Caesar's Spies Omnibus

by Peter Tonkin

  He ran at the shaggy giant full tilt. He was wearing full Samnite armour. Augmented by the breastplate. Priscus, in his guise as a dimachaerus, wore a helmet, arm protectors, solid belt and metal greaves on his legs. But nothing on his chest. The helmet that went with his costume, like the Samnite’s costume, had a full face mask. But he had put it up to talk to Artemidorus and the speed at which things were happening took him by surprise. So when Artemidorus hit him full on, it was still raised. The four blades clashed together. Priscus’ massive arms and shoulders held Artemidorus. Slowed him, but did not quite stop him. He drove his helmet full force into Priscus’ face. The metal rim above the closed faceplate smashed into the giant’s nose. The heavy crest pushed the open faceplate up until the hinges snapped then it slammed into Priscus’ forehead with stunning force. He staggered back, dazed and disorientated. Blood pouring over his lips and down his chin.

  Artemidorus glanced sideways. The retiarius was on the ground now, the huge muscle of his right thigh cut free of his knee was bunched in an agonising cramp. Looking like one extra buttock immediately below another. The boy was flopping about helplessly on the grass. Like a dying fish. He had even somehow managed to tangle himself in his own net. No threat there.

  Artemidorus threw himself forward again at the stunned and staggering Priscus. His mind was racing as it always did in battle. Formulating plans. Assessing their effectiveness. The helmeted head was impregnable but the face and neck were bare and vulnerable now. The arms were protected and the swords would protect them further. The belt was thick and armoured, reaching almost up to his ribs. An armoured skirt hung from it protecting his groin. His greaves made his legs impregnable. The targets could only be face, neck and chest. He leaped for those with all his strength and speed.

  And slipped on the slick grass.

  He crashed to the ground with stunning force, winding himself badly. Had he not been wearing the helmet he would have knocked himself out. And died on Priscus’ sword a couple of heartbeats later. As it was, he smashed into Priscus’ legs. The massive gladiator was still staggering, trying to regain his balance. So he crashed onto the ground as well. Both men were too experienced and canny to lose their grip on their weapons. No matter how dazed or winded they were. And so they threshed on the ground, one half on top of the other, like wrestlers. Wrestlers with deadly hands.

  There was no art to it. No spectacle. Priscus had the advantage of being heavier and being on top. Artemidorus had the advantage of being better protected and quicker thinking. Priscus tried to use the Samnite’s technique, driving the crest of his broken helmet down against the metal faceplate below. The second time he tried it, Artemidorus moved his head at the last moment so that Priscus drove his own battered face against the peak of the Samnite helmet instead. Dazed, he allowed himself to be rolled half-over. But he brought his knee up into Artemidorus’ groin. Only the thick crotch of the braccae trousers saved the spy from serious damage. And incapacitating pain.

  The four blades ground together once again as the huge man forced himself back up on top of the spy. It was only because the dagger had that astonishing metal blade that it held the gladius without breaking. But the wrist beneath the fist that gripped it was no match for the bear-like power of the larger man. It began to give way. The dimachaerus pushed himself further on top, beginning to use his weight as well as his strength. Artemidorus sought increasingly desperately for inspiration. For if it came to a simple trial of strength then he stood very little chance.

  But perhaps Achilleus was watching over him. For he reasoned very quickly that if he couldn’t use physical strength then he had to use cunning and speed. Speed that had always been the source of his hero’s power. No sooner had the thought entered his head than he acted on it. His left arm yielded, slamming back against the ground. Believing he had won, Priscus reared his sword arm back, ready to deliver the killing stroke. But in the instant that he did so, Artemidorus, anchoring himself against the big man’s crushing weight, whipped the dagger up, round and into the gladiator’s chest immediately below his armpit. Between ribs spread apart by the movement of the bear-like arm and shoulder.

  The blade that had last tasted Caesar’s blood sank into the huge man as though his flesh was as soft as cheese. By the time he tensed his arm for the down-swing, the dagger’s cross guard was pressed hard against his skin and its point was through his heart. The arm slumped harmlessly into the mud. The battered, brutish face took on a look of mild surprise then the head slammed down. Driving its metal peak into the Samnite faceplate below once more. Bouncing off and sliding sideway like a ball rolling onto the ground.

  Artemidorus lay motionless for a moment. Then he heaved the massive corpse aside and sat up. The retiarius was still flopping helplessly about. Wearily the secret agent stood. Stooped and pulled his dagger free. Went over to the helpless boy and cut his throat. Stepping clear of the spray of blood with practised ease. As he had done more times than he could remember in the arena and on the battlefield.

  Though, he thought, he was so filthy and mud-stained now that a little blood would hardly matter.

  But staying alive – for the time being – was only part of the problem. When these two failed to return, Syrus would send others after them. If they found bodies, Syrus would know what had happened. And the Capitoline would be closed to the Samnite. But if Syrus’ men found nothing, then sufficient doubt might remain to allow another visit or two. After he had delivered Brutus’ letters and got himself cleaned up. He looked around for somewhere he could hide the bodies. His best bet seemed to be the new basilica Caesar had been building over the old Basilica Sempronia. Hardly any distance north of here. On the south side of the Forum. The new building, designed to hold public areas, meeting places, law courts, banks, shops and offices had been under construction for a couple of years. But it was still something of a building site. And this morning it was a deserted building site. As almost everyone in the city was staying barricaded in their homes. Except people scurrying about in the service of either for Cassius or Antony. Or, like him, in the service of both.

  Artemidorus untangled the net from the body of the retiarius and used it to secure the two dead gladiators together. Then, with a massive heave that almost destroyed his shoulder joints, he got the corpses moving over the slippery grass. By the time he got them to their final destination, his flesh at least was cleaner. He had sweated the mud away.

  One section of the new basilica was still at the foundation stage. A deep trench into which the tufa blocks of the walls would be cemented. Eventually. For now, two nights of torrential rain had half filled it with muddy water. The bodies went in together, still bound by the retiarius’ fishing net. They were both wearing armour so they sank out of sight at once. The surface of the water heaved and settled. Then it was as though they had never been. Their killer looked back along the track of crushed grass to the mud pit of the battleground. These things might give the truth away. But only if Syrus sent someone with a brain acute enough to read the signs. And brains seemed to be in short supply. Among the gladiators at least. Besides, there was nothing he could do to change things now.

  Artemidorus went on his way, pulling three miraculously undamaged letters from his belt as he went.

  Cicero’s house was near the corner of the Clivus Victoriae and the Nova Via roads, beside the Porticus Catuli. It was high enough on the north-eastern slopes of the Palatine to afford views of the Forum. Various temples on its south side. The building site where Artemidorus had left the bodies. And the Grove of Vesta. Cicero was not at home, but his ostiarius grudgingly accepted the letter delivered by the filthy individual in mud-smeared Samnite armour. He would make certain his master got it with all due despatch, he promised. Closing the door as though the messenger had been a beggar of the meanest sort.

  From there it was not too far to Brutus’ villa. And the spy was getting his second wind so he took it at a jog. Through empty streets. Between blocked and barricaded doors. Brutus
’ new ostiarius was much more polite, though the dog began to growl thunderously as soon as he smelt the messenger. His nose stripping away any and all disguises the murderer of its original master might wear.

  XIII

  As soon as he arrived back at Antony’s villa, Artemidorus handed over Brutus’ letter. Described the contents of Cicero’s. Passed on Cassius’ message. Related what he had seen, done and learned. This time, instead of reporting only to Antony and Enobarbus, he found that he was also reporting to Lepidus, and others of Caesar’s faithful friends. Aulus Hirtius was there, one of the men who dined with Caesar the night after he crossed the Rubicon. And Gaius Matius was there. Friend to both Caesar and Cicero. An obvious go-between. But also a wise and practical statesman worried about reactions to Caesar’s death in the provinces and amongst the legions. And the Lady Fulvia was there, as much a part of the conference as her husband and his friends. But what made the greatest impression on the soldier was that Antony, Enobarbus, Lepidus and Hirtius were all in full armour. Antony as consul could be fully armed as of right. But the others should only be wearing armour if they were about to bring the VIIth back into the picture.

  After delivering his reports, the message and the letter, Artemidorus took another bath as the Lady Fulvia’s long-suffering wardrobe slaves tried to repair and clean his clothing once again. This time he hardly noticed the aquatic orgy or the fornicating satyrs. He was in too much of a hurry to get washed down, cleaned up, dressed and back to work. For things were speeding up again.

  He had been absent for most of the morning. During this time, Enobarbus had sent a runner to Tiber Island. So, when Artemidorus re-emerged, clad in his refreshed tunic and rescued braccae trousers, he had a choice of armour. Would he be more use to Antony during the next few hours as a centurion or a Samnite? At least the two corpses in the foundation ditch at Caesar’s as yet unnamed basilica kept the door open for more undercover work. Though it would be much more dangerous this time with Syrus doubly on the alert.

  He arrived from the bath in the middle of prandium. The light late-morning meal was not taken in the triclinum dining room but around a table in the tablinum office area as the council of war proceeded and immediate plans agreed for the meeting with Cassius and Brutus in the Forum at noon. The table was piled with cheeses, olives and fruit. Loaves of emmer bread. Puls, porridge flavoured with fish and gram fish sauce by the smell of it. There were plates and bowls as well as cups in front of everyone. Promus and his kitchen staff were waiting to serve. But no one seemed to be eating or drinking much, except for Fulvia, who was nibbling at a fig.

  ‘The final objective is clear,’ Antony was saying. ‘We’re going to kill every man who had a hand in Caesar’s murder. But we can’t just rush at it. Revenge may have to wait a little. Perhaps even a long time. We certainly don’t want the war in the streets that Cassius threatened. We’ve all seen enough of that. So we’ll keep the Seventh in reserve for now.’

  ‘I’ll get them battle-ready on your order,’ said Lepidus. ‘So I can bring them in at a moment’s notice if rioting breaks out.’

  ‘Rioting against us, at least,’ added Antony. ‘I wouldn’t mind a riot aimed at Cassius. Or Brutus. The plebeians, Caesar’s old soldiers and the freedmen can become a powerful weapon. The comitia too. Especially as they all loved Caesar. Even better than a legion in the city streets.’

  ‘Though harder to control,’ observed Matius cautiously. ‘Once they get going. Much harder.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Antony. But he didn’t sound as though he cared much.

  ‘So, what’s our first step?’ Asked Enobarbus.

  It was one of the attributes that made Antony such a popular and successful leader that he did not pull rank or stand on ceremony. If you were at the conference, then you were welcome to have your say. And, as Fulvia’s presence attested, he was not narrow-minded about who could attend. And add their thoughts.

  ‘Brutus is convinced they can control the Senate,’ said Artemidorus. ‘But Cassius isn’t so sure. What is your feeling on that, General?’

  ‘Balanced on a knife-edge,’ said Antony. The others nodded.

  ‘Brutus may be in this for the Republic,’ observed the spy. Who knew the truth of what he was saying better than anyone else there. ‘Most of the rest of them are in it for what they can get. Like Dolabella…’ There was another general nod of agreement round the table.

  ‘Then risk it,’ Artemidorus urged. ‘Call the Senate to meet as soon as you can. While you still have undisputed power as consul. While you can still hand out some of the prestige and power they’re after.’

  Antony nodded. ‘It’s too late to call them to meet today,’ he said. ‘Especially as we have this meeting to attend in the Forum. The soonest would be tomorrow morning.’

  ‘But not in the Pompey’s curia,’ Fulvia advised.

  ‘Not with Caesar’s blood still on the floor,’ said Matius, his voice shaking with horror.

  ‘Then where?’ demanded Antony.

  ‘As near here as possible.’ Suggested Artemidorus. ‘General, were is the nearest place that’s large enough and consecrated?’

  ‘The Temple of Tellus,’ said Fulvia. ‘It’s just up the road.’

  ‘There you are then, General. Agree to whatever they ask. Suggest a Senate meeting to ratify whatever is said. They’ll go back to the Capitoline and the Samnite will go and get some idea of what they’re thinking. Meantime you have Caesar’s papers which give you access to his personal fortune. An outline of his will and the key to the state treasury. If you can’t bribe a couple of hundred greedy senators with all that, then you’re not the man I took you for!’

  There was silence. And Artemidorus for one horrible moment thought he’d gone too far.

  Then Antony burst out laughing. ‘By the gods,’ he said, slapping the table hard enough to make the fruit bowl jump. ‘Septem you’re a wonder. If I had half your devious cunning I’d be twice the general I am!’

  The two groups met in the Forum at noon. The day was clear. The sun high and bright. Once again it was warm for the time of year. A gentle breeze gusted from the south. Had there not been two groups of men approaching each other, armed and ready for battle, everything might have been set for a perfect spring afternoon.

  Cassius and Brutus approached cautiously from the south-west corner. Coming out of the Vicus Jugaris road at the foot of the Capitoline. Along the side of the Temple of Saturn. Surrounded by gladiators, their hands on sword-hilts. Clutching spears. Or tridents. Antony and Lepidus came equally carefully out of the Argiletum roadway opposite. Past the Comitium itself. Surrounded by carefully selected men from the VIIth. Hands also on the hilts of their swords. They waited beside the Rostra as the Libertores and their guards approached.

  Artemidorus watched the process, narrow-eyed. He was in his centurion’s armour and helmet. Fulvia had suggested that, in the face of the gladiators, Antony should be escorted by as many fully armed soldiers as possible. Short of calling in the entire VIIth. That meant getting as many men into military gear as they could. The secret agent’s cheeks were protected by metal flaps. Which he had tied tight beneath his chin. A good deal of his face was therefore concealed. But his eyes, nose and upper lip were still uncovered. If Brutus, Cassius or Syrus saw him clearly then they would recognise him. And he would be useless as a spy. So he stayed well back.

  Enobarbus approached the clear area between the battle lines as Antony’s representative. He was met by Dolabella. The pair of them conferred. Agreed. Signalled. Antony and Lepidus went forward. To be met by Brutus and Cassius.

  Apart from the two armed groups, the Forum was empty. Hardly surprisingly, thought Artemidorus. The atmosphere was threatening. In spite of the clement weather. As though another cataclysmic thunderstorm was just about to break. He had only ever come across tension like this during the opening moments of a battle. He began to go over in his head the battles he had fought in. Land battles and sea battles. Large battles and small on
es. With thousands dead or dying. Or tens. Or, as with this morning, two.

  As the sun moved slowly westwards, the atmosphere grew more tense.

  The conference lasted until the middle of the afternoon. Then Antony and Lepidus returned to their side of the Forum, apparently satisfied. Brutus and Cassius retreated behind their wall of flesh and steel. The two groups left the Forum. Tension should have eased, but Artemidorus still felt that thunderous pressure in the air. At least he hadn’t been recognised, he thought. So all he’d have to worry about when the Samnite went back into the Temple of Jupiter was whether Syrus had managed to work out what had happened to his missing men.

  But before he changed into his disguise, Artemidorus once more became part of the group discussing what had been agreed and what would be done next.

  ‘They were careful not to say anything against Caesar,’ said Antony as they gathered round the table in the tablinum once again. ‘So I said that although we were Caesar’s friends our main aim was to maintain the peace both in the city and in the provinces.’