helmet: how much water would that helmet contain, he wondered. Then he shook his head and bestirred himself. Of one thing he was absolutely certain: if he sat and waited idly for the gods to smile on him then they would almost certainly sit and watch him die.

  Despite the fact that he was still exhausted, stiff and sore, he went to work at once, keeping an eye on the corpse as he did so. There was nothing to help him on the blank platform he was sitting on, but the water all around it was tantalisingly full of the sort of artefacts that a man like him could find a use for. Especially a man with a clear objective – to win the simple battle for survival, no matter what it took. Rags of sailcloth, lengths of rigging rope, splinters, spars and masts were all within reach if he was careful. If only he could get them onto his raft with him and work out how best to deploy them.

  He made sure his dagger was safely stabbed deeply into the surface of the central plank, then he knelt up beside it. He tried standing but the rhythm of the waves made it impossible to stay steady and he found himself staggering to and fro increasingly dangerously. He knelt down therefore as he stripped off his tunic and loincloth. Since the sea had calmed, his raft was no longer wave-washed and even the earliest rays meant the sun was warming its surface. He spread his clothes out to dry, relieved himself over the edge having briefly wondered whether he should keep his urine to drink. He had heard that it could be an effective ploy under circumstances like this. But he discarded the idea in the end simply because he had nothing to store the liquid in; and would not have anything in the future unless he could get and use the helmet. Then, wearing only his boots, he went to work.

  The first thing he needed was some kind of shelter. Then he needed fishing gear, not so much for food as for drink. Gulls in particular were supposed to supply a certain amount of thirst-quenching blood and he seemed to
remember an old sailors’ story that some types of fish contained bladders full of fresh water even though the creatures spent their entire existence in the salty element. With a bit of energetic improvisation, shelter should not prove too much of a problem. There was rope of all sorts and thickness all around, most of it floating. Only the lines that had become tangled round weighty things like corpses in armour had plunged downwards – as had the length that had saved his life. But the dead weights pulling most of them down – the Egyptian marine, for instance – had mostly been disposed of by the sharks during the night, so the ropes were lying coiled across the surface once again.

  Artemidorus approached the edge of his raft carefully, spread-eagled to distribute his weight as widely as possible. Then, checking for anything unexpected – from lurking sharks to sea-snakes disguised as cordage - he pulled length after length of rope aboard, cutting it free with that providential dagger when he could not untangle it and mentally promising untold rewards to both Achilleus his demigod protector and Hecate his slave-woman saviour as he did so. Next came sections of spar and lengths of shattered wood from the ruined battle towers and deck furniture. He selected these by eye, for he had no intention of trying to cut them to length.