Caesar's Spies Omnibus

by Peter Tonkin

  Artemidorus threw himself forward. Shield raised a little higher. Its edge crashed into the metal greaves on Syrus’ shins. Doing no damage at all. But the dagger stabbed down unstoppably through the straps of the gladiator’s right sandal. Through the arch of his instep. Through the sole. Deep into the ground. Until its crosspiece hit the flesh of Syrus’ foot. Artemidorus released his grip on it. Reared back, taking firm hold of his shield. Dived forward. Drove the iron rim of its lower edge down with all his might. Across the sandalled toes beneath.

  It was an old soldier’s trick. A ruse of last resort. Syrus would hardly have felt the dagger pin his foot to the ground. So he didn’t yet know he had lost after all. But the shield smashed onto his toes so hard they burst like grapes in a wine press. And he felt that. His scream of agony was the loudest sound the spy had heard today. But the action wasn’t over yet. No sooner had Artemidorus destroyed the club man’s toes than he drove the shield upwards again with all his might. His target was Syrus’ face – even though it was masked with iron. But as fate would have it, the gladiator was still swinging his club down. Caught in the impetus dictated by the heavy weapon. So the sharp upper edge of the shield hit his wrists. There was a snap. The breaking of a dry branch. The sound a slingshot makes when it hits at close quarters. It was Syrus’ right wrist shattering. In three heartbeats, hardly more, the gladiator had gone from confident winner to crippled loser.

  And even though the club smacked into his backplate once again before spinning free, Artemidorus continued to push himself upward. Driving the boss of his shield into his opponent’s belly. Syrus tried to step away. Still howling with agony. But he only managed to fall flat on his back. With his right foot anchored to the ground and his toes hanging half off. Artemidorus came fully upright, until he was towering over his adversary. He looked at the three stunned henchmen. Who stared back. Eyes wide. Almost as shocked as Cyanea at the sudden, total reversal.

  He stooped, pulled the dagger out of the ground. And out of Syrus’ foot. Leaned down. Slit the lace holding the helmet in place. Caught the gryphon crest and pulled it free. Now it was he who was Nemesis. And inescapable. ‘Your choice,’ he said. ‘Gladius. Club. Or one of the daggers that murdered Caesar. How do you want to die?’

  But Syrus’ answer was the last thing the spy expected. ‘Wait,’ said the defeated gladiator. His voice ragged with agony and defeat. ‘There’s something you ought to know.’

  Artemidorus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing you can say will save you,’ he warned.

  ‘I don’t mind dying,’ gasped Syrus. ‘But I don’t want to leave you in ignorance when I do.’

  ‘Very well, then. What is it?’

  ‘Your man Telos. He never said a thing. Cestus beat him to death with those spiked gloves of his. But he never said a word.’

  ‘NO!’ screamed Cyanea. ‘Don’t…’

  ‘He never sang like a lark. In spite of the note we pinned to him. It was her. She was our little alaude. We didn’t even have to touch her and she told us everything. Spurinna’s predictions. Telos’ lists. The tribune’s plans for Caesar and Antony. Everything she knew.’

  ‘No!’ she screamed again. Artemidorus looked up. Saw at a glance the guilt in her lovely eyes.

  ‘The information she gave us made all the difference.’ Syrus persisted brutally. ‘It let Lord Basilus choose the one conspirator you didn’t suspect. Decimus Albinus. Brief him with exactly what to say. Knowing what you would have already said. Knowing how to make the difference. When it all turned on a word or two.’

  Artemidorus straightened. Understanding all too well how Cyanea had managed to hide her guilt. Even in his bed. In his arms. Until she and Puella started washing Caesar’s corpse. Then every wound must have been like a little red-lipped mouth accusing her. And the wax effigy. Running with blood. No wonder she had fled from that. Overcome with guilt and horror.

  ‘Thank you for giving me that information,’ said Artemidorus. As he leaned down. And cut Syrus’ throat with Brutus’ dagger.

  Even as the last of Syrus’ blood was spraying out of his neck. And the last of the light was draining out of his eyes. The sound of footsteps running through the house behind him made Artemidorus turn. He expected to see Enobarbus, Quintus and men from the VIIth. But no. It was Ferrata, still holding a blazing piece of wood. And men from the VIth. Still on the hunt.

  ‘Roasted any senators yet?’ asked Artemidorus.

  Ferrata didn’t seem to hear him. He was transfixed by the sight of Cyanea.

  Artemidorus repeated the question.

  ‘No,’ said Ferrata, his eyes still fixed on the naked woman. ‘They’d barricaded themselves in. We couldn’t get to them.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got in here. This villa belongs to one of the ringleaders. If you want to set a fire that will burn out the Libertores, you couldn’t choose a better place to start.’

  ‘We might just do that,’ said Ferrata. ‘Who are these? Who’s the corpse?’

  ‘Right-hand man to the most dangerous of the murderers. I’ve just settled accounts with him.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘You can have her if you want her,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Have all of them. The gladiators and the woman were all working for Brutus, Cassius, Albinus and Basilus. The woman especially. If anyone’s to blame for Caesar’s death, then she is.’

  Wearily, he turned and began to walk back out of the villa.

  She called his name. Her voice full of sorrow, longing and terror.

  He did not look back.

  A little way down the hill. Just before he reached Spurinna’s barricaded door. He met Enobarbus, Quintus and the squad they were bringing to rescue him.

  ‘Alone?’ demanded Enobarbus. ‘Where’s Cyanea?’

  Artemidorus looked back up the hill. To where Basilus’ villa was already ablaze. Ferrata and his men already running on up the Esquiline, searching for more Libertores and their helpers to slaughter. More senators to roast.

  ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘Canicula mortuus est. The bitch is dead.’

  Epilogue

  What was left of the contubernium met in Antony’s tablinum as the sun began to set on the day of Caesar’s funeral. Enobarbus was unusually quiet. Weighed down by the knowledge of what Artemidorus had told him about Syrus’ information and Cyanea’s guilt. Information they agreed should be kept to themselves. For now at least. As it could change nothing.

  Spurinna on the other hand was elated. Ebullient. He had brought Puella with him and could hardly keep his eyes off her. Antistius looked exhausted after everything he had done within the last few days. Almost as exhausted as Antony their general. Who was – just – too proud to sag against Fulvia’s shoulder. A shoulder not quite as square as the old Legionary Quintus’. Though given the thickness of his armour – the best that money could buy – his was a great deal less inviting than hers.

  ‘Lepidus is still out there with the Seventh trying to restore order,’ said Antony.

  ‘The fact that he’s taking so long to do it proves just how well your plan worked,’ observed Artemidorus.

  ‘In the end,’ said Fulvia.

  ‘In the end,’ agreed the spy.

  ‘But now we have to plan for the future,’ said Antony. ‘For tomorrow, next week, next month and next year.’

  ‘You and Lepidus can hold Rome for now,’ said Enobarbus.

  ‘While you wait to see what Caesar’s adopted heir Octavian will do,’ added Artemidorus.

  ‘He’s nineteen!’ snapped Fulvia. ‘Only just into his toga virilis. And sickly into the bargain. He will do what Antony tells him to do!’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Enobarbus placatingly.

  Artemidorus wondered whether he was the only one to pick up a tone in the tribune’s answer that made it seem that he had a lot of doubts about it.

  ‘The gods have not yet given their opinion of the present situation or any guidance toward the future,’ said Spurinna.

  ‘I can tell y
ou about the immediate future,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Any Libertore still in Rome will be gone by tomorrow. Brutus and Cassius were lucky to survive today. Basilus’ villa is ashes by now, though he was not in it when it burned. They’ll all be gone as soon as they get the chance. That goes for their supporters. I’m certain Cicero is on his way to his nearest country villa. And if Cinna isn’t on his way out of the city, he’s mad. After what happened to the poet. Just because he had a similar name.’

  ‘Casca’s been in contact,’ said Antony. ‘That’s the elder brother Publius Casca. He says he didn’t actually hurt Caesar at all. Though he struck first, he missed. Got Caesar’s stylus through his arm instead. Technically not one of the murderers, therefore.’

  ‘That’s his defence is it?’ asked Artemidorus with an exhausted chuckle. ‘He’ll have to get Cicero back to argue that for him!’

  There was a short silence. Promus entered. ‘Cena will be served when you are ready,’ he said.

  ‘Let it wait!’ growled Antony. And Promus disappeared.

  ‘He’ll still want it perfect, whenever he gets round to eating it,’ Fulvia informed them all.

  ‘We have business to finish here!’ snapped Antony.

  Fulvia was uncharacteristically quiescent.

  ‘Whatever Lepidus and… and Octavian…’ he shrugged dismissively as he named Caesar’s heir, ‘… decide. There is still work for the rest of you to do. All of the Libertores are still alive. All of their supporters and apologists are still alive. That is a situation I wish to put right. However long it takes.

  ‘But as you have seen already, a man in my position cannot always follow the shortest route. The surest way. It may be that I will have to come to accommodations. Agreements. With these people. They are not without friends. Influence. Power. But no matter what I may have to do to keep the peace. Or to win the battle. Your mission will never vary.

  ‘You are my dogs of war. My secret wolf pack. It is your duty. No matter what. To hunt down and kill every one of them. Take any other men you want. That Ferrata and his friends from the Sixth, for instance. But every Libertore. Every hanger-on. Every man who had a hand in Caesar’s death or the aftermath.

  ‘You will track them. You will find them. You will kill them.

  ‘Every single one of them!’

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to those who helped with research and advice, including (briefly but crucially) Tom Holland and Linsey Davis; Richard Foreman. Nick Slater, the Classics Department of The Judd School Tonbridge, especially Ben Gregson who tracked down Cicero’s whereabouts on The Ides for me. And to the Tunbridge Wells Writers, especially Peppy Scott, Dave Smith, Justin Richardson, Michael Benenson and Glyn Harper.

  After the Ides

  Peter Tonkin

  © Peter Tonkin 2017

  Peter Tonkin has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  For

  Cham, Guy and Mark

  as always.

  And in memory of a dear friend:

  Jill Andrews

  1929 – 2017

  Prologue

  i

  The dead man’s name was Gaius Amiatus and he was standing in front of a makeshift altar shouting at a sizeable crowd. He didn’t yet know he was dead. Or even that he was condemned to die. He was dressed in a loose-fitting black tunic because he was in mourning. In mourning for the god to whom the altar behind him was dedicated. A god called Gaius Julius Caesar. Who had recently been so violently translated from the earthly sphere to the ethereal.

  Gaius Amiatus, his altar and his audience were in the Forum Romanum, where Caesar’s corpse had been cremated by vast crowds running dangerously out of control after his funeral. The gold that had been thrown into the flames as sacrifice by the grieving multitude and had run molten from his funeral pyre’s blazing foundations still gleamed on the stones of the Forum’s pavimentum pavement. Still gathered brightly in the cracks between them. Having survived more than a week of inclement March weather. And the soles of thousands upon thousands of sandals and boots.

  ‘I am the grandson of the great General Gaius Marius, Caesar’s relative and mentor,’ Gaius Amiatus was bellowing. ‘If anyone should be leading you in acts of vengeance against his murderers, it is I! Think what Caesar has done for you! The money he left you. The gardens he has opened to you. The lands, farms and townships he has promised you. He loved Rome! He loved you as though you were his sons! He was truly Pater Patriae, the father of his country. And he was divine! We should call him Divus Julius! Julius the God!’ Gaius Amiatus gestured to the altar behind him. ‘This altar should be at the heart of a shrine! A temple!’

  The crowd stirred and muttered.

  ‘Yet those ruthless butchers slaughtered him without a second thought.’ The rabble-rouser continued. ‘They stole from you the pledges he made, the promises he embodied! The legendary wealth of Parthia. The lands beyond, perhaps. Like Alexander, he would have brought the fabulous wealth of the Orientem to you! Laid it before you in triumphs and in games! Shared it with you in golden gifts and sestertii. Hundreds of sestertii for every man here! But Brutus, Cassius, Decimus Albinus, Trebonius and the rest robbed you of all that when they robbed him of his life. They robbed us of a living god! Kill them all, I say. Burn their houses. Slaughter them as they slaughtered him. Without hesitation. Without compunction. Without mercy!’

  Like the rioters who immolated Caesar’s body here, this crowd was largely composed of old soldiers, many of them from beneath the banner of the bull. Caesar’s own. Who had come to discover what would happen now that the man they worshipped – as a leader if not quite yet as a god – was dead. They raised a raucous cheer at the rhetoric. Gaius Amiatus looked at them proudly, impressed by the power of his words.

  In the front row stood two men who were clearly legionaries. Or had been, at least. Perhaps still in uniform. Though it was hard to tell beneath the cloaks they wore. Long and mud-coloured – nothing like bright red military saga. But they both wore soldiers’ caligae boots. They looked like useful men who would make excellent lieutenants when the real rioting began. And the looting. One was tall, lean-faced, with a dark, square jaw, short red-brown hair and blue-grey eyes. All just visible within the shadow of his hood. Beside him almost his twin in build. But slightly shorter. Fair haired and brown eyed. With a deep cleft in his chin.

  When Gaius Amiatus swung round and began to lead his ragged army across the Forum, past the Domus Publicus where Caesar had lived, and up towards the Palatine Hill where, he reckoned, the aristocratic murderers might still be richly housed, these two men fell in at his shoulders. Like legates beside a general. Like Antony and Lepidus beside Caesar in the wars. He raised his left hand again, gesturing his little legion onwards. In the manner, he imagined, that his grandfather, the great General Marius, might have done. Revealing, through the sag of his loose black clothing, a dark-haired armpit. Thick black fur matted over the curve of ribs. Reaching round to an equally hairy chest.

  But as he did so, completely unexpectedly, it seemed to him that a hornet stung him beneath his raised left arm. The pain was sudden. Intense. Piercing. It winded him. His steps faltered as he fought for breath. The hooded soldiers at his shoulders did not slow. They marched on towards the Via Sacra, side by side.

  Gaius Amiatus’ raised arm fell abruptly. Too heavy for him to hold aloft any longer. The rabble behind him began to gather round, frowning in confusion. The two cloaked soldiers vanished. Gaius Amiatus staggered. Went to his knees, still fighting for breath. He put his right hand into his left armpit, where he thought he had been stung. Pulled it out and stared at the palm stupidly. Seeing only a tiny smear of blood. ‘What in the name of the Divus Julius has happened?’ he wondered.

  It was his final thought. He pitched forward. As dead as the cold stones he crashed down onto.

  ii

  The tw
o soldiers lingered in the mouth of an alleyway, looking back. ‘That was neat, Septem,’ said the man with the cleft chin. Pulling back his hood. Watching his companion wipe his dagger clean. ‘The way he raised his arm opened up the ribs to your pugio dagger. You may even have stabbed him to the heart. In and out so swiftly I don’t think he even realised…’

  ‘You sound like a physician, Tribune,’ answered Septem, the taller of the two, sheathing the dagger on his left hip. Pushing his own hood back onto his broad shoulders. The movements revealing the uniform and badges of a centurion of the Seventh Legion. Which explained the name the tribune was using: Septem – Seven. ‘General Mark Antony said to make it quick and quiet. But get it done in any case. He really wants to keep the streets safe now that Brutus, Cassius and their friends are on the run. I think he’d rather be going after them than stuck here keeping the peace.’

  ‘He ought to be able to trust Gaius Lepidus to do that. Lepidus commands the Seventh Legion camped out on Tiber Island and can bring them onto the streets if he has to. That’s why Antony’s promised him the governorship of Narbonese Gaul and Nearer Spain. To keep him loyal.’

  ‘But this near-riot makes it clear yet again that Antony has to find a way to avenge Caesar – to placate the Caesarian factions in the Senate and on the streets. Not to mention the legions,’ Septem the centurion answered. ‘Until he does that or moves the old soldiers out, this sort of thing will just keep happening. Only he can’t go after the murderers too publicly or he’ll lose the majority of the Senate who still support them. He needs the Senate and the power they confer on him. Will do so for a good while yet. And meanwhile his problems are starting to multiply. Were doing so, even before we began questioning witnesses to the murder itself and assessing their evidence against the Twelve Tables of the law. What they actually saw in Pompey’s Curia as Caesar was being slaughtered. Saw and heard.’