After The Ides (Caesar's Spies Thriller Book 2)

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘So, General,’ concluded Artemidorus, ‘if you could find a way to make use of the threat from the Getae and Octavian’s offer. Keeping each well independent of the other, so only you and your immediate circle could see the whole picture…’

  ‘I could get the Comitia to give me Cisalpine Gaul and the Senate to give me the Macedonian legions while bribing Dolabella into agreeing – which I have time to do because he has not yet left to take up the governorship. Legions which I would instantly bring home and march north. Six against Albinus’ three. A brilliant stratagem, Septem. Tribune. I really like the sound of it.’ He rubbed his hands together jubilantly. ‘As we used to say in Egypt: “So let it be written. So let it be done…”’

  v

  The chariots came charging round the northern turn in the Circus Maximus, Green in the lead. Four black stallions ran shoulder to shoulder, kicking up clumps of wet sand as they hurled the light wicker-sided chariot round the end of the spina. The Circus Maximus was a cauldron of midsummer heat. The bludgeoning sun’s rays augmented by the body heat of a capacity crowd and the absence of even a zephyr of wind. The closing curriculum race of the concluding day of Ludi Victoriae Caesarius Caesar’s Games entered its seventh and final lap. The other colours’ quadrigiae four-horse chariots crowded behind, dangerously close together, a wall of thundering flesh a dozen stallions wide. Crowding the inner currus against the barrier of the central divide round which they had raced six times so far.

  Two hundred thousand throats bellowed as one. Two hundred thousand men and women, citizens and slaves, rose to their feet. Arms raised, feet stamping. The noise was overwhelming. Deafening in the Forum Boarium immediately outside the Circus. Loud in Caesar’s villa at the top of the Janiculum Hill on the far side of the Tiber. Audible in the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus on top of the Capitoline. Forceful enough to stop conversations in the Forum and interrupt announcements from the Comitium. Echoing amongst the pine groves on top of the Quirinial, most distant of the Seven Hills.

  The wooden scaffolding surrounding the racetrack creaked and reverberated dangerously. Artemidorus glanced up at it, momentarily distracted by concern that it might all come down. Though Divus Julius’ new sections looked pretty stable. Even so, he was very glad to be standing with Enobarbus and Caesar Octavius behind Senator Gaius Matius, who was nominally in charge of the entire games – though the money to stage them had all come from Caesar Octavius himself. While Caesar, Agrippa and Rufus had done much of the planning for them.

  They were all gathered now in the dictator’s seating area. At the heart of the original marble sections that would withstand an earthquake – let alone a victory for the Greens. The six of them were up on their feet, like the rest of the crowd, caught up in the drama of the moment. Standing behind Divus Julius’ ivory and gold curule chair. Which had been placed in the position of honour, as though he might be here in spirit, directing the games being run in memory and honour of his victories. In honour of Venus Genetrix, the founder of his family and the patron goddess of his gens family. And, on this occasion, in honour of his life and death.

  But, as everyone now knew, Divus Julius could not actually be here in spirit. Because his spirit had been blazing across the sky, light and dark, since the Ludi Victoriae Caesaris began five days ago. Easily visible against the unbroken blue of the sky during the day. Seemingly even brighter than the moon during the long, breathless nights. Astrologers – mostly Egyptian and Greek – called the phenomenon a comet. But the entire Roman world knew that it was really the spirit of Divus Julius being welcomed to Olympus by Jupiter himself.

  The summer’s evening was closing in. The traditional four-horse chariot race was the last to be run. The last of fifty that day alone. And those amongst the crowd not rejoicing at the dominance of the Greens were hoping to see the spectacle topped off with a naufragia shipwreck, which might include all of the chariots. Leading to the death and destruction of the wicker-sided vehicles, their drivers and their horses. A slaughter fit to match those of countless gladiators, criminals, prisoners and wild beasts which had filled the celebrations so far.

  But Artemidorus, who had been a go-between linking Antony and Octavius for the last few weeks, knew that the young man wanted a clean end to the games. So he could make his planned announcements in the certain knowledge that they would be listened to. Here and now. Before they were repeated by the praeco town criers in the city. And posted as news-sheets in the Forum outside the Senate.

  Greens won. Again. There was no shipwreck and all the chariots came in safely. To the gratification of some and the disgust of others. Which was, thought Artemidorus in philosophical mood, all part of the human condition. No matter who you pleased, someone else was displeased. For instance, it seemed on the face of it, that Caesar Octavius’ pronouncements would go a long way towards pleasing everybody who heard them. But, even as they were promulgated, the spy could begin a mental list of men who would be less than happy with what was being said.

  Starting, in many respects, with Mark Antony.

  It was Gaius Matius, as Magister Ludi Master of the Games, who made the pronouncements as dictated by the young man himself. Fortunately so. For Caesar Octavius’ voice was by no means loud, unlike Agrippa’s. And he had a narrow, sickly chest. Which did not support speeches delivered with a Stentorian bellow. Or even those offered with an actor’s carrying projection. Gaius Matius, however, was a man used to addressing the better part of eight hundred senators. And, although the Circus Maximus was not designed like a Greek Theatre – to carry a whispered word to the farthest extremities – nevertheless his words reached everyone they needed to. Those who were also seated on the marble seats reserved for the rich and powerful.

  The plebs could catch up later.

  As the winning chariot was led away and the others followed. As the hubbub died into anticipation of the award of the final prize. As the massive audience sat down and Gaius Matius, the last man standing, strode forward, a tense hush fell on the whole of the Circus.

  ‘My friends,’ he declaimed, his voice carrying like that of a praeco town crier. ‘Let it be known…’

  He paused, hands raised. It seemed that every eye was on him, though Artemidorus doubted he was visible to a good number of the crowd. ‘Let the following things be known! Primitus that the Senate and People of Rome will be asked officially to recognise the deity of Gaius Julius Caesar. That he be titled in future Divus Julius in all official records and documents. As he has often been called by many of us since his murder. That he be worshipped as a deity – part of the state’s religion, his cult being led by Augur, Consul and General Mark Antony himself. Secundus, that, upon official recognition of the deity of Divus Julius, his son and heir will assume the name and title, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filius. And will be known by these names and titles from this time forward. And tertio, that this month, the month of Divus Julius’ birth and of the celebration of the games that honour him, this month should no longer be known as Quintilis, but from this time forward as Julius. July.’

  VIII

  i

  The sicarius knifeman employed to kill Artemidorus was known as Myrtillus, though this was not his real name. That was something which sounded almost Hebrew, but he did not look particularly Jewish. In fact he was tall, saturnine, dark-skinned – though tanned by desert suns rather than African ones. He had a lean, rangy body usually concealed by a padded tunic and a long, hooded cloak. When not about his murderous business, he walked with a military swagger though he disdained to wear soldiers’ braccae trousers or caligae boots. His face was framed by a thin, black beard that followed the lean lines of his jaw down from his neat ears, past the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the resolute square of his chin. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and at the moment, burning with frustrated anger. His hands were huge and powerful; callused and bony. Held together by whip-strong tendons that stretched the skin like restless wires.

  The name of his call
ing came from the sicarius’ knife he wore concealed beneath his cloak. Which he often used. It had a curved blade with one fearsomely sharp edge. The inner side of the hook. In consequence it was lethally effective, especially in close work. Slicing open throats, necks, arms, wrists. Occasionally thighs or genitals. Opening blood vessels that bled out in mere moments. Unstoppably. The sica was looked down upon by his fastidious Roman employers as an ignoble instrument – especially compared with their straight-bladed, two-edged weapons the noble gladius and the upright pugio. They preferred to go armed for battle rather than street fights. Though they indulged in both.

  The sicarius Myrtillus was more enraged than he could ever remember having been. Some of his anger was directed at himself. He had never missed with his lethal sôlênarion bow before. Now he had missed twice. It was the damage to his reputation that was the root of his rage. Not the fact that he had killed two innocent bystanders – and without being paid for the deaths. A slave doorkeeper hardly mattered. But he had killed a patrician in Capua and executions of that sort usually came with a premium charge. All this and the fact that he had been pulled from one target to another with the first matter still unresolved. Which made him seem to be hesitant. Indecisive. Inefficient.

  Apparently oblivious to the murderer’s ill-concealed annoyance, his employer’s representative leaned closer across the table that separated them. ‘Forget the centurion for the moment. Keep the original down payment and accept this additional sum…’ A leather bag slid weightily across the tabletop. ‘Priorities have changed. The young Caesar has risen to prominence and the promise of power with a rapidity and in a manner that could never have been foreseen. This alters everything as far as my employer is concerned. Alters your target especially, as we have discussed. Furthermore, your original scopum target, too, has been moved. Reassigned. He is no longer with the Seventh, which is being disbanded and settled. He is now with Antony’s personal guard of Praetorians and we want to wait and see what effect this has, if any. For although he is with a new cohort, his responsibilities seem much the same.

  ‘My employer suggests that your new objective will require you to consider employing new methods. The sôlênarion may be your preferred approach…’ The voice drifted into silence for a heartbeat and the professional killer detected a moment of disappointment. Perhaps disapproval. He closed his fist over the leather bag. The mass of what it contained began to soothe his wounded pride. The gentle voice continued. ‘But it has not been effective so far. And it is unlikely to be a successful approach with your new execution. Also, you may consider that employing an associate – at least one associate – might also help. There is plenty in that bag to allow freedom in this area should you choose to follow it. The entire security system you are faced with employs so many men that my employer is certain you will be able to bribe or blackmail at least one crucial member.’

  ‘Are you telling me how to do my job?’ snarled the frustrated assassin.

  ‘Of course I am. So far in our association you have failed to live up to the reputation that first attracted my employer to you. But, consider this. If you use your own methods and continue to fail then the fault is clearly your own. The damage to your reputation irreparable. If you accede to my employer’s suggestions and things still do not go well, then the blame is at least shared. Your standing tarnished, but redeemable. Besides, if Fortuna smiles on you, then you might yet earn everything we have paid so far all at once. For the centurion is often so close to your new quarry that you could conceivably kill them both at once. If, as I say, things go well for you.’

  ‘Things will go well,’ snarled Myrtillus. ‘No matter how I approach the problem. No matter who is there. Tell…’

  ‘No names!’ The representative glanced uneasily around the popina tavern as best as was possible given the depth of the hood keeping the face in anonymous shadow. ‘One slip along those lines and you either have to kill everyone nearby. Or I will have to kill you myself.’

  ‘If you are so accomplished in these matters, then why do you not undertake the mission yourself?’ sneered Myrtillus.

  ‘Because I have other duties,’ came the icy answer. ‘But, if you doubt my ability to do so…’ The quiet voice drifted into silence. And the sicarius felt the icy point of a blade slide up his inner thigh. A line of chill that seemed to strike to the depth of the femoral artery that pulsed there as powerfully as the carotid in his neck.

  Myrtillus leaned forward suddenly, careful to move only his upper body. ‘You rely on the fact that you are a boy – or little more than a boy to judge by your voice – to make opponents underestimate you,’ he breathed. ‘What would I not give to tear back that hood and see your face without the mask of shadow.’

  ‘You might do so,’ answered his opponent. ‘But my face would be the last thing in this life you would see.’ The point of the dagger stirred, as dangerous as a sleepy serpent.

  Myrtillus sat back, with a soft, unsteady laugh. ‘Very well,’ he capitulated. ‘You remain anonymous. Your newly assigned Praetorian centurion remains alive unless, as you say, he is close to my new objective when I strike. And the new target dies, in company or alone. As agreed. For the moment.’ He leaned forward once again, suddenly, threateningly, recklessly. ‘But take good care, whoever you are, that I do not add your name to the list of those I will assist in their passage to the underworld. For should that happen, I would come after you more relentlessly even than the Friendly Ones.’ He glanced around as he used the euphemism, as though fearing that the Furies might come in any case, alerted by what he threatened rather than what he chose to say.

  The hooded stranger gave a quiet chuckle. The blade left the sensitive skin of Myrtillus’ inner thigh. But the cold kiss of the icy steel lingered. ‘And you, Myrtillus of Lycian Olympos, had better pray to whatever gods you worship that I do not come after you. For I too am as relentless as the Friendly Ones. And I have at least two advantages over you. I know who you are. And I know where to find you.’

  ii

  ‘It’s strange,’ said Caesar Octavius, ‘how you always know where to find me, Septem.’

  ‘It’s my job, Caesar. I may be assigned to the Praetorian Cohorts for the moment as the Seventh is disbanded and settled but the only things that have changed are the badges on my uniform. If I am to carry messages between you and Lord Antony, I need to know where you both are.’

  ‘Well, you have found me.’ Caesar’s tone made the observation light, almost joking. But his cool grey eyes matched Artemidorus’ in that they shifted from smoke to steel. The pair of them were seated on horseback, side by side, looking down through unseasonably sheeting rain to the half-built settlement of Casilium, whose pomerium, city limit, Antony had ploughed some time ago.

  It was all very well, thought Artemidorus, for himself, Caesar, Agrippa, Rufus and their men to be sitting here wrapped in thick, waterproof cloaks. But the men and their families down in the mud of Casilium, were likely to be less than happy with the progress of their promised city and adjacent farmland. Those of them who understood agriculture would have wished to see their smallholdings and gardens well sewn by now – with hope of some sort of harvest in the fast-approaching autumn and then in spring. But it was getting far too late in the year for that. Therefore, suspected Antony’s envoy insightfully, the young man’s icy demeanour had more to do with what he was looking at and with Antony, who should be taking better care of his ex-legionaries, than with the general’s emissary. ‘What does Antony wish to say to me?’ asked Caesar Octavius at last.

  ‘That the law passed under his brother Lucius, the Lex Antonia Agrarian is designed to settle the ex-legionaries in Italy once and for all. Including even the Seventh.’ Artemidorus gestured down at the mud-pit of the half-built city. All too well aware of the inappropriateness of his message. ‘Lepidus has relinquished control of them and is travelling north beyond the Alps to take up his new post as Governor of Gallia Narbonensis. With five new legions under his imperium. Settli
ng the last of the ex-legionaries should remove the threat of restless soldiers upsetting the peace of the countryside and the city alike…’ he paused again, poignantly aware of the irony of his words. Antony, in distant Rome, assumed that the ex-legionaries were established happily and his problems with them were over. Caesar Octavius – and Artemidorus now – knew different.

  ‘And Antony asks that I should do nothing to undermine this peace. By offering them bounty to leave their idyllic newly settled towns and fertile farms and follow me instead.’ Caesar picked up the message, his tone as ironic as the situation. ‘Also, I have no doubt, he would be happier if I stopped my own representatives from sounding out some of the serving soldiers as to how much their allegiance might be worth. We have discussed this already, Septem, and I have told you what I intend. All the more so now that Antony has sent orders recalling the Macedonian legions. In case the Getae go to war. An interesting battle plan. Worthy, perhaps, of Marcus Licinius Crassus himself. To fear a confrontation in the east of Macedonia and answer it by bringing the army that was stationed there home!’ He did not bother mentioning the useless but rapacious governor-to-be Publius Dolabella, who had not yet dragged himself out of the fleshpots of Rome to begin his march eastwards towards his new, if depleted, command.