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

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘We are going to him now,’ answered Enobarbus. ‘You may accompany us.’

  The messenger slid to the ground and led his horse alongside him as he marched with stiff legs towards the Senate.

  ‘Good news?’ asked Ferrata, who was walking beside him. ‘The general could do with some…’

  ‘The first of the Macedonian legions, the Martia, has started disembarking in Brundisium,’ gasped the messenger.

  ‘Now that,’ said Artemidorus quietly to Enobarbus, ‘just has to brighten up his day.’

  ‘And, perhaps, his mood.’ Enobarbus added.

  *

  The tribune was right. He called Antony to the door of the Senate so the legionary could deliver his message. No sooner had Antony heard what the young soldier had to say than he peremptorily handed the chairmanship of the meeting over to Dolabella and hurried home. Apparently having forgotten all about Cicero. Paying no heed at all to the mutterings of the senators who felt insulted by his rapid exit.

  In the now-vacant atrium of his villa – and in his changing room, office and bath – he listened to Artemidorus’ report with half an ear as he changed out of his senatorial toga, packed away his badges of office, bathed, was shaved and put his armour on. Fulvia appeared in the midst of this process. And no sooner had she heard the news than she too was off to change.

  The unsuspecting officers and men of the Martia legion were going to get quite a welcome, thought Artemidorus. But his wry amusement was undermined by the strong suspicion that, although his report had been delivered, it had by no means been received or understood.

  ‘If Octavian is in Rome then you stay here too, Septem,’ Antony decided. ‘Keep an eye on the little rat. Stick to him like his shadow but stay unobserved yourself. Tell me where he goes and who he sees. A complete list, mind, when I get back. Tribune, you’re coming to Brundisium with Fulvia and me. We’re going to welcome the boys home. It’ll be the start of a long party.’

  Artemidorus left Antony’s villa wondering how best to go about his assignment. Caesar Octavius knew him by sight. Better, perhaps than anyone except for Enobarbus. Cyanea. And Antony himself. It seemed to him that if he was going to have a realistic chance of fulfilling his orders without alerting the subject of the surveillance that he was being watched, then he had better find someone who could stand in for him. Someone Caesar did not know – who might reasonably be expected to be hanging around the city streets.

  ‘Ah, Septem,’ said a familiar voice, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Is now a good time to show you Quintus’ surprise? It’s an excellent one, I promise…’

  He turned, and there was Ferrata. The answer to his problem. In several ways, as things turned out.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at once. ‘It’s a very good time.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ferrata. ‘Let’s go.’

  Ferrata led Artemidorus across the Forum and into the maze of streets leading past the subura up towards the Esquiline Hill. As they walked, the legionary of the VIth Ironclads talked incessantly, bringing Artemidorus up to date with the changes set off by the dissolution of the VIIth. ‘It went far beyond simply reassigning us soldiers to Antony’s Praetorian Cohorts,’ the old soldier explained. ‘That was only the start of it. Once we were at liberty, so to speak, then a whole raft of other changes seem to have followed on. Quintus, for instance, was too old for the Praetorians. So he was forcibly retired. Which he did not take lying down, I can tell you!

  ‘In the meantime Spurinna ran into a bit of a problem. Not the sort of problem that need trouble men like you and me, Septem, but a problem nevertheless. It appears that augurs and haruspices are a bit like vestals. The gods talk most clearly to those who do not indulge in the delights of the flesh. And there was poor old Spurinna, surrounded by carefully selected slaves – both male and female – who would give the Gorgons a run for their money. Suddenly giving house room to Puella, Venus and Adonis. All of whom are at the far end of the spectrum, so to speak. He went from being Perseus confronted by Medusa to being Paris choosing between the loveliest goddesses. And it seems to have confused the poor old baro guy.’

  ‘I can see that it might,’ said Artemidorus, remembering the warm looks Puella had given him the last time they were together. Rather than the cold, calculating comments of Venus. Though, now that he thought of Venus, there were one or two questions he might well address to her when the time was right. ‘So what was the solution to all of this?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ answered Ferrata. ‘You won’t believe it, I swear…’

  vi

  The pair of them marched past Spurinna’s villa, then Trebonius’. On up the hill into the pine grove where the would-be assassin’s bolts had thumped into solid tree trunks rather than their softer, fleshy targets. Artemidorus remembered the stirring of surprise he had felt that Quintus, leading the retreat, had seemed to know where he was going. As did Ferrata now. He led Artemidorus confidently and unerringly through the pine grove that had saved their lives. Until, completely unexpectedly, the thick coppice of trees stopped. In a clearly cultivated line. That must have been laid down many years since, for all the trees along it were fully grown and tall. With no sign of any having been cut down or chopped back. There, on the far side of a considerable open space, stood a villa. That, for all its ancient design, seemed perfectly well maintained. Surrounded by carefully tended gardens full of fruit and vegetables as well as herbs and flowers. Lemon groves and orange groves. Fig trees and olive bushes. All in full flower or laden with fruit. Concealed behind walls of pine trees that stood guard on every side. Keeping the massive villa secret. Undetected. Unsuspected.

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Artemidorus, simply awestruck.

  ‘This,’ answered Ferrata ebulliently, ‘this is Quintus’ surprise. Though you haven’t seen a tenth of it yet!’

  The legionary led Artemidorus across the cultivated grounds until the pair of them reached the big front door. He hammered on the wood. Three hard knocks. Three softer ones. Two hard ones. Then he stopped and they waited. For a couple of heartbeats. Before a grille at eye level snapped open and closed. The door was opened. By an elderly man whose lean and muscular body seemed to give the lie to his white-haired, deeply lined face. Whose bright blue eyes gleamed with lively intelligence.

  ‘This is Drusus the doorkeeper,’ said Ferrata, leading Artemidorus inwards. ‘Drusus, this is Septem. Second only to the tribune…’

  ‘Welcome Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus,’ said Drusus, bowing.

  Ferrata led the astonished Artemidorus deeper into the house. And into the presence of the doorkeeper’s female double. Whose white hair was longer. Whose body was slightly softer-looking and perhaps less muscular. Whose eyes were every bit as bright. ‘And this is Drusilla, sister to the doorkeeper and focaria housekeeper of the villa.’

  ‘Welcome Centurion,’ she said. Her voice deeper and softer than her brother’s.

  ‘What is this place?’ demanded Artemidorus, thoroughly awestruck.

  ‘This is Colchis, land of wonders,’ explained Ferrata obscurely. ‘This is where the Amazons reside, where Aeetes is king, though there is no Queen Idiya. Where there are wonders belonging to the groves of the war god Ares, Greek brother to our Roman Mars. Wonders that make Jason’s Golden Fleece seem like a breech-clout in comparison!’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Septem,’ said Quintus, striding into the atrium from the tablinum office area deeper in the building. ‘He’s just running off at the mouth.’

  ‘What is this place, Quintus?’

  ‘It’s my home, lad. Haven’t you worked that out yet? And, as the Fates would have it, my home is the very place in which we can keep our contubernium of secret agents housed, supplied, briefed and active.’

  ‘Does the tribune know about this?’

  ‘He knows about it, yes. And approves of the use I propose we make of it. But no – he hasn’t been here or actually seen it.’

  ‘Seen it?’ Artemidorus was still reeling from Ferrata
’s description of the place as Colchis, home of the Amazons and location of the Golden Fleece, reborn. ‘What is there to see?’

  ‘More than you can imagine, Septem,’ chuckled the old triarius. ‘More than you can imagine…’

  *

  ‘For more than two hundred years my family has followed general after general in the legions. From the year 520 since the founding of the city, generation after generation of my ancestors have fought with men like Scipio Africanus; his son Scipio Aemilianus, Aemilianus Macedonicus, Marius, Sulla, Lucullus, Crassus, Pompey and Caesar all across the expanding empire of Rome’s dominions and out to the edges of the world. Where others sought gold and plunder, brought home Punic artefacts from Carthage or Greek statues from Macedonia, we have sought only to make ourselves the best soldiers it was possible to be. We had no need of money…’ Quintus gestured at the distant walls of the triclinium, the sweep of his arm encompassing not only the dining area but the villa beyond, the gardens beyond that and the groves of pine trees that capped the Esquiline Hill. Which, it seemed, he owned.

  ‘What did we bring back from the wars, then? Knowledge and weapons. Books on warfare copied from the Libraries of Alexandria, Athens, Babylon, Carthage, Thebes… collected from repositories everywhere. Works of poetry on relevant subjects, such as The Iliad of Homer. Books drafted by theoreticians like Archimedes, Onasander and Asclepiodotus. By experienced observers such as Polybius; experienced soldiers such as Xenophon and Tacticus. Weapons experts like Balbus. Generals such as Divus Julius. Treatises in Greek, Punic, Egyptian, Latin… They are all in the library, those that need it with translations.

  ‘And weapons. Then as now, every one of my ancestors who came across any novelty or advance in any kind of weaponry – except for siege machines and such – sent examples of it back. From all over the world. Every theatre of war the legions fought in. Year after year. For the last two centuries. Even in the matter of siegecraft we have illustrations. Archimedes’ mirrors that set the ships in Syracuse harbour alight; the great crane he designed to lift entire vessels out of the water. The recipe for Greek Fire. A treatise on mines; how to dig them under city walls – and how to overcome them. Ramps – how to build them and how to destroy them. Cities – how to defend them and how to overcome them. Siege towers. Rams. Onagers. Scorpios. Catapults. Ballistae. All the rest. We even have a detailed diagram of how Hannibal’s elephants were armed. But it is the actual weaponry that I know will interest you most. For anyone interested in clubs, cestae iron fists, knives, swords, axes, war hammers, battle scourges, armour, headgear, slings, bows, arrows, spears. You name it and this place is, as Ferrata said, Colchis. The land of unimaginable treasures.’

  Quintus finished speaking and took a sip of water. His audience, varyingly entranced, consisted of Artemidorus, Hercules, Puella, Venus and Adonis, because a good deal of time had passed since Ferrata led Artemidorus to the villa – and then departed to keep watch over Caesar Octavius. They lay on couches arranged around a table laden with the remains of cena. The floor around them scattered, as propriety demanded, with the detritus of the meal. Olive pits, egg shells, the bones of larks, geese and a swan. Of a lamb’s shoulder and a pig’s trotters. The knotted ends of sausages. The peel of oranges. A slice or two of lemon. Some crumbs of emmer bread. All of which would be whisked away after the meal by the surprising array of servants overseen by Drusus and Drusilla.

  Antistius – who would probably have been less than edified by the list of lethal weaponry – was tending Cicero. Ferrata – who would have been fascinated by the bits he didn’t already know – was keeping an eye on Caesar Octavius. Enobarbus was on his way to Brundisium with Antony and Fulvia. And Spurinna was at home, seeing to his auguries; his chastity, and communication with the Deities, no longer threatened by the beautiful people currently occupying Quintus’ triclinium dining room.

  vii

  Artemidorus spent the rest of the evening after cena following Quintus through the warlike treasure trove of his villa as darkness gathered and lamps were lit by the ever-assiduous servants. ‘Servants,’ emphasised Quintus. ‘Not slaves. Whenever my family has bought another being, manumission is immediate. They continue to serve because they want to – it is another family tradition. Like collecting examples of the art of war rather than the art of conquered nations.’

  The others soon tired of watching him demonstrate one ancient or unusual weapon after another and drifted away. All except Puella. And Artemidorus came to understand several things about her. First that her interest was less on the weapons than upon himself. But secondly, although the weaponry was only her lesser interest, her wide dark eyes seemed to soak up everything Quintus was demonstrating. The neat little ears beneath the serpentine curls of her hair took in every word he spoke. And, somewhere behind that broad, ebony forehead it was all being assimilated. Every now and then, her fine nostrils would flare with excitement and the full lips would part as she asked an insightful question or requested a repetition of some particularly obscure or complicated move. Once in a while she would relieve the proud triarius of the weapon he was demonstrating. Her long, slim fingers would fasten purposefully around it. And her arms, body and legs would become one graceful, almost fluid movement while the dangerous end of the weapon whispered through the silent air. The tendons in her thighs and calves would tense. Her toes would spread for purchase even as her legs parted for balance. The stuff of her sheer tunic moulding itself to every curve. And, most strikingly of all, she seemed equally competent with the weapons regardless of whether she was wielding them with her right hand or her left. Artemidorus had never come across anyone before who was completely ambidextrous. In that regard – as in many others – Puella was a revelation.

  But, as she moved with liquid grace, the spy was forcibly reminded of the night he freed her from Brutus’ house. During the night watches before the fatal Ides of Mars dawned. The storm that they fled through then was so fierce it had burst open the menagerie behind the Circus Maximus. For a time they had been hunted by a black panther. Puella’s elegant movements – especially with the big, two-handed Egyptian swords, put him forcefully in mind of that sleek, beautiful, utterly lethal creature.

  ‘She’s a natural,’ said Quintus proudly, as she whirled an ancient Iberian falcatta round her head, its deadly two-cubit blade coming within a finger’s width of decapitating him. ‘Almost the best I’ve ever seen.’

  Artemidorus didn’t ask the obvious question. But then he didn’t think he needed to.

  ‘With a bit of practice she could be as deadly as Cyanea,’ Quintus elaborated. ‘Perhaps even more so. You will have noticed that she is as deadly with her left hand as she is with her right.’

  As far as the secret agent was concerned, that was that. But Quintus mentally continued, though his mouth remained closed and silent. Though neither of them will ever be quite as lethal as you, my boy. Dexterity, elegance and grace are one aspect. But you have speed, brutality and the best tactical brain – even one-on-one – I have ever encountered.

  After they had exhausted Quintus’ main weapon collection, it was time for bed. Though there were several more rooms of even more arcane hardware to examine. And they hadn’t even got as far as the library. But there was at least one more surprise in store for Artemidorus. The novel experiences of the last few hours had come so thick and fast that he hadn’t really thought beyond them. It came almost as a shock, therefore, to find that he had a suite of rooms already given over not only to his bed but to all the personal clothing, equipment and armour that had been so thoughtlessly left in his tent on Tiber Island. When he went down to Pompeii – before the VIIth was officially disbanded. All of it carefully laid out on chests and stands, recently cleaned and polished, gleaming under the light of tens of lamps.

  Quintus led his protégé to the first of these chambers and, as Artemidorus stood gaping with surprise, he vanished. Silently.

  So that when Artemidorus turned, saying, ‘But this is…’ he found
that only Puella remained with him. She came towards him without hesitation, coiling her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Tongue-tip coyly exploring. Grinding the entire length of herself against him. The contact almost as intimate as if they were already naked. He felt himself responding at once. The scent of her. The power of her. The simple burning heat of her. With the last of his self-control, he placed his hands on the muscular fullness of her hips and gently pushed her away. Her lips reluctantly parted from his and she stepped back. Her eyes, huge in the lamplight, wide and questioning. Her breath, like his, shortened with desire as though they had run a marathon together. ‘There is no need for this,’ he said gently. ‘Like everyone else in this strange household, you are free. You must only do what you want to do.’

  ‘I want you,’ she said simply. ‘I have wanted you since I first saw you in Lord Brutus’ villa disguised as a freedman, wearing that silly hat and that ridiculous red beard.’

  ‘Even then?’ he smiled.

  ‘Even then – and ever since,’ she whispered. ‘And now I have you. All to myself.’

  She came to him once more. And this time he did not push her away.

  Later, as she lay smiling and satisfied, deeply asleep at his side, he looked down at her face gilded by the light of the last lamp. And he thought about the last spy he had taken as a lover.

  And how completely she had betrayed him.

  viii

  Marcus Tullius Cicero rose stiffly and a little unsteadily to his feet. Pulling his recalcitrant body erect, he surveyed the white-robed ranks of the Senate. Took a deep breath and, as he had rehearsed with Tiro almost ceaselessly since the departure of the physician Antistius from his villa – not to mention the departure of Antony himself from Rome – he began. Raising his voice above the raving of a gale outside that threatened to be almost autumnal in its ferocity.