Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  Her slim muscularity, which Felix’ tunic did little to hide, her wild tangle of raven-dark hair and those startling blue eyes reminded Artemidorus quite forcefully of the enemies he had faced in an old campaign. He started talking, his tone gentle and his language Latin. ‘You remind me of men and women I saw when I was with the VIIth legion fighting alongside Divus Julius Caesar twelve years ago in Gaul, Germania and the island we call Britannia,’ he said. ‘Are you from Germania? Britannia?’

  The woman remained silent, staring fixedly at the two men with that disturbingly intense blue gaze. Artemidorus racked his brain. ‘Albion,’ he said. ‘I heard Britannia also referred to as Albion.’

  v

  ‘I was taken from there,’ said the woman suddenly in heavily accented and very basic street Latin. ‘By the legions of your Julius Caesar who is happily now dead and will remain so even if you call him a god, which he is not. And our druids explained that a spirit such as his will never be reborn.’

  There was a brief silence then Felix said, ‘I suddenly begin to understand why Pollio was going to feed her to his eels.’

  Artemidorus shook his head. ‘Do not listen to my friend, he’s joking. What is your name?’

  ‘My master Pollio called me Barbara Scortillum Barbarian Bitch. This was my slave name.’

  ‘What did your people in Albion call you before Julius Caesar captured you and Pollio named you?’

  ‘Voadicia. My people are the Iceni. We moved over the great river to help our brothers in the south stand against your Julius Caesar who is dead and never coming back and I am glad to know it.’

  ‘This journey becomes more interesting by the moment,’ said Felix. ‘The man who almost saved Divus Julius’ life has managed to rescue a woman who is clearly ecstatic that he failed to do so. And who, I have to observe, is wearing one of the daggers that he was murdered with.’

  ‘Ha!’ sneered Voadicia. ‘How could a venditabant stercore shit-salesman ever get near enough Caesar to almost save his life and come by a dagger that helped to end it? You lie!’

  ‘I think I’ll let you explain that one, Septem,’ said Felix. ‘And for the moment at least, I’ll ride one of the horses. Otherwise there might be murder done.’

  ‘Ha!’ spat Voadicia again. ‘I thought that a Roman could not murder a slave because slaves are things, possessions, not people. You cannot murder a table, shit-salesman; you cannot murder a chair. This is what my master Pollio said.’

  But the last part of this tirade was spoken to Felix’ back as he walked to the rear of the wagon and untethered one of the horses before leaping onto its bare back and kicking it into motion.

  ‘Wait there,’ said Artemidorus. He opened the compartment and rummaged in it until he found some of the Batavian cavalry clothing which was part of their disguise. ‘Put this on. I need you to look as though you belong with us so that legionary tunic has to come off but you may keep the dagger for the time-being if it makes you feel safer.’

  The woman looked at him thoughtfully. ‘With,’ she said. ‘You said “belong with”, not “belong to”…’

  ‘Well, I think you probably stopped being Pollio’s slave when you punched him in the face. And you’re no slave of mine or Felix’. So you’d better disguise yourself as a sister or a wife if you’re coming along. Though I have to warn you that you may have jumped out of the eel-pool into the shark-pond.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She loosened the belt, pulled the tunic over her head and reached for the plaid trousers. ‘I understand eel-pool. But not shark–pond…’ She pulled on the plaid top that matched the trousers and put the belt back on.

  ‘Climb up onto the seat and I’ll explain as we go,’ said Artemidorus.

  *

  Voadicia saw the accuracy of Artemidorus’ analogy the instant she understood what he explained about who he and Felix really were and what they were actually doing. She settled down and it became immediately obvious that she was far happier to have found herself in the company of undercover soldiers rather than actual purveyors of natural fertiliser. She was by no means talkative, but the men soon came to understand that she thought of herself as also being a warrior. If they tried to discuss her past as a youngster in Albion or as a slave in Pollio’s household, she soon fell silent; but if they started talking about their profession and experiences she seemed to light up and became an enthusiastic conversant.

  She interrupted a discussion about Artemidorus’ adventures in Egypt fighting against the war chariots in would-be Queen Arsinoe’s army, demanding a detailed description of the vehicles, and laughing derisively when Artemidorus furnished one. ‘You would never have stood a chance against our covinni. As well as carrying bowmen and spearmen like those you have described, ours carry great scythes on the wheel-axles; blades that cut off the legs of any enemy horses or soldiers who come too close. It is no wonder your mighty Julius Caesar and his pathetic legions ran away when confronted with our woad-covered warriors driving such weapons!’

  ‘Ran away, did you, Septem? You, the VIIth and Caesar himself?’ Felix mocked. The VIIth legion had been there, the Legio Martia had not.

  Artemidorus good-naturedly refrained from describing the battle during which the VIIth famously formed a testudo and broke into a British wooden walled fort, slaughtering the woad-painted occupants and earning high commendations from Caesar – who only pulled back to the south coast because his ships, like Cleopatra’s, had been nearly destroyed by a storm.

  As the two men watched their new companion sleeping beside their roadside fire on the third night after leaving Neapolis, Felix pointed out, speaking quietly, ‘You know she’s only so happy to come along with us because now that she understands our mission, she has worked out that she’s involved in a situation where she is guaranteed to be the winner.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She makes no secret of the fact that she hates Romans, and the Romans’ armies most of all.’

  ‘True. But I think she might be softening towards you…’

  ‘Jove! I hope not! But think about it from her point of view. The Roman army is the greatest in the world and remains a great threat to her people – the Iceni or whoever – away in Britannia or Albion, whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘True enough…’

  ‘And that army consists of, what, forty or so legions. Well Voadicia, by listening to us, must know that there are twenty with Brutus and Cassius and another twenty with Antony and young Caesar. But – and this is what makes her so happy – we are on a mission specifically and absolutely to make sure that twenty of those legions wipe out the other twenty. And, if her strange Druidic gods are kind to her, even the victorious army will lose thousands of its soldiers as they win their victory. So, you see, as far as she’s concerned, whoever wins, she wins.’

  Artemidorus was still pondering Felix’ words when the wagon crested a steep rise in the Via. He reined the cart-horse to a standstill, looking down at the semi-circular valley below. It was just possible to see the sea away to the right and the town of Salé in the distance. But his attention was gripped by the spectacle that lay almost immediately below at the bottom of the slope. In the massive natural amphitheatre below, someone had erected a tower of stepped scaffolding that was indeed like the kind of stage he had envisioned himself performing Oedipus upon. But instead of actors, this stage was filled with tiny but familiar figures: Marcus Junius Brutus, Gaius Cassius Longinus, his brother Lucius, Valerius Messalla Corvinus, Lucius Bibulus and the rest. Instead of an audience, stood what looked like fifteen legions. And even as the three of them watched, thunderstruck, a kind of ceremony got under way. Brutus and Cassius were passing out something to their officers and they were heading, laden, down towards their men.

  ‘What is this?’ whispered Voadicia.

  Even she was awed by the majesty of it, thought Artemidorus; overwhelmed by the simple scale of it. ‘It’s the Donativium,’ he said. ‘One of the great ceremonies. The last thing a general does be
fore leading his legions into battle is to give them their pay and bonuses so they know what they are fighting for – literally.

  ‘And will fight all the harder to stop their enemies taking it from them,’ added Felix.

  ‘So all those thousands of soldiers are getting ready to go to war?’

  ‘They are,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘And,’ added Felix, his words almost lost beneath the massive sound of cheering as the legions expressed their thanks for their generals’ generosity, ‘They’re only three days’ march away from Neapolis, the Casca brothers and their extra legions. Four days away from Amphipolis, Saxa and Norbanus.’

  ‘Antony…’ said Artemidorus. ‘Just where in Hades’ name is Antony?’

  VIII - The Blood Rain

  i

  Tribune Enobarbus, Antony’s chief spymaster and Artemidorus’ immediate superior, stood on top of the tower aboard one of Antony’s fighting barges looking south towards a low sky full of red clouds that seemed to be seething somewhere over faraway Africa Province. The wind blowing in his face was hot, strong and sand-filled. His hand rested on the hot metal of his helmet, angled to protect his eyes as his scarf bound round the cheek-flaps protected the lower part of his face and allowed him to breathe without choking. The scarf hid his Roman nose and the decided cleft in his square chin. But nothing could disguise the bright blue of the eyes shaded by his long golden lashes. The wind battered at his ears, almost deafening him and the sand hissed distractingly over every surface on or near the soldier. It slithered through the hairs on his arms and insinuated itself into his collar with a sense of personal invasion that made him shiver.

  On Enobarbus’ left, reaching eastward from the headland south of the harbour at Brundisium, was a string of barges just like this one. They were all heaving haphazardly as the waves, driven north by that fearsome wind, slammed into their sides. On each of the vessels stood fighting towers alongside ballistas, bolt shooters, catapults and scorpion bolt-throwers, fully manned and made battle-ready by soldiers detailed from the Martia legion – one of the very few known only by name and not by number. The best of the best.

  It was as though Antony was laying siege to the strait between Italy and Macedonia. Not so much to the strait itself as to the enemy fleets of Libertore admirals Murcus and Ahenobarbus which had been sent there to blockade the port and stop Antony moving his legions east. Now that Divus Julius’ murderers seemed to have crossed out of Asia, it looked to the spymaster as though the final battle would take place somewhere in Macedonia, Greece or Thrace. As long as Antony could get across the strait.

  The effectiveness of the blockade and the fierceness of the campaign to break it were evidenced by the fact that all the barges bore the signs of recent fearsome encounters. Though, calculated the tribune grimly, if these waves got any higher, they would start to flood aboard the most dangerously damaged - so that many of Antony’s precious barges would be lost along with the legionaries manning them. And that would become another bone of contention between the rival Triumvirs – for the Legio Martia who manned them had deserted Antony to follow young Caesar who had been extremely unwilling to give his crack troops back. But Caesar was fighting a naval action off Sicily and had no need of foot-soldiers, even ones as outstanding as these.

  The need for the defensive line of war-barges was emphasised by the fact that, between the lowering clouds and the wine-dark sea, a wall of sails was rapidly approaching. No, decided Enobarbus grimly, more than a wall – a rampart. The wind-driven bulwark of flax, linen and leather stretched from one side of the strait to the other. Beneath the sails, the hulls of a powerful navy had just appeared over the horizon. And they were all ploughing relentlessly northward with the wind behind them, kicking up huge bow waves over the tops of the massive bronze rams at their bows.

  *

  The tribune leaned forward, clutching the fighting tower’s top rail with his left hand while his right continued to protect his eyes, looking fixedly at the oncoming navy, his heart pumping wildly and his breath short. Beside him, equally well protected from the blast, stood the officer with the sharpest eyes in the Legio Martia. He was the most junior centurion, newly appointed and hardly old enough to need a daily visit to the tonsor for a shave. The young centurion nodded. ‘I am certain, Tribune. Those are not the vessels I have observed during the last months of the blockade. They are different.’

  ‘Not Murcus’ fleet then?’ asked Enobarbus. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m certain. And they’re not Ahenobarbus’ either. I have been watching those ships for so many weeks now that I know each individual craft. I do not recognise any of these ships.’

  ‘Then, given the reports that Queen Cleopatra’s navy has returned to Alexandria, this must be young Caesar’s fleet coming back from Sicily at last.’

  ‘I would say so, sir. And I should observe that I can only see those ships – there’s not one vessel of the Libertore fleets in sight. That means the blockade is broken.’

  ‘For the time-being at least. Thank you, centurion. What is your name?’ he looked at his companion closely for the first time and was struck how the wide brown eyes above the tightly tied scarf seemed to radiate a kind of youthful delicacy a little out of place in a legionary of the warlike Martia.

  ‘Gaius Memmius, Tribune.’

  ‘An ancient name; I’m sure you will go far. And I will report your observations directly to the General himself.’

  ii

  As Enobarbus ran up the steps into the villa Antony had requisitioned for the duration of his stay here, the weather at last broke. Sheets of rain came pounding down, the deluge spattering back up off the marble house-front and the roadway outside it, filling the gutters with thick crimson liquid as it scoured the red Saharan sand from the furnace-hot air. No wonder the locals called it ‘blood rain’, thought the tribune.

  ‘By the gods, Tribune, you look as though you come fresh from battle!’ bellowed Antony as Enobarbus, still dripping scarlet liquid, pushed past the praetorian guarding the door into the tablinum he was using as an office while the red rain pounded into the impluvium pool of the atrium on one hand and onto the peristyle garden on the other. ‘What’s the news?’

  Just past his forty-first year, Antony was at the peak of his powers. His hair was dark and gleaming with virile curls. His beard was full, in emulation of his ancestor the demigod Hercules, who had protected him from his youth. Close inspection might descry a hint of grey, but the general was vain enough to insist that his tonsor pluck any suspect strands from amongst the curls of hair or beard every morning. His broad-shouldered, muscular frame was still lean from the privations he had faced after the disastrous defeats in the battles of Forum Gallorum and Mutina; something that a return to his sybaritic lifestyle had not yet undermined - though his habit of filling tedious hours with eating, drinking and fornicating to huge excess suggested his leanness was going to be short-lived. Except that Enobarbus’ news was likely to put an end to the tedium. He drew in a breath and prepared to continue his report to the General, his brother Lucius, Legates Domitius Calvinus and Ventidius Bassus and the rest of Antony’s immediate group of lieutenants and advisors.

  ‘Caesar is here with the fleet he took to Sicily, though he is not yet docked or come ashore,’ Enobarbus reported.

  ‘At last!’ Antony’s open hand slammed down on the map-table in front of him. ‘The bloody boy’s taken his time but now that he’s finally arrived, we can get on!’ He looked around his companions, his face aglow with excitement.

  ‘I talked to some of the sailors in the harbour on my way back here, General,’ continued Enobarbus. ‘According to the captains of the onerariae troop transports, this wind is just what they want. Once the transports are loaded, they should be able to get to Dyrrachium in about a day with full sails. It is less than a hundred miles port to port.’

  ‘Seventy-five to Apollonia,’ said Legate Calvinus knowledgably. ‘But the docking facilities there are nowhere near as go
od.’

  ‘And now we have young Caesar’s triremes,’ continued Antony, ‘we can break the blockade entirely; escort the troop ships one way, with full sails as you say, Tribune, and then tug them back the other way against the wind under oar power.’ He nodded, smiling at the thought of action at last. ‘The legions are assembled, ready to go. Together with Caesar’s, Saxa’s and Norbanus’ away in Macedonia already, that will give us twenty in the field. I don’t think even Divus Julius commanded an army that size!

  *

  But Antony’s satisfaction was based on more than outdoing his dead mentor, mused Enobarbus. Crucially, he needed to outdo Brutus and Cassius, whose combined force, intelligence suggested, totalled seventeen legions. This total simply came from counting the number of legions which had been stationed to the east and the south through all the Asian provinces beyond Dyrrachium down to Judaea and Arabia as far as the Egyptian border, then adding in the soldiers – foot soldiers and cavalry – under the command of the client rulers and supporters. Apart from Saxa’s and Norbanus’ eight legions, every armed man beyond Dyrrachium belonged to Brutus and Cassius.

  ‘I see no point in waiting any longer than we have to, especially as we can’t rely on the wind staying favourable,’ Antony continued. ‘We’ll get all the transport captains in here and see about loading my legions aboard first. They’re the strongest and most experienced. If anything goes wrong on the other side, I want to be ready to support Saxa and Norbanus, wherever they are.’ He paused for a moment, thoughtfully tracing the line on the map that showed the Via Egnatia along which he had ordered his two generals to advance.

  Then he looked up and continued, ‘When the bloody boy actually arrives on land, he can organise his legions and transports when my men are safe in Dyrrachium and ready to march east. I’ll just need his triremes to guard us as we sail one way and then to tug the empty transports back – something he should be happy about because he’ll be using them next in any case.’ He looked down at the map on the table-top once more. ‘Then we send the Martia and maybe one of the others over last as the rear guard and we’re done. I’ll leave that up to you Calvinus.’