Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  Artemidorus helped Voadicia sit up and she drank the physician’s medicine, grimacing as she did so.

  ‘It will taste bitter but it will be worth it I promise,’ he said with a smile, then he turned back to his satchel. ‘And I have here also a salve made from sage and other herbs mixed with honey that must be rubbed gently into the painful areas. And you must not ride again until the redness has eased. But I must just check for further damage in more intimate places…’

  He pulled the hem of Voadicia’s tunic up to her waist. He paused, then looked up, frowning. ‘I had been expecting to treat a young man,’ he said. ‘I have never…’ He looked down once more, then up at Artemidorus, his frown deepening. ‘Perhaps it would be more fitting if you proceeded from here.’ He lowered the hem of the tunic and stepped away from the bed. ‘The ointment must be rubbed gently into the affected sections, front and back.’ He began to bustle about, packing his satchel, ready to depart. ‘I will leave more of the potion, but it will be most effective in conjunction with the ointment.’

  ‘I will apply it,’ promised Artemidorus. ‘Gently, as you suggest. And thank you for your help.’ He pressed several silver coins into the doctor’s hand.

  ‘I can do it myself if it’s such a problem,’ snapped Voadicia as the door closed behind the old man.

  ‘Only in the parts you can reach easily,’ said Artemidorus. ‘It would be better if I helped. Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage.’

  She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. ‘Very well,’ she capitulated. ‘But gently! And, as you say, without taking advantage.’

  In what seemed to Artemidorus like wilful opposition to her words, she pulled the hem of her tunic up as far as her belly-button and spread her legs. He dipped his fingers into the ointment, which smelt of sage and honey. It had the unexpected effect of making his mouth water. The red skin on the inside of her knees was surprisingly hot and in spite of the other elements of the experience, he found as he rubbed the sticky substance gently higher and higher, that he was thinking of cena rather than coitus. Or, it occurred to him a few tense moments later as the side of his index finger brushed soft, damp curls and even more vital heat, he was using thoughts of food to distract him from thoughts of fornication.

  ‘You’ll need to turn over,’ he said after a few moments more.

  But just as she had complied with his request and he had folded the hem of her tunic up into the small of her back, the door opened. ‘You Greeks are indefatigable,’ said Felix, drily. ‘Can’t leave you for a moment! But you have no time for that sort of thing now. Put on your armour, your badges of rank and leave your blushing paramour unsatisfied. There’s something going on at the docks that I think you ought to see. At once!’

  *

  The harbour was as busy as ever but it was the bustle on the dockside that had sent Felix in search of Artemidorus. Two vessels were moored end to end against one of the longest piers, which was lined with legionaries. Whatever was going on was apparently important enough to have called the guards away from the gate to help the soldiers on the pier, so no-one challenged the two centurions as they marched officiously through them. The further of the two vessels was a Liburnian scout ship with two banks of oars and a contingent of blue-tunicked marines as well as sailhandlers, navigators and oarsmen. All streaming wearily ashore. The nearer vessel was smaller, but still substantial enough, by the look of it, to brave Mare Nostrum.

  However, its design was not so standard. The stempost curved back in over the foredeck and ended in the colourful representation of papyrus leaves. The sternpost curved in over the poop deck where the captain and pilot would have stood. It was much more substantial and crowned with a massive carved lotus flower that reminded Artemidorus irresistibly of the towering columns in Queen Cleopatra’s Alexandrian palaces. There was one bank of oars which reached out high on the side through simple holes – no rowing boxes – though they were retracted now that the vessel was moored. Finally, the mast sat further back than in Greek or Roman ships – though the huge linen sail it carried was every bit as large and powerful-looking as anything on a trireme or even a quadrireme.

  There was no doubt in Artemidorus’ mind. ‘She’s Egyptian,’ he said. ‘What in the name of Isis is she doing here?’

  ‘Let’s ask, shall we?’ suggested Felix and he swaggered forward. ‘You there,’ he said to the nearest legionary, his accent, demeanour and assumption of unquestioning obedience marking him as a patrician officer on his way up the Cursus Honorum to senatorial power in the future despite the badges marking him as a centurion rather than a tribune. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘This Egyptian ship’s been captured and brought in sir.’

  ‘It’s not the first time an Egyptian vessel’s been seized I’m sure,’ said Felix. ‘What’s the problem with this one?’

  ‘It’s apparently got Roman soldiers aboard. Legionaries. They’ve taken the Egyptian crew off to the carcer and apparently the Romans are coming any moment.’

  ‘Are they? Do you know what legion they come from?’ asked Felix.

  ‘From all sorts of legions so they say. One from the Seventh, another from the Sixth Ironsides, the Fourth… I don’t know what others do. I don’t think it’s all that important. And, as far as I know, no-one else thinks it’s all that important either. Mare Nostrum is awash with Romans, if you’ll forgive the play on words. A few more are neither here nor there.’

  As the soldier gave his answer, the Romans in question were led under guard across the deck and down the gangplank off the Egyptian vessel and onto the dock. Then, still under guard they were marched forward.

  Artemidorus’ eyes narrowed. His mind raced. He stepped back into a shadow, the better to observe without being seen as he calculated what best to do and began to form a plan of action. The group of prisoners was led by a wiry bantam-cock of a man who oozed confidence and experience. Behind him came a hulking black-haired bear with a patch over one eye and a ruined cheek beneath it. Beside him strode a soldier even bigger in every regard – a veritable Hercules. Behind them, a slighter man whose lively features had a Greek cast and seemed to glow with youthful intelligence. Beside him strode a surprisingly square-bodied, powerful-looking woman whose skin seemed to be almost the colour of ebony but appeared almost dusty in texture and behind her two more soldiers, their faces set and their eyes everywhere. There was something about them. They did not walk like captives. They marched with their heads high and their eyes everywhere. Not so much seeing themselves as helpless prisoners – more like an undercover invasion force seeking the best way to use whatever situation Fate and put them in to cause the most damage possible.

  ‘By all the Gods, they’re all there!’ breathed Felix. ‘Quintus, Ferrata, Hercules, Hecate… Your entire crypteia undercover unit! Looks as though they’re heading straight for the nearest carcer to join the Egyptian crew.’

  ‘Wherever they’re put,’ said Artemidorus, ‘we’ll have to break them out. Tonight!’

  ii

  ‘The jailers don’t know what they’ve got,’ whispered Felix a little later as Artemidorus and he watched the Roman prisoners being locked into the carcer on the docks, joining the Egyptian crew. ‘Who they are or what they’re capable of. Like children playing with a garden snake they don’t realise is really an asp.’

  Artemidorus nodded but he was only half listening. A lingering glance at their vessel suggested to him that there would be twenty oarsmen a side plus extras for emergency. ‘I’d say there’ll be perhaps fifty oarsmen in all. There would be twenty sailhandlers, a captain and first officer, a gubernator pilot steersman and his two assistants, a pausator to beat the rowing rhythm and an oarmaster to lead the rowing song, aided no doubt by a flute player or two.’

  ‘Say eighty in terms of the crew,’ agreed Felix. ‘And the eight men and women who made up the contubernium tent-group or crypteia death-squad that you’ve led since the slaughter of Divus Julius – which you and they were commission
ed to stop.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in,’ said Artemidorus, the phrase making him think of Voadicia’s crimson thighs. ‘You make it sound as though this is all my fault…’

  ‘That’s probably true though it’s too late to worry about it now. So there must be just short of ninety, counting us,’ continued Felix as they watched the Romans being packed into the dockside prison alongside the Egyptian crew. ‘Even if we can get them out, what are you going to do with them?’

  ‘We needed a ship,’ said Artemidorus shortly. ‘Now we have one – and a crew. We get them out, we steal their ship back and we get to Amphipolis as fast as we can.’

  ‘That must be fifty sea miles,’ said Felix.

  ‘Five hours if the oarsmen are strong. Out tonight and there by dawn.’

  ‘If we’re not captured again. And if the pilot knows the coast well enough to guide us in the dark.’

  ‘Captain Ale and his gubernator did. Let’s hope there’s an equivalent Egyptian captain somewhere in there – or at least that they have a good pilot.’ Artemidorus gestured to the dockside jail as he spoke. And Felix, hearing the resolute tone in his friend’s voice, acquiesced.

  Back in the hospitium they discovered that Voadicia had managed to apply the ointment to the backs of her thighs and her buttocks – or so she said as she pulled her tunic down. And her pain was easing, as was the stiffness in her limbs, she explained. Which was fortunate, thought Artemidorus, for there was no chance of restorative slumber tonight – unless all went well and she caught five hours’ sleep aboard the Egyptian ship on the way to Amphipolis. The three of them needed to make some sort of plan immediately. Even moving the saddle bags, the provisions, the passes, letters and weapons was not something that could be undertaken without some forethought. So, in order to kill two birds with one stone, Artemidorus bought them a light dinner, and as they ate so they planned.

  This was Artemidorus’ forte. As they slowly consumed a meal of sausages and chicken with loaves of grainy bread dipped in garam, oil and salt, he began to pull things together. As he spoke, his voice losing its gentle tone, becoming harder and more decisive with every sentence. ‘Voadicia cannot ride. Which won’t surprise anyone after the cavalry doctor’s visit. So we have a good excuse to hire or buy a little cart. That shouldn’t present too much of a problem. Then we load our stuff into it and get the stable slaves to harness Voadicia’s horse between the traces – she was the most biddable of the ones we rode in on. After that we need an excuse to take the laden cart onto the docks.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Artemidorus continued, ‘Or do we? I have the pass Brutus’ gave to Marcus Caldus. That will get us aboard any ship heading west and over as far as Rome. So we can tell anyone we meet that we are looking for a ship to take us to Italy – the sooner the better – and have brought our kit with us in case there’s a chance we can go aboard at once. The guards will probably direct us to the harbourmaster, as he will have the best idea about which ships are sailing and when. And that’s where we want to be because the carcer prison is just beside the harbourmaster’s office. We may have to dispose of a guard or two – but that will be all to the good because we need as many weapons as we can get. You and I have gladii, Felix. But there are more swords amongst our kit as well as everything we took from Brutus’ messenger and the three who attacked us last night. Not to mention daggers, slings, bows and the axe. Get those into the hands of Quintus, Ferrata, Hercules, Hecate and the others and we’ll have a crypteia worthy of the name.’

  ‘Crypteia,’ said Voadicia. ‘What is a crypteia?’

  ‘It’s a Spartan death squad,’ explained Felix. ‘They’ll kill anyone, anyhow, at any time, no trouble.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Voadicia, ‘Oh I want to meet them!’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Now let’s get on with it.’

  *

  Two mounted centurions riding ahead of a small wagon, trotted up to the gate into the docks an hour or so later. Although it was just after sunset, the harbour was still busy; much of the movement dictated by tides and the moon, therefore, rather than the sun. Their passes permitted them unlimited entry, unfettered access and as much help and support as they chose to demand. Neapolis was under the military occupation of Brutus’ and Cassius’ troops and these were the generals’ personal messengers. This time there was an optio at the gate with a guard contingent of half a dozen sleepy-looking legionaries to back him. But one glance at the dead messenger Marcus Caldus’ paperwork was enough for him to wave them through into the port. ‘You’ll want the harbourmaster’s office,’ he said. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘I’ve been here before.’ The wagon followed close behind him and he breathed a sigh of relief that the optio did not bother to examine its contents too closely.

  The harbourmaster’s office was in a complex of buildings that included the sizeable dockside prison. The offices sat higher, overlooking the harbour. They were accessed by a stairway which rose behind a wide arch which also framed the iron bars forming the main door into the prison. The centurions’ slave brought their wagon to a halt outside the entrance to the prison so that they could access the stairs to the offices above.

  Felix climbed these while Voadicia remained sitting on the wagon’s driving seat and Artemidorus dismounted, then wandered over to the prison’s outer door, apparently motivated by nothing more than idle curiosity.

  The secret agent saw at a glance that the barred door was not secured – was not even properly closed. In a stone-walled, flag-floored room behind it, half a dozen guards sat around a table playing at dice, their game illuminated by a large terracotta lamp with four tall flames. Away to one side, their shields stood against a wall below a set of hooks from which hung their helmets, baldrics and swords. They all wore mail shirts with nothing more than daggers at their belts. The reason for their confidence was obvious. Beyond the table they surrounded stood a massive, iron-bound door that looked to be made of solid oak. This was clearly well-secured. A sizeable padlock, that appeared to be of the latest design, hung from a tightly closed iron bolt about the length and breadth of Artemidorus’ forearm. Apparently the guards were only worried about people breaking out rather than breaking in. Which was, after all, quite logical under almost all circumstances, thought the spy. Except for these.

  The obvious temptation was simply to charge in there, douse the light, and use the subsequent confusion to chop the lock off the prison door with the axe that had served him so well so far. This would release nearly eighty men, ten or so of whom were amongst the most dangerous killers he had ever worked with. He had all the weapons his lethal crypteia would need – and they could supplement these with the guards’ shields, gladii and helmets – even their chain mail if there was time. Once armed, the ex-prisoners could probably hold the docks against anything short of a fully-armed legionary century.

  But, he thought, one step at a time. Before he could seriously consider releasing his friends, he needed to be certain of several factors. First, how many armed crew-men and marines were on the ships currently moored against the long, narrow piers that reached out into the harbour. Secondly, whether there was anyone aboard the Liburnian which had brought the Egyptian vessel in. Thirdly, whether there was any kind of guard contingent stationed aboard the Egyptian vessel itself. Fourthly and finally, whether he got the crew and the crypteia back aboard the Egyptian vessel whether the captain, pilot and oarsmen could get them free from the dockside, out of the harbour and away without being chased and recaptured.

  iii

  As the pensive spy strolled over to the pier where the Egyptian vessel and her Liburnian captor were moored, his vision began to subtly alter. He was no longer just looking at a couple of boats on a dock but at a potential battleground which might be attacked by the Casca brothers’ guards and such legionary contingents as might be close enough at hand to back them up. The same battleground that might need to be defended
by ten or so variously armed men and women while seventy or so Egyptian crew prepared their ship to sail.

  He started with the dockside which was made of stone and concrete. He turned his back to the harbourmaster’s office and looked right and left. The solid dock stretched away on either hand, curving round to the harbour mouth which was wide and welcoming, merely guarded by a pair of lighthouses: an opening that was far too wide to blockade without some hours’ preparation. All to the good, he thought. Next, he walked forward and onto the pier itself. Although anchored to the concrete of the dock, the pier was made of wood. Lateral boards that stretched from one side to the other across a frame suspended on vertical piles driven into the harbour floor. The boards were old enough and dry enough to creak beneath his weight as he walked away from the shore. The pier was narrower than the Appian Way - about as wide as the Pons Fabricius in Rome, he calculated. But unlike the Fabrician Bridge it did not have walls running along either side. Instead there were wooden bollards to which the ships could be secured. To which, indeed, the Egyptian ship and the Liburnian had been secured, both facing inwards with their bows towards the land. Deep in thought, he walked first to one and then to the other.

  Both vessels had wide wooden gang-planks leading down from their decks to the pier. The Egyptian ship, innermost of the two, was unguarded and a glance was sufficient to show Artemidorus that she was an unarmed trading vessel, albeit, by the look of things, a fast one. The Liburninan sitting snugly astern of her was also unguarded, but she was by no means as innocently unarmed. On her foredeck stood an onager catapult with a pile of round stones on one side and a pile of what experience – and his nose – told him were containers full of highly flammable pitch on the other. A couple of those flying towards any vessel would have made the swiftest ship capitulate and it looked as though the Egyptian captain had been sensible enough to surrender before the Roman artillery set his command ablaze.