by Peter Tonkin
But then his speculation was simply overcome by more immediate concerns. He was a tall man but the reeds were taller still and their stems were so tightly packed that they cut his field of vision to less than an arm’s length. He paused, fighting to orientate himself in this new environment, surprised – almost shocked – that he had failed to understand what he would be getting into. His plan to ease through into a hiding place leaving no trail behind him abruptly seemed naive and anything but simple. All he had to guide him were the sounds of horses behind him and that providential west wind which moved the reeds, as that warm southerly had moved the sea, in great consistent waves. If he pushed against the pressure of the wind-driven reeds, he would be moving away from the Via, he thought, and his confidence began to grow. Only to be dashed again the moment he tried to move on.
He had been concentrating on what he could hear and see so hard he had not registered what he could feel. It came as a complete revelation to him therefore when he found his feet had sunk to the ankle in the swamp. It took all his strength to pull his caligae out of the clinging mud, releasing a poisonous miasma that smelt of rotten eggs. No sooner had he freed his feet than he turned, planning to retrace his steps, but as he did, the wind died and his disorientation intensified. But he had to move or the swampy ground would begin to suck him under once again. He pushed forward, hoping that he was heading towards the road rather than deeper into the swamp. And indeed it seemed that he must be – for he found to his relief that the ground became firmer with each step he took.
The reeds seemed to push him forward, leaning against his shoulders as he moved. But he resisted their pressure and stopped when the solid curtain of stems in front of him began to offer shadowy glimpses of what lay beyond. His heart sank once again. He was not looking at the road after all but at a track through the reeds that had obviously been made by some animal or other following a ridge of firmer ground. It was a well-trodden pathway leading from his left hand to his right. From the roadway, he prayed, into the swamp. He stepped up onto the ridge, turning to his left, trying to re-orientate himself. The track, such as it was, did not lead to the road but to another wall of reeds. He sighed with frustration but immediately caught his breath. The reeds there were moving. Someone, seemingly just beyond them, called out in heavily accented Latin, ‘Here! Here I’m sure…’
Artemidorus stepped back, happy to hide in the disorientating reed-bed once more now that he knew which direction the road was in. But curiosity got the better of him. He needed to know what sort of pursuers were searching for him. That knowledge at least would allow him to make some kind of a plan – the other element being how many pursuers were actually on his track. It never occurred to him that these might be random passers-by. He knew he would be hunted, if not immediately then soon – and these must be the first of the pursuers on his track. As he waited, he slid the axe out of his belt. No matter how many trackers there were, there would be one less of them in a moment.
*
A tall soldier pushed through the reeds and came towards Artemidorus, calling, ‘Here! I'm certain!’
Artemidorus studied him closely, looking for the best point at which to aim the axe. The death had to be swift and silent if he was to stand any chance of escape. The soldier was clearly part of an auxiliary cavalry unit and wore uniform familiar to the widely-experienced centurion from his association with cavalry This soldier wore a legionary helmet, cheek-flaps tied tight beneath his chin; scale armour cinched at the waist with dagger and gladius short sword on either hip and the studded apron at the front to protect his genitals. He also wore a baldric from which hung a long spatha cavalry sword. Over it all he wore a warm-looking military-issue cloak that came down to the backs of his knees. Beneath the armour he wore a thick-looking plaid tunic whose sleeves reached down to his wrists. He dressed like a man raised in cold climates, near the western ocean, on that low, marshy land opposite the south-eastern coast of Britannia: Batavia.
He wore bracae leather leggings which ended mid-calf to reveal warmer woollen trousers beneath and these reached down to a pair of boots, laced ankle-high, that unlike Artemidorus’ mud-sodden caligae, were fully enclosed and looked to be made of warm wolfskin. He was carrying a spear and an oval shield, which was blue and had a metal rim and a bronze boss at the centre of four lightning bolts. All in all he would make a formidable opponent and Artemidorus’ chances of killing him swiftly and silently seemed remote, especially as the man seemed to be, if anything, slightly larger than he was himself.
‘Here!’ the stranger called again. ‘I think I see…’
But he wasn’t looking at Artemidorus – or even in the centurion’s direction.
Puzzled, Artemidorus took a step back but his confusion did not last long. With a guttural sound somewhere between a grunt and a roar, the creature that had made the track along the dry ridge appeared. Artemidorus only got partial view of it as it took one look at the cavalryman and charged, but it was without doubt the largest black boar the centurion had ever seen. The cavalryman gave a yell and took to his heels. As the boar chased him out of the reeds, Artemidorus stepped onto the clear path behind them. Up on the road stood four horses, three of them bearing the cavalryman’s companions two of whom were hooting and shouting as the boar chased their friend up towards the Via, completely oblivious to the figure watching from the reed bed, while a third, dressed in a red legionary tunic and clearly some kind of officer, sat aloof. The boar hesitated at the sight of the horses, lowered its snout so its tusks caught the light, snorted and pawed the ground while its quarry scurried clear. But the matter did not end there.
‘Please, Praefectus,’ called one of the men. ‘Think of what a carcase that size will be worth in the market!’
The third figure nodded. ’Very well,’ he said in clipped, patrician Latin. With military precision, the three mounted men wheeled their horses, lowered their spears and charged. The boar understood the danger well enough but that seemed to be the limit of the animal’s intelligence. Instead of charging, it swung round and started to flee from its erstwhile victim’s companions – over the ridge of the road and down into the vast acreage of grassland beyond. With yet more whoops and howls, the three riders took off in pursuit. One moment they were there and the next they were gone, the thunder of their hoofbeats fading into the distance.
The one remaining auxiliary gentled his horse which had been spooked by the unexpected sound and activity not to mention the wild boar itself, hung his shield on his saddle and stepped his spear in a clip designed to hold it then he sprang easily astride in a way that reminded Artemidorus poignantly of Caesar himself. While the cavalryman was soothing his horse, Artemidorus had been pulling out the sling and sling-stone from the faceless soldier’s belt. Standing at the centre of the boar’s track, he began to swing the sling increasingly powerfully.
‘Hey,’ he called.
The cavalryman turned towards him, looking down. One expression after another flashed across his face: surprise bordering on shock; recognitions and revelation. The recognition was chilling – it meant that this little ala unit had indeed been hunting him. The cavalryman’s mouth opened to call to his companions but he was far too late. Artemidorus’ sling-stone took him in one of the few places not protected by his armour, smashing his nose back into his skull. His head jerked back as though Petipor had punched him full-force in the face. The rest of his body followed. He tumbled backwards off his horse and crashed to the ground with a crunch! which told the experienced centurion that his neck was broken – meaning he was dead now, even if the sling-shot hadn’t finished matters. The animal danced away, shocked once more.
Artemidorus ran up the bank but approached the mount slowly and calmly, like Alexander soothing Bucephalus, catching the reins before he looked away eastward. The dead man’s three companions were the better part of a military mile distant, still hunting the fleeing boar. Their whoops and its squeals echoed distantly. Artemidorus turned to the corpse and quickly s
et about stripping it. The saddle was of the standard four-prong design. One prong took the helmet, another the baldric and cavalry sword. He laid the scale mail gently over the horse’s withers and piled the rest of the clothing item by item on top of it.
After another glance westward at the distant soldiers and the doomed boar, Artemidorus invested a couple of moments in arranging the corpse with some respect. He was torn between desire to cover the face with the heavy cloak – as Caesar had covered his with his toga at the end. But he finally decided he would need it more than the corpse would, so he put it on top of all the rest. He pressed the soldier’s ankles against each-other, crossed his hands over his loincloth and closed the wide eyes. He pulled the mouth open, reached into the purse and put a silver sestertius on the dead tongue. ‘That’s worth a great deal more than an obol,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to ask Charon the ferryman for change.’
Then he tied the boot laces together, slung the boots round his neck, leaped onto the patient horse and cantered away to the north as the full day finally dawned, leaving a corpse stripped of his arms as well as his clothes, but not of his dignity, lying face-up for his companions to find when they returned with the slaughtered boar.
V - West of Philippi
i
The north-running Via Egnatia turned west at the foot of the hill upon which Alexander’s father, Philip II of Macedon, had fortified the walled city that bore his name. A lesser, local road led up to from the bend in the Via and Artemidorus guided the horse up this but he did not enter Philippi at once, because, quite apart from anything else, it looked quite busy up there. Instead he turned aside and trotted into the woodland that clothed the western elevation of the slope. Here he dismounted and tethered the horse loosely so that it could crop the sparse grass beneath the fragrant pines. His intention was to sort through the dead man’s possessions but before he did so he thought he’d better check in case the three hunters had returned to find their friend and he was being closely pursued.
He walked through the forest until he reached the treeline, then he paused and looked back along the roadway he had just followed. The position gave him an excellent view southward and westward in particular. The local road ran down to the broad army road of the Via which stretched away southwards until it vanished into the hills between here and the coast. The road and the Via were beginning to fill with carts and horses laden with baskets and panniers – he couldn’t see the corpse he had left so carefully arranged, let alone the boar-hunters who would so soon become ruthless man-hunters. Certainly there were no soldiers thrusting their way urgently through the gathering throng.
To the west of the south-running Via, on his right as he looked, the huge area of marsh stretched away in a broad depression with two lakes at its centre – both in plain view now where he had only glimpsed one of them before. Each one circled by areas of mud that spoke of less water than usual – both in the lakes, he supposed, and in the rivers supplying them. The whole place was alive with birds now that the sun was up. The rivers that the Via crossed between here and Neapolis as well as those it crossed on its way to Amphipolis all seemed to drain through the marshland and into those central lakes, though from this distance it was hard to tell how much water there actually was in the valleys that meandered through the reeds. This late in the year, the reeds and rushes lining the rivers and surrounding the lakes were as golden as wheat, the nodding heads heavy with seeds.
The marsh-land filled much of what he could see, reaching closer on his right towards the much steeper-sided valley that separated this hill from the next, on the top of which stood the ruin of a temple. He racked his brains. He had been here before and knew which god the temple was dedicated to. Was it Zeus? Aphrodite? No – Dionysus; that was it. Dionysus. On the far side of that hill, in the further distance, beyond what logic suggested must be a ridge that contained the edge of the marsh, there was another vast area of grassland which sloped away down towards Amphipolis a twelve hour march away, bisected by the westward-reaching arm of the Via, though to be fair the great road tended a little southward as well towards the port-city where Saxa and Norbanus were waiting behind their defensive works, if Tribune Antisitius Labeo could be believed. In spite of the persistent wetness of the marsh, it had clearly been a dry summer – the grass on that massive plain was burned brown and the westerly wind picked up little dust devils as it blew in across it.
With a sigh and a shake of his head Artemidorus returned to the laden horse and began to sort through the cavalryman’s possessions. The centurion already knew about his clothing, armour and weapons. The saddlebags secured behind the four-pronged saddle contained a range of dried foods suitable to take on the trail together with some fruit and olives, clearly purchased in Neapolis earlier that day, and a small amphora of wine. Chewing on a handful of bitter olives, he checked further. As well as the supplies, there were also some official-looking documents written on small scrolls of papyrus, a fact which in itself showed how important the unit’s mission was thought to be. The scrolls identified the bearer as a member of an ala cavalry unit attached to the XXVIIth legion commanded by Publius Casca, Legate under General Marcus Junius Brutus, seconded to the temporary command of Prefectus Alae prefect of cavalry Vedius Pollio, an officer of equestrian rank by the look of things. In pursuit of known spy and enemy Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus, he added mentally, wondering whether this documentation would do as cover if he was challenged – or whether he would be better off with praefectus Vedius Pollio’s no-doubt more detailed but wide-ranging commission.
*
In the mean-time he spat out the olive pits, stripped, did his best to clean his muddy feet and put on the dead cavalryman’s clothing, armour and helmet, relieved to feel everything hanging loosely but comfortably. He replaced the saddle bags, folded his own clothing round his mud-caked caligae and pushed it into the saddlebag with the documents. Finally, he untied the horse, vaulted onto its back and walked the animal back onto the road joining the slow-moving crowd as he trotted up into Philippi.
The documentation was tested at once by the optio custodiarum in charge of the gate. ‘Where’s the rest of your unit?’ he asked suspiciously, glancing up from the papyrus scroll.
‘Chasing a boar. A big one. They sent me on ahead to see if there’s anyone willing to buy the carcase.’
‘A boar eh? Well there’ll be a butcher in the market. In you go.’
‘Just before I do,’ said Artemidorus, playing his part with care. ‘Has anyone come in through this gate today so far?’
‘Well, I know it’s early,’ said the optio, ‘but it’s market day, so…’ he gestured at the carts, wagons, baskets and panniers.
‘I don’t mean farmers or merchants. I mean strangers. Walking or riding alone. Like the man we’re hunting.’
‘No.’ The optio shook his head. ‘You’re the first as it happens.’
‘Well, keep an eye out if you would. And look out for my Praefectus and the others. Praefectus Vedius Pollio.’
‘Will do.’
The spy nodded and passed in through the gate, content that he would have established in Pollio’s mind that he was certainly in the city – where the praefactus and his men would no doubt concentrate their search long after he he had found a way to sneak back out again and head west, leaving them far behind.
The centre of Pompeii, as of any Greek city, was the agora. In Pompeii it doubled as the marketplace, though, as in Neapolis, and indeed, in Alexandria, it was surrounded by temples and public buildings like the Forum in Rome. As the optio on the gate said, it was market day. The square was bursting with stalls, shoppers and soldiers. Artemidorus reined his horse to a stop at the outer edge of the noisy bustle and dismounted. What he needed was a tavern and a bath house to clean his feet at least. But he was acutely aware that his current disguise might well require him to bunk down in some local barracks so that attempting to rent a room would only arouse suspicion. But then, he was supposed to be a stranger here �
� or so he assumed – having been stationed back in Neapolis with the rest of Publius Casca’s troops.
Inevitably, given that it was market day in a city at the edge of a war-zone, an off-duty soldier came by within a few moments. ‘Soldier,’ said Artemidorus in heavily accented Latin. ‘I’m, a stranger here, seconded up from Neapolis. Is there a cavalry barracks where I can leave my horse and report?’
‘Not here. There’s a legionary barracks but nothing for cavalry. If I were you, I’d go to the nearest taberna. Isn’t there an officer with you?’
‘My praefectus…’ and Artemidorus briefly repeated the story about the boar.
The legionary shrugged. ‘I’d wait at a tavern. There’s one over there that looks out onto the market. If he’s bringing a boar to sell, you should see him easily enough. That’s the best butcher in town; that’s where he’ll bring the carcass if he’s got any sense.’
‘And the barracks?
‘Up that side-street behind the butcher’s stall. Most of the official buildings are up there too. Although the temples, the baths and the law courts are all here round the agora, the local magistrate’s office is up there along with the prison and what-not.’
Artemidorus went to the tavern the soldier recommended, left his horse in the inn stables with orders that it be fed and watered. He invested some of his hoard of silver sestertii in taking a room on the upper level at the front, whose window gave him a clear view of the butcher’s stall and the street that led to the barracks and the magistrate’s office behind it, on the assumption that Vedius Pollio and his men would be taking their dead boar to one location and their dead colleague to one of the others before they began to search for him.
ii
Artemidorus didn’t have to wait as long as he expected, but he had ample time to change back into his legionary tunic and pack away the cavalryman’s clothes and spatha together with the axe before he put the scale armour back on with his belt, dagger and gladius, making himself more or less indistinguishable from the legionary soldier who had recommended the tavern. His feet and caligae even looked fairly clean after some careful work.