Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Based on the fact that they’re riding behind our enemy’s lines – a risky undertaking if they were on our side. Too risky even for the General, I’d say.’

  ‘Maybe,’ allowed Quintus. ‘So?’

  ‘So I think maybe we should step out of sight and listen to what they have to say. If they’re on our side we want to know what makes them confident enough to take that route. If they’re Libertores we’ll eavesdrop. We are spies, after all and they could give us some intelligence worth taking back to Antony.’

  The two spies stepped back into the sanctuary. The contrast between the brightness of early evening and the darkness in the marble building was almost blinding. The shadows at once limiting vision but offering concealment. As the thudding of hoofbeats drew nearer, Artemidorus slid his gladius out of his sheath. A stirring at his side told him Quintus had done the same.

  The horses were reined to a standstill and the riders slid off their backs, hob-nailed caligae thudding onto grass, then grating and squealing over marble as the riders walked forward. Three of them, all equally lame with exhaustion.

  ‘Titinius,’ said a voice, dulled with fatigue. ‘You know how bad my vision is. My eyes have been getting worse ever since they were struck by hail in the storm on the night before we killed Caesar. Is that my camp on fire there?’

  ‘It is,’ Titinius answered, his voice almost as dead as the first speaker’s.

  ‘Total defeat. All our hopes destroyed. My legions would not rally even when I took the standard myself and called them to stand with me…’

  Artemidorus leaned over to Quintus. ‘That’s Cassius,’ he breathed.

  ‘And look down there,’ continued Cassius. ‘I cannot see it clearly, but I can make out enough of what is going on in Brutus’ camp. They’re sacking it. Listen to the shouting and screaming. It’s a wonder they haven’t set fire to it too.’

  A third voice called, ‘Master. I see riders coming up from Brutus’ camp.’

  ‘If that camp still belongs to Brutus any more than mine belongs to me,’ said Cassius. ‘I am certain that Brutus would never allow such an undisciplined riot in his castrum were he still in charge. Were he still alive…’

  *

  ‘Let me go down and talk to the horsemen, General,’ suggested Titinius. ‘The soldiers in his camp could be Brutus’ men celebrating victory as easily as Caesar’s men looting the place. The riders will tell us, either way.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cassius, ‘but I fear the worst.’

  One set of hooves pounded away.

  ‘Pindarus,’ said Cassius, ‘tell me what’s happening. If my eyes weren’t bad enough to begin with, they have filled with this cursed dust during today. I have never known a day like it. Were I a Stoic like Brutus, I might be content to bear such reverses as he bore the death of poor Porcia. But, Pindarus, as you know I have chosen to follow Epicurus rather than Zeno. It is my duty to myself as an Epicurian therefore to limit both aponia pain and ataraxia fear as best I can. And if I cannot control or limit them, to end them altogether. What do you see?’

  ‘Titinius has reached the horsemen. He has dismounted. So have they. They have gathered around him. I can’t see whether they are greeting him or…’

  ‘…or capturing him. I am certain that’s what’s happening! I have lived to see my army defeated, my brother overwhelmed, my hopes dashed, and my dear friend taken by my most bitter enemies. There is nothing for it but to make a good death. Pindarus, you have followed me since Carrhae and promised that I would never face a dishonourable death like Crassus did at the hands of the Parthians. I beg you to help me now…’

  Able to hear but not to see, Artemidorus stepped out into the ruined temple with Quintus at his shoulder.

  Cassius had his back to them. His general’s cloak was piled on his shoulders, one wing thrown back to free his right arm. He held his gladius in his right hand, its point reversed, angled towards his side, where his breastplate and backplate were separated over his ribs. Pindarus was facing him, so he saw the two spies as they suddenly appeared from the sanctuary, stepping out into the evening light, the only brightness about them the gleaming points and edges of their gladii.

  Cassius’ servant looked at them for a heartbeat, his face frozen in utter horror. Then he turned and ran, vanishing over the ridge and plunging into the forested western slopes below.

  As his companion went crashing away down the hill, Cassius slowly turned. Artemidorus sheathed his sword and stepped forward.

  ‘I know you,’ said Cassius, his face folding into a frown as he tried to awaken his memory. A difficult task given the circumstances, thought Artemidorus.

  ‘I was Caesar’s man until you struck him down,’ he said gently. ‘Now I am Antony’s man and Caesar Octavian’s. It has been my mission to avenge Caesar and I have been at the deaths of Trebonius, Albinus, Basilus, Aquila and Cicero.’

  ‘And now, mine,’ said Cassius, simply.

  ‘And now yours,’ agreed Artemidorus, stepping forward once more.

  He closed his left fist around Cassius’ right fist, steadying the sword-point as it rested against the general’s side, just below the ribs. He put his right hand on the other man’s shoulder, his thumb reaching up Cassius’ neck, almost to the lobe of his ear. The defeated Libertore gave the slightest of nods and Artemidorus drove the long blade home through viscera, lungs and heart. He lowered the body gently to the ground as the general’s knees gave way, lifeblood pumped out of the wound and the light drained out of Cassius’ eyes.

  He shook his head sadly. Looked up. Met Quintus’ gaze as the triarius also sheathed his sword. ‘But we’d better get out of here before the others get back with the news that Brutus actually won,’ he said. He paused for a heartbeat then bent once more to pull Cassius’ dagger out of its sheath. It was the twin of Brutus’ dagger which he wore at his own belt. The two most important blades in the history of the Republic. He slid Cassius’ into his belt and straightened. ‘Who’d have thought it would be that simple in the end,’ he whispered.

  Quintus gave a nod of agreement. He looked down at the dead man lying cooling on the flags of the temple precinct. Gave a grim laugh. ‘Happy birthday, Gaius Cassius,’ he said.

  XV - The Achaean Mission

  i

  ‘Where is the little shit?’ bellowed Antony. ‘Get him here. I want to wring his fornicating neck!’

  ‘He’s in the marshes, General,’ answered Agrippa wearily. ‘It’s the only place he can breathe properly.’

  ‘Breathe!’ snarled the enraged commander. ‘He won’t need to worry about breathing when I’ve finished with him!’

  There was a brief silence as he looked around the senior officers standing beside him in the charred ruin of his command tent while his camp staff and engineers did their best to replace his accommodation with a smaller tent near the ruin of this one. ‘All he had to do,’ continued Antony, his voice quieter but his rage by no means abated, ‘was sit still. That’s all - sit still and hold the legions steady against that poor sod Brutus who couldn’t organise an orgy with a hundred gladiators and the Vestal Virgins, let alone a proper battle! Just sit still and hold things together while I wiped the floor with that evil bastard Cassius. And what does he do instead? He sods off into the marshes whining that he can’t breathe and leaves my entire left wing to get overwhelmed and slaughtered!’

  ‘Brutus’ legions went out of control,’ said Rufus. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. They just charged down on us. No orders, precious few officers as far as I could make out! Even Brutus only appeared later when it was mostly over. Once the Spartans gave way not even the Fourth could stop them, though the gods know they tried. To the last man they tried! Nobody could have done anything…’ he did not say even you but the words hung in the air.

  As Rufus was speaking, the sound of hoofbeats neared and slowed. Simply by looking up, Antony and his audience could see Artemidorus and Quintus approaching with the little unit of the Tenth Equestris legi
on who had accompanied them all afternoon.

  ‘I hope this is good news, you two,’ called Antony. ‘It had better be because I didn’t notice you obeying many of my orders, Septem.’

  Artemidorus entered the blackened ring and came to attention. ‘I’m here to report, General, that Gaius Cassius is dead.’

  There was absolute silence for several heartbeats. ‘And the proof?’ demanded Antony. ‘His head? His hands?’

  ‘This was Cassius not Cicero. I saw him die. My word should be enough.’

  ‘It’s been a funny sort of a day, Septem. Apparently there are legionaries running around saying Caesar is dead because of the state of his litter. A rumour that is sadly untrue. Some solid proof would have put my mind at rest.’

  ‘I have his dagger…’ Artemidorus’ words were overwhelmed almost immediately as another horse came galloping into the camp and pulled to a halt. A soldier ran into the ruin of the tent, with a quartet of gate guards immediately behind him. He had taken no more than two steps past the doorway when Artemidorus’ and Quintus’ blades were at his throat. ‘And you are?...’ growled the triarius.

  ‘My name is Demetrius. I have news for General Antony.’

  ‘If you have news for me, tell it to me,’ Antony invited him. He gestured. The two soldiers sheathed their daggers. The guards stepped back.

  ‘I am Demetrius, one of Gaius Cassius’ bodyguards.’ The stranger threw down a bloodstained cloak and a red-smeared sword. ‘These belonged to Cassius. He is dead. His corpse is lying up in the Temple of Dionysus, unless General Brutus has already reclaimed it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Antony, his gaze resting gently on Septem, ‘good news at last.’

  *

  Perhaps as a kind of atonement for having doubted them in the first place, Antony allowed Artemidorus and Quintus to remain at his briefing after he dismissed Demetrius to find food and shelter with the promise of reward in due course. And to be fair, thought the exhausted secret agent, the General immediately reclaimed his reputation as a clear-sighted, decisive war-leader more firmly with every passing moment. The first thing he did was to lead them through into his new – if diminished – accommodation. There was a rickety table and several chairs – enough for them all to be seated.

  ‘Let’s sum up,’ he said, as the surviving camp slaves brought in a meal consisting mostly of cattle, sheep, sacrificial pigs and prophetic chickens taken from Cassius’ camp. ‘The honours are more or less even. We destroyed Cassius and sacked his camp,’ he gestured at their dinner, ‘and Brutus overwhelmed the boy. But Cassius is dead while young Caesar is still breathing – if not very effectively. Score one for our side.’ He took a mouthful of mutton and continued, not very distinctly. ‘What arises most urgently from this situation? We need our camp back in order and our defences rebuilt. The men are exhausted but it still needs to be done. Agrippa, Rufus, that will be your task. Use the bodies of the Fourth and the Spartans as a temporary defensive wall if you have to, but I don’t want any more nasty surprises tonight. And that reminds me – it’s a grim task but we can’t risk anything else: Bassus, organise an execution squad and kill the prisoners.’

  He took a deep breath, then set his face into its most unyielding expression as a ripple of unease ran around the table. ‘Meanwhile, Saxa and Norbanus, I want you to see what’s left of the legions. Re-form them if need-be. Don’t let them rest until they’re organised. Tell me when they’re ready and I’ll come and talk to them one at a time. First thing tomorrow I want the battlefield scavenged. Brutus’ men took a lot of our most vital possessions, including eagles and standards – and, most importantly, our war-chest. They must have looked like porters on their way to market rather than soldiers returning to camp!’ He took another bite and chewed reflectively. ‘Fair enough, I have Cassius’ war chest in exchange, but they aren’t comparable. Ours was sufficient to finance our army here at the end of a lengthy supply-route, on the assumption I would need to buy supplies locally. However, Cassius’ war chest has already mostly been invested in Neapolis and Thasos, where his provisions are sitting waiting to be transported up the Via. But on the other hand, our men have been wearing workaday armour and carrying lean purses – Cassius’ were wearing silvered and gilded cuirasses and carrying fat wallets. I want those corpses stripped by noon tomorrow and everything worth anything brought back here. And, talking of provisions, Asinius, I want you to send a unit to Pinarius in Amphipolis. Bring back any supplies and money he can spare. If Fortuna is still smiling on us, they’ll meet Domitius Calvinus on his way in from Dyrrachium with the extra supplies and the Martia, who are the one legion in the whole army I’d trust to replace the Fourth out there on my left flank.’

  ‘And then, General?’ asked Saxa.

  ‘And then, Saxa, I want the dead piled up and burned. Whether they’re ours or Brutus’ and Cassius’, they’re still Romans or friends and allies of Rome. I’ll have them treated with respect. If you come across anyone of name, family or rank, tell me and we’ll make arrangements to send their ashes home if we can. Right. That’s it. Let’s finish our dinner and then get on with the immediate necessities. We have a busy time ahead of us. I want to be ready to destroy that bastard Brutus at the earliest possible moment.’

  He had hardly finished speaking when the guards showed two more soldiers into the tent. Artemidorus recognised Legate Domitius Calvinus and Tribune Enobarbus, his friend and immediate superior.

  ‘Ah, Calvinus,’ said Antony, his voice ringing with relief and excitement. ‘We were just talking about you! Have you brought the supplies and the Legio Martia? We can certainly make good use of both, as you can probably see…’

  ‘General,’ said Calvinus quietly, his shoulders slumped and his face ashen, ‘I’m afraid I have bad news…’

  ii

  ‘Drowned, burned, or fallen on their swords,’ said Enobarbus, his voice as dead as the men he was talking about. ‘And the Martia weren’t the only total loss. At least one other legion, horses, supplies, everything went down – or went up in flames first.’

  It was an apt conversation to be having, thought Artemidorus as the little unit paused on their way to the swamp while they watched a pile of corpses as high as two tall men also going up in flames. The bodies were layered with oil-soaked wood, but were still reluctant to catch fire. The column of thick black smoke they sent into the restless air was merely one among many stretching along the five miles of the battle zone from the great marsh to the hill of Philippi. Artemidorus had a disturbing feeling that the gods must have lowered the sky so that the smoke and the clouds could join together, like thick black tree trunks reaching up into a low, grey forest canopy. There was something unsettling in the wind – more than the sickening sweetness of roasting manflesh.

  Confronted by disaster on every side, Antony had sent new legionaries out to man the causeway, then presented his other re-formed legions in full battle order the morning after the battle, explaining to them that everything they had lost, from their personal possessions and their legionary eagles to the army’s war-chest, was in Brutus’ camp and they would get it all back when they defeated him and sacked it. But Brutus steadfastly refused to answer the challenge. It had been Cassius who was the keener of the two to come to battle after all; it had been a faint hope that they would tempt Brutus into the field and Antony in his heart of hearts must have known it. So there was nothing for it but to retire to his refurbished camp, take stock and try to clear the field for whenever Brutus – or his impatient legions – could be tempted down from their superior position once more. The bellowed insults continued. The predilections of Brutus’ mother and Octavian’s adoptive father became ever more scurrilous in the face of the young man’s continued absence.

  Enobarbus, Artemidorus, Quintus, Ferrata Hercules and Furius were acting on Antony’s orders a couple of days later still. They were on their way to his causeway – which was now manned by his third strongest legion, Legio V Alaudae the Larks - in search of Octavian Caesar
and his guardians. An apt commission as two of young Caesar’s current attendants – Voadicia and Hecate – were members of the crypteia. And the third – Felix – was not only associated with them but was the last surviving member of the Martia. Which was information Antony thought Enobarbus was in a perfect position to break to him, as he had witnessed the deaths of all the rest.

  Antony’s rage at the sickly young man was cooling in the face of Calvinus’ calamitous news and the passage of time. The remaining legions were still being re-built and survivors of decimated ones reassigned as they continued to re-appear from their various hiding places. The camp was almost completely rebuilt and refortified – no longer walled with corpses. The dust had settled in more ways than one. Agrippa, Rufus and Maecenas convinced Antony that three days in the swamp was enough - it was time for Caesar to return.

  And, thought Artemidorus, glancing up at the low sky once more, not a moment too soon. He turned his horse’s head and cantered after the rest of the little unit. Quintus, Ferrata, Hercules and Furius were each leading a second mount – Quintus leading a magnificent black stallion which symbolised Antony’s pardoning of Caesar’s weakness, if not yet of its disastrous results. Artemidorus caught up with the others then moved into the lead, guiding the increasingly impressed Enobarbus past the wall of reeds and leading him onto the ridge that it concealed. The little group trotted down the ridge and onto the causeway. To begin with, Artemidorus was in two minds whether they ought to take so many horses onto the wooden boards, but Antony’s engineers had done an excellent job. The causeway could easily bear the weight of the horses and their riders; it was in almost every regard the equal of the Appian Way. It could probably take nearly anything Antony or Jupiter chose to throw at it.

  They found Caesar in the first redoubt. It was the largest of all, effectively a fully-walled, part-roofed fort which offered shelter from the elements as much as from the enemy. As with most of the legions he dealt with, Caesar had won the respect, admiration and affection of the tiny garrison of Alaudae Larks here. These welcome emotions extended to his nurses and protector as well as to the man himself. They had built them their own quarters in the driest part of the redoubt, floored and roofed it with reeds and rushes, with a fire – offshoot of the larger blaze that kept the soldiers warm. They shared their food and drink with their honoured guests, and did everything they could to make them comfortable. The only negativity came when Artemidorus, Enobarbus and their men tried to take Caesar away with them.