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

by Peter Tonkin

  iii

  But no sooner had Artemidorus uttered the words than his chance to interrogate the prisoner further came to an abrupt halt. The Praetorian Tribune Licinius arrived with a dozen burly soldiers. And orders from Antony to expedite the execution. The arrival of the officious tribune and his men somehow changed the dynamic of the situation. As they took great delight in hurting and humiliating their helpless victim, Artemidorus discovered with some surprise that he was beginning to feel some sympathy for the would-be murderer. A glimmer of respect, born during the time Myrtillus had held out against the enraged Antony and the cestus he wore on each fist. He might be an enemy, thought the grim centurion. But he was an enemy worthy of respect.

  Which Licinius and his men did not accord him. Instead, they dragged his naked body out of the villa and into the street. Artemidorus followed, shocked to discover that it was mid morning already. Any passer-by who glanced in their direction might have been surprised to see a squad of soldiers carrying a side of beef fresh from the macellarius butcher’s. For that’s what the condemned man most resembled. Artemidorus walked beside him through the streets and across the Forum – right to the bottom of the steps up to the crest of the Capitoline. His mind was racing, conceiving and discarding questions whose answer might reveal the secrets the dying man was still keeping so close. But in the end, nothing came. And all he said, as Myrtillus was hauled upward was, ‘Dive headfirst. Don’t jump, whatever you do.’ It was good advice. And well meant. From one professional to another.

  Then Tribune Licinius and his death squad were gone. Their victim nothing more than a pale glimmer among them as they ran at the double up the steps towards the Temple, the Precinct and the Rock. For reasons he was never able to explain, Artemidorus waited in the road. Licinius had left a secondary squad behind. Six soldiers to clear a space in the thoroughfare immediately beneath the execution place. And two more sent to summon the executioners who would complete the punishment by dragging the corpse on a big bronze hook through the streets to the Tiber. Where it would be thrown like offal into the stream.

  The Vicus Jugularis was busy and the rumour of an impending execution made it more so. Artemidorus soon found himself at the front of a considerable crowd, pressed up against the solid shoulders of Licinius’ men. Then there came a unified gasp that seemed to issue from the crowd all at once. And there, framed against a clear blue sky came Myrtillus. Upright. Legs pumping as though he still had a chance to run away from what was happening. He remained erect and running during the racing heartbeats it took for him to fall. Then he smashed onto the stones of the street, the sound of his body shattering drowned by a great, feral cheer. Artemidorus pushed through the soldiers at once. ‘Keep the crowd back!’ he snarled. Incandescent with frustrated rage, he ran across the open space. His mind was shouting, Why did you not listen to me? Why did you jump? But he said nothing.

  For, shattered though he was, with fragments of bone protruding from what was left of his legs. With his pelvis clearly crushed and his back – to say the least of it – broken, Myrtillus was still alive. His chest heaved in great ragged breaths. The gap-toothed, red-lipped cavern of his mouth gaped. His eyes, wide with shock, rolled in the swollen ruin of his face. His arms made helpless movements as though they still had the power to pull him erect. There seemed to the centurion to be even more blood than there had been when Divus Julius died. He crashed onto his knees beside Myrtillus, pulling out his pugio dagger. Someone shouted. He paid no attention. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he whispered urgently. ‘It’s the only way and I’ll make it painless. You don’t want to be still alive when they hook you and drag you to the river.’

  Their eyes met. Something seemed to pass between them. And Myrtillus began to whisper, rapidly. His voice slurred by the state of his shattered teeth and swollen lips. His breath coming and going in great tearing gasps. ‘Decimus Albinus,’ he said. ‘Gaius Trebonius. Minucius Basilus. And by the voice I’m sure their messenger was a woman. Kill me now.’

  Artemidorus obliged. Though he was only a few heartbeats ahead of Thanatos, the god of death, he thought.

  Hoof beats approached from behind him. A chain rattled. A huge, gold-coloured hook clanged onto the roadway beside him. He pulled himself to his feet, sheathed his pugio and turned away.

  He did not watch the executioners drive the hook up under the ribcage until the point came out under the corpse’s left arm. He did not see them whip the horse and drag the shattered body towards the Forum. With the excited crowd laughing and chattering close behind. But he followed the long smear of blood into the Forum, turning right, as it did, to go past the new half-built basilica. But he turned left and headed for Quintus’ villa where the red smear turned right again into the Vicus Tusculum, heading for the Forum Boarium behind the Circus Maximus and the river docks down there.

  All the way back to the secret villa, he was turning over the assassin’s dying words in his mind. Testing whether he believed them because he so much wanted to or because they were the truth. Decimus Albinus, Gaius Trebonius and Minucius Basilus. And their messenger was a woman.

  X

  i

  ‘What’s all this about Trebonius, Decimus Albinus and Minucius Basilus?’ demanded Antony. Clearly in the worst mood he had been in for some time. And with good reason, thought the Tribune Enobarbus. It had taken some time to catch up with his general right at the far end of the Appian Way. And now he wished he hadn’t done so after all.

  ‘The sicarius told me it was Caesar,’ he snarled. ‘Looked me in the eye and told me to my face. And even though the little ricinus tick has sworn in public – and even on the steps of my villa – that he had nothing to do with it, I for one don’t believe him. Especially as I’m here in Brundisium having to sort out a bloody mess that is entirely of his making!’

  ‘The man Myrtillus changed his story on the point of death, General,’ insisted Enobarbus. ‘He was all but standing on the bank of the Styx staring Charon in the eye. That has to carry some weight.’

  ‘All right. Say I believe this deathbed confession,’ Antony paused, gave a dry, humourless chuckle, ‘though the stones of the Vicus Jugarius aren’t my idea of a bed. Not after you’ve just come off the Tarpean Rock. Black enough for the River of Death, though. Still, say we give this some credit. Even the bit about the mysterious woman. What then?’

  ‘I sent Septem to Pompeii at once with a cohort of your Praetorians to back him. They haven’t been much use for anything else. My idea was at least to detain Basilus and Trebonius until you could talk to them. But the villa was closed. Basilus has disappeared. The slaves Septem talked to say they have no idea where he’s gone. Though they’re all terrified of him and could well just be covering his tracks. But they made no secret of the fact that Trebonius left in a hurry to take up his post as Governor of Asia. And Septem is certain the mysterious woman who gave Myrtillus his instructions is the traitress Cyanea. She went ad orientem eastwards with Trebonius. We think they were all scattering on the assumption that their assassin would be successful and there would be utter turmoil in the wake of your murder. So those involved had either to be invisible or securely in their appointed positions to ride out the storm.’

  ‘Or that if the sicarius failed and was caught then he would hand over all of their names,’ Fulvia said, breaking into the conversation. ‘Which is what actually seems to have happened in the end.’

  ‘Well, the bloody boy Octavius is out of reach at the moment down in Capua, surrounded by the legions he’s managed to buy so far,’ said Antony bitterly. All too well aware that his position with his own legions was weak. He was offering a ruinously expensive bounty of four hundred sestertii a man. Caesar Octavius was now offering an eye-watering two thousand. ‘So I can’t do much about him in any case. But Decimus is ripe for shaking. I’m going to do that myself as soon as I’ve settled things here. Shake him right out of Gaul once and for all. Especially if Septem’s right and he’s been paying sicarii to try and murd
er me. In the meantime, I think you should send my undercover contubernium eastwards too. Before the autumn weather closes in and makes travel really difficult from now ’til next spring. Get them to check up on Trebonius.’ There was a brief silence. The air around the three speakers and the men assembled in front and behind them thrilled with tension. There were four legions awaiting exercise of his judgement against them. Hundreds of men about to die.

  Antony seemed to pay it no attention. Instead, he continued, ‘Meanwhile maybe it’s time for Dolabella to take up his post in Syria. He can move quickly. And pick up the legion that’s still in Dyrrachium into the bargain. Syria’s close to Asia Province and a good place to watch Brutus and Cassius from. But maybe we should do more than just keep an eye on them. This attempt on the lives of me and my family is proof that the so-called Libertores are getting out of control. I’ve been too slow in going after them – though I’ve had good reason to be careful, of course.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time to start emulating the Friendly Ones,’ Antony continued. ‘Putting the fear of Nemesis into the entire murderous crew. I think we ought to start spiking some of their heads in the Forum. And independently of paying to have me slaughtered in my bed if Septem’s right, that nothus Trebonius had already made it personal when he actually took me by the arm like a friend and pulled me aside to make sure I couldn’t help Divus Julius at the vital moment. As I believe I said some time ago. So his head is certainly first on the list. It’s definitely time to go and get it.’

  ‘You are wise to keep a close eye on Cassius and Brutus,’ added Fulvia. ‘They’re not just going to sit still in Athens. Not with Cicero praising them to the skies and calling them the saviours of the Republic. Demanding all right-minded Republicans to do everything they can to help them stand up against my Lord Antony. Begging the Senate to back them, no matter what they do. Just as the senile old asinae fools are supporting Decimus Albinus. And, as we all know, also suggesting that the best way forward to peace is a knife in my husband’s back! And that’s a situation which will only get worse once we start to kick Decimus Albinus out of Gaul!’ She turned to her husband. ‘In fact, my beloved, your speech to the Comitia attacking Brutus, Cassius and their murderous friends has already started to make things worse!’

  Antony grunted. Looked up from the little huddle they had made while having this conversation and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t get much worse than this,’ he growled. ‘Nothing I can think of is worse than a decimation.’

  Enobarbus also looked up. And the scene before him stood somewhere between breathtaking and terrifying. The tension in the air was as taut as in the moments before a storm. Or a battle. And the low, seething clouds of the October sky above them simply added to the disturbing atmosphere. The countryside inland from Brundisium gathered itself into a massive, natural arena. Roofed by the low, grey overcast. A curve of hillside like the tiers of seats in a gigantic Greek theatre. A space almost as massive as the Circus Maximus. Large enough to hold thirty thousand men. Who were all standing there now. In full parade armour. Drawn up in ranks, cohorts and legions. Eagles and banners to the front. Looking down onto the central stage of the natural arena. Where Antony, Fulvia and their immediate staff, headed by Enobarbus himself, were standing on a low podium. And just below them, on a centuria of nearly one hundred acres of grass, between the legions and their general, stood three thousand soldiers – almost all centurions.

  During the time since his arrival here, Antony had ordered the tribunes under his command to compile lists of all the men who had been subverted by Caesar Octavius’ agitators. All those fomenting restlessness within the four Macedonian legions. Men accused of suggesting that now was the time to leave Antony and follow the young Gauis Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Filius instead. The troublemakers had been split into groups of ten and each group had drawn lots composed of nine longs straws and one short one. The three hundred men who drew the short straws were just about to die.

  ii

  Each of the condemned troublemakers was all but naked, wearing only a cinctus loincloth. The nine men gathered round him were in tunics rather than in full armour. They were all armed with clubs. Most of them, as centurions, held the heavy vinestocks that were the badge of their rank. And the moment Antony gave the signal the condemned would be beaten to death. By their companions. In front of the men they had commanded.

  Crassus had famously decimated his legions when they became restive during the war against Spartacus. Divus Julius had threatened to decimate the IXth when they mutinied during the Great Civil War demanding more pay. But Antony had never done anything like this before. And now he was decimating not one legion but four. A clear and pointed lesson about the dangers of listening to the siren voices of Caesar Octavius’ provocateurs and their promises of two thousand sestercii a man.

  Antony looked right and left along the front of the dais, meeting Fulvia’s eyes and then Enobarbus’. Wearily, he raised his hand and the execution began.

  Enobarbus watched, his face rigid. Like almost everyone present, he had heard about the ancient punishment but had never seen it done. Though somewhere at the back of his memory lay the suspicion that Quintus and perhaps Septem had done so. Even in the midst of the sheer brutality, it was possible to see popularity being rewarded and comradeship demonstrated. Well-liked men, surrounded by friends, received the first mighty blow to the side of the head or the back of the neck. Delicate temple-bones shattered. Skulls were smashed off spines. Death was instantaneous. Almost painless. And the subsequent beating, therefore, was never actually suffered by the corpses it was inflicted upon. But friendless and unpopular men endured increasing agonies – depending on the depth of animosity or revenge being taken out on them. Ribs shattered. Arms and legs splintered. Genitals were crushed. But heads remained untouched. Conscious. So that faces, at first dully Stoical soon were gasping, howling, screaming.

  And then the blood came, as battered bodies began to burst. The club men were spattered, then hosed, then drenched with it. And as the ruthless procedure continued seemingly endlessly, so the clubs themselves, coated with the stuff, began to spray droplets far and wide as they rose and fell. The restless air itself seemed to become one red cloud, smelling and tasting of iron. Enobarbus suddenly felt drops of liquid fall across his hand and stepped back.

  His mind withdrew from the immediate horror all around him, effectively shutting his eyes and ears as he worked his way through the implications of Antony’s orders. Trebonius was on the way to Asia Province. Many senior officials were on their way to their posts now. Although they might not actually take up their responsibilities until the government’s new year dawned at the calends of Januarius, there was usually a period of handing over. Furthermore, although the weather in Rome was still warm, the travelling season was rapidly drawing to a close as late-autumn storms threatened the seas all around Italy, with winter approaching fast.

  Trebonius could travel swiftly because all he needed to take with him were his orders, his badges of office and his immediate household. Including Cyanea, apparently. The current governor, Marcus Apuleus, had tax money and soldiers in place. The province was peaceful as were all the cities within it. It would be a simple handover from one governor to another. The problem was that they were both deeply committed to Brutus’ and Cassius’ faction. Which was why Antony was sending his Co-consul Dolabella eastwards as well. He would not be able to travel so swiftly if he was going to pick up an entire legion and take it with him to Syria. He would at least have to plan how to provision several thousand soldiers and several hundred more hangers-on. The route east along the seven hundred and fifty military miles of the Via Egnatia was bleak. Passing through the wilds of Macedonia and the high mountain passes north of Epirus, through Moesia where the Getae threatened to come south of the Fluvius Danubius to Thrace.

  And Dolabella could not by any means be sure of the welcome he would receive when he reached the end of the via and had to cross Asia Province to get himself an
d his men to Syria. Living off the land would be a challenge – especially at this time of year. And foraging slowed the legion’s progress into the bargain. But there was no doubt that, once in place, stationed in Tripolis, it would be easy enough for Dolabella to observe events in both Smyrna and Athens just across the strait beyond it. Watching Brutus and Cassius. And Trebonius – for as long as he kept his head.

  But even though he was Antony’s co-consul, Dolabella was by no means a reliable ally. He was completely self-serving. Always putting his own ambitions first. Was greedy. A terrible disciplinarian, notoriously bad at keeping control of his men. And, of course, he was Cicero’s ex-son-in-law. Widowed husband to the old lawyer’s beloved – dead – daughter Tullia.

  Which brought the tribune back to Septem and Antony’s plans for him. How the secret agent fitted into this rapidly expanding puzzle. Like the coping stone holding a huge arch unshakably in place. But as Enobarbus’ reasoning reached this stage, he was recalled to the present. There was a sharp hissing intake of breath. He looked across to see Fulvia standing there on Antony’s left, wide-eyed, lips parted. Her face liberally sprinkled with bright red dots. Spots that spread like a rash down the front of her formal stola – to decorate her rapidly heaving breast. It was hard to be certain whether the expression on her face was one of revulsion or exhilaration.

  ‘That’s enough!’ bellowed Antony. ‘Stop now. Dismiss. And clear this carrion away!’

  iii

  Venus frowned thoughtfully. Her exquisite countenance seeming even more beautiful as it reflected her ready intelligence. ‘I have seen it happen,’ she said, her voice, as usual, a throaty purr. ‘When someone fears she may become the victim of some brutal diversion for the pleasure of her masters. Instead of lying quiet and hoping for the best, she begins to join the game. Becomes an active participant, little by little. Takes a measure of control. Becomes complicit by finding victims other than herself. And then – rarely but occasionally – she might manage to make herself a vital part of the sport. So that the men cannot play it properly without her. And so she takes control of everything.’ Adonis nodded in ready agreement. But so, to be fair, did most of the others.