Caesar's Spies Omnibus

by Peter Tonkin

  Artemidorus knew that if he had been able to look over that solid stockade, he would have seen Antony’s castrum. The classic marching camp which, during the month or so they had been encamped here, had slowly turned itself into a proper walled fort occupying most of the land between the mountain foothills and the riverbank. General Lepidus had an equally solid, semi-permanent establishment on the far bank. Both large and likely to grow larger still as the legions under their command increased and expanded with the approach of high summer.

  ‘More novelties,’ groaned the square, strong legionary Ferrata – named for his years with the VIth Legion, the Ironclads. ‘I’m only just getting used to Divus Julius’ new seven day week. And the fact that this month is no longer Quinitillis but Julius instead!’

  ‘For someone so frightened of new things,’ observed Quintus severely, ‘You’re fast enough to use them when the going gets tough.’

  ‘I’m a survivor,’ answered Ferrata. ‘I adapt when I have to.’

  ‘Well,’ said Quintus. ‘Adapt to these.’ He reached into the weapons case he had been carrying since the training session began and produced a pair of swords with long, straight backs, slightly curved upwards at the tip. With shanks that started slim immediately in front of the hilt but soon widened so that the main blade was almost axe-like until it too narrowed and curved upwards towards the up-curved point. He handed one to Ferrata and the other to Artemidorus.

  ‘I’ve heard of these, but I’ve never handled one,’ said Artemidorus, easing his stiff shoulders by swinging the lethal-looking sword.

  ‘So you should have,’ observed Quintus. ‘They’ve come all the way from your home. And I don’t just mean Greece. They’re Spartan in design. Kopis they’re called. But these are bigger and more deadly than any I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘For the gods’ sake, don’t give one to Puella then,’ begged Ferrata. ‘She’d have us all on our backs in no time.’

  ‘I don’t need pretty toys like those to take you down,’ she mocked. ‘And if I want you on your back I only have to bat an eye or crook a finger...’

  ‘You have to get past me first, of course, Ferrata, no matter what she bats or crooks,’ observed Artemidorus, his tone deceptively amiable, as he squared up to the solid legionary, swinging the new-fangled sword. Getting his fist used to the strangely fashioned hilt with a pommel that curved round his clenched fingers to match the curve of the cross – guard.

  ‘Stop!’ ordered Quintus. ‘I’ll not have you carving chunks out of each-other with my good swords. Have you any idea what they’re worth? No. I’ve had some soft-wood poles set up for you to practise on. You two first, then all the rest.’

  His narrow eyes swept round Artemidorus’ contubernium of soldiers and spies. Beside Quintus himself – Gaius Quintus Tarpeius late of the disbanded VIIth Legion – Puella and Ferrata, there were several others – some of whom had been with the contubernium from the start and others who had been recruited more recently. And had yet to prove their trustworthiness and worth. Of the former there was the gigantic ex-tutor to Lepidus’ children so aptly named Hercules who had been a member of the group since soon after Caesar’s death. Spurinna’s manumitted slave the quick-thinking Kyros was next. Like Artemidorus he was Greek by birth, and amongst the earliest to join the group.

  Then came the dazzlingly beautiful ex-secretary to the Senate, eye-witness to Caesar’s murder, and gifted code-breaker, Adonis. Brother to an identically breath-taking sister called Venus who was currently in the expanded contubernium’s huge common tent. Both, like Puella, stolen from their master. In this case Gaius Trebonius, dead in Smyrna six months ago. Tortured for days by Publius Cornelius Dolabella’s carnifaxes but given his final quietus by a stone from Septem’s sling. Venus had been hurt in yesterday’s weapons practice fighting to live up to the name she shared with the founder of Caesar’s bloodline, the warlike Venus Victrix. She was being tended by Antony’s medici military nurse Crinas, who was Greek like most of his profession – military or civilian. They had joined Artemidorus and the others later, in Rome, during the dangerous unrest that followed Caesar’s funeral.

  Behind beautiful Adonis stood his exact opposite – Mercury, whose scarred face made his appearance almost unbearably repulsive. Named for his prowess as a messenger, and sometimes called The Gorgon – but only behind his back. Yet, somehow, he had become on various occasions, the lover of Puella and of Venus. Generating as much bewilderment as envy amongst the others. One of the later arrivals, he had started out as Octavian Caesar’s man, turned to Antony’s side though lust and bribery during the siege of Mutina.

  Then, finally, there were two further specialists. Both recruited only recently, after Antony and his legions had made it safely over the Alps. Nonus – often teasingly called Notus Writer – seconded from Lepidus’ army, whose forte was secret communications – a close associate of Adonis, therefore. And the aptly named Furius, the group’s carnifex interrogator. Who was something of a mystery. Recommended by Ventidius Bassus, he had shown his brutal skill questioning Decimus Albinus’ messengers, captured as they rode south towards Rome with their commander’s increasingly desperate pleas for help and gold. But Bassus may in fact have been trying to get rid of him. Certainly, he was not a close associate of any of the others. Except in extremis when vital questions had to be answered swiftly. And, in Quintus’ opinion a man who would bear watching.

  They were all trooping obediently after the energetic bantamweight armaments officer when the tribune Enobarbus entered through the nearest gate in the stockade wall and joined them. Catching Artemidorus’ eye, he said, ‘Septem. The General wants you. Now.’

  ii

  Side by side the two soldiers exited the stockade surrounding the makeshift Campus Martius and marched across the well-trodden field towards the flooded ditch and tall palisade that ringed Antony’s camp on three sides. The river Argentus itself flooded the defensive moat and supplied adequate protection on the fourth side. From everything except midges and mosquitoes. Especially as Lepidus’ castra lay on the bank immediately opposite. It was a wonder, thought Artemidorus, that Antony’s troops – still fighting to recover from their crossing of the Alps little more than a month earlier - had managed to erect such an imposing fortification. Even if it was open on one side, seemingly reliant on the river and the army encamped on the opposite bank for security. The two generals had only recently joined forces, but they were beginning to trust each-other more and more with each passing day. Their legions already did so.

  Still side by side, the spy and spymaster marched past the outer guards and across the short wooden bridge that spanned the moat and led to the Portus Principale main gate. Which, like the others, was guarded at all times and closed at night when the armies tended to fraternise across the river, safe from anyone trying to approach by land. Passing a second set of guards, they strode into the encampment – laid out precisely as Caesar had always laid his out – following his uncle General Gaius Marius and all the other Roman generals before them back beyond Scipio himself. The Via Principalis led past the stables, housing not only the Gallic auxiliary cavalry alae wing’s horses but a range of animals due for cooking or sacrifice. Then the legionaries’ tents, each housing an eight-man contubernium and the slaves who looked after them.

  Almost perfectly in the centre of the massive, tent-filled square with its geometric pattern of roadways, stood a little complex of larger, more imposing erections. The General’s quarters. The camp headquarters close behind them. Behind those, the altar where the daily auspices were taken. Close beside it, the accommodation for the priests and augurs. For the legions’ standards and their almost sacred eagles. Those that had survived the defeat at Mutina late in April and the retreat which had followed it well into May. Behind that, stood the camp’s Forum with its wooden rostrum, right at the point where the Via Principalis was met by the Via Preatoria and the Via Decunama leading left and right to the reedy riverbank and the Porta Dexter respectively.
Lined by the tents housing the officers, their slaves and, in some cases, their families.

  The whole place was a bustle. Antony knew better than to let his men be idle for a second. Idleness bred discontent, as every leader knew. Though the manner in which they kept their men occupied often discriminated the greater leader from the lesser. Antony’s men, like Caesar’s, were occupied with camp extension and fortification, drills, training sessions and mock battles. With keeping their armour mended and their swords sharp. Except for the supply teams and scavengers – who had strict orders to buy and bargain. Never to steal or plunder. To treat the locals with respect.

  Enobarbus and Artemidorus marched through it all until the guards at Antony’s tent-flap stopped them. ‘The general wants us,’ said Enobarbus, his voice loud enough to carry into the tent.

  ‘Is that you, Tribune?’ bellowed Antony from within. ‘Brought Septem with you?’

  ‘Yes, General. Yes to both questions.’

  ‘Then come on in, man. We haven’t got all day!’

  Enobarbus and Artemidorus entered Antony’s tent. Like most of the others in the camp it was roofed and walled in leather. In happier times it would have been hung with carpets and tapestries. But these were the quarters of a general stripped of his rank who was lucky to be alive, leading an army that had come all-too close to annihilation. There were no fripperies here.

  Like the man himself, it was massive, dark and not particularly tidy. There was an area which obviously functioned as a tablinum or office immediately inside the flap, at the centre of which stood a rough board that served both as a desk and a dining-table, with a couple of smaller ones nearby for secretaries. All untenanted at the moment. This broad area closed to a narrower, leather-walled passage with sleeping quarters on one side and a shrine on the other. A shrine to the family gods of the Antonii and to Mark Antony’s personal favourite – the demigod Hercules. Whom he claimed as an ancestor and who he emulated in many ways. The general’s cooking – like everyone else’s - was done outside. And he shared the latrine with his officers – sometimes with the men.

  The far end of the leather-walled passage opened through into the larger tent of the camp headquarters. It was just possible to see Antony there, standing stooped over a large table that was covered – no doubt – in a map. His brother the ex-gladiator Lucius stood at one shoulder, General Ventidius Bassus at the other. The more elderly General Lepidus, who was nearing his fiftieth year and looked it, stood opposite.

  Antony was a mess. He had not shaved during his retreat from Mutina nor during his crossing of the Alps and he had not shaved since. Nor had his hair been cut. Though – mercifully – he bathed in the river daily. His cheekbones were sharp and his bearded cheeks hollow. It was something of a miracle that the things he had been forced to eat and drink in the mountains hadn’t actually poisoned him, thought Enobarbus, who had been with him every step of the way, while Septem was guiding Bassus and his legions in secret to the General’s side. But his eyes were bright and focussed beneath his dark, frowning brows.

  He wore his armour as always but still hardly seemed big enough to fill it. Not that he could ever be called scrawny. His lion skin cloak was thrown carelessly over a curule chair – memento of his long-past Consulship. As they approached, the secret agents observed that the corners of the map were held down by goblets and a flask of wine stood in the centre of the table. Just wine, which was typical of Antony. No water with which to dilute it.

  ‘I’ll brief you two in a moment,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, pour yourselves some Falernian. If you can find yourselves a goblet. It’s the best I’ve tasted recently. Though I must admit I have been drinking horse-piss. Now, pater Lepidus, what do you know of Generals Plancus and Pollio and their intentions towards us?’

  ‘Well, as you know, Lord Antony, Plancus was supposed to help me block the passes against you as you retreated from Mutina. On the direct orders of Cicero with whom he has been in constant contact. As constant as he can manage from Gallia Comata, that is. Now that you’re safely through, his next move will be to obey Cicero’s next order – or to appear to be doing so. But, as with blocking the passes, he will really do as little as possible. And nothing that will bind him too tightly to one side or the other.’

  ‘I hear he may go and support Decimus Albinus,’ said Enobarbus, who had not followed orders and so had stayed well away from Antony’s notoriously powerful wine. But who was well aware of Antony’s one rule at briefings such as this – if you were in the tent then you were allowed to speak your mind. ‘As young Octavian remains markedly reluctant to do so.’

  ‘Octavian has his own agenda,’ added Artemidorus, who knew Octavian better than any of them. ‘I believe he’s playing a bigger game than even you realise, General. He needs money and political security as well as imperium. He’s more interested in Roman politics than in simple straightforward soldiering. For the moment at least...’

  ‘I knew it was a good idea to get you two in here,’ said Antony, taking a thoughtful draught of wine. Then he turned to Lucius, Bassus and Lepidus again. ‘And Pollio?’

  ‘He’s stuck in Hispania Ulterior Further Spain,’ said Lepidus, gesturing to the map. ‘Did well in battle against Sextus Pompey and his pirates until his quaestor Lucius Balbus stole the army’s pay and the legions turned against him. Then he was lucky Sextus didn’t kill him. Still, Sextus’ fleet has been recruited as the Senate’s new navy, so they’re all on the same side now. And Pollio’s back in charge of his Spanish legions. But he’s a shaken man. Not likely to take any decisive action. Unless things change. Did you know he had to disguise himself as a slave to escape after his defeat by Sextus? Imagine! A slave!’ He gave a hollow laugh that echoed into silence on the suddenly tense air. Lepidus had forgotten that Antony had been forced to do the same thing immediately after Caesar’s murder.

  ‘And the only real driver of change nearby apart from yourself, General, is Octavian,’ said Artemidorus, a little louder than necessary. It was he who had lent Antony the slave disguise amid the confusion on The Ides when it seemed inevitable that Antony would be the next to die. As he certainly would have been if Cicero had been more directly involved. ‘Though of course Cicero is a powerful motivator in the Senate,’ he concluded.

  ‘Cicero’s main motivation is to destroy Antony and those of us not sufficiently active in guaranteeing that destruction,’ observed the outlawed Lepidus bitterly. ‘While bringing the men who murdered Caesar back into supreme power at the same time. In the name of his precious Republic – which he, of course, believes he can rule over like some kind of an unofficial king.’

  ‘But with Brutus and Cassius building up their armies in the East and hesitant to return at his bidding,’ observed Artemidorus, ‘And with Decimus apparently stuck on the far side of the mountains with legions refusing to go any further, young Octavian is Cicero’s only weapon. If the old man still actually believes he can use Octavian like a puppet.’

  ‘And can he?’ asked Ventidius Bassus, intrigued.

  ‘No, sir.’ Artemidorus answered. ‘And I believe that if Cicero thinks he can then he’s deluding himself. Octavian may be young and inexperienced in battle but he has his adoptive father’s political acumen. Not to mention his simple good luck. He’s nobody’s puppet. In my opinion he holds the balance of power between the Senate and ourselves. And, in the end, for that reason if for no other, it will be hard for you to decide what’s best for you to do, General, until you have some idea of what Octavian plans to do...’

  iii

  ‘You defined your own mission, Septem,’ said Antony a little later. ‘In broad terms at least. I know we originally put your team together with one simple mission to fulfil: to bring me the heads of the men who murdered Caesar. But when I gave you that mission I was Consul and in a position of power with imperium over twelve or so legions. As things are now, the bastards’ heads are no use to me at all. If I can’t nail them up on the rostrum in the Forum Romanum or the door
s of the Senate House then they’re no bloody good to me.’

  ‘As we’ve already established with the heads of Trebonius and Pontius Aquila,’ nodded Artemidorus.

  ‘Yes. You brought them but they were useless. So. That mission becomes of secondary importance for the time-being. Until I get back in a position to display the heads you bring. In the meantime, the only way forward is the one you have just defined. Octavian. I need to find out what the bloody boy is up to. Come to some kind of agreement with him if possible. I’ll fight him if I have to and I’ll slaughter him. But I don’t want to damage his legions, especially the Martia and the IVth any more than I have already...’

  ‘When you decimated them,’ said Enobarbus, who had been there when Antony did it.

  ‘Precisely. So... Septem, you need to get through to Bononia and discover as much about his plans as you can. You need to pick the brains of Octavian and any of the advisors he relies on...

  ‘Agrippa and Rufus, his strategists. Maecenas his intelligencer,’ listed Artemidorus. ‘His relative Quintus Pedius. Balbus his money-man...’

  ‘No need to list them all,’ snapped Antony. ‘Just get Octavian, his councillors and me in some sort of communication. Then you can go back to collecting heads for me. All we need to do now is plan how you’re going to pull it off.’

  ‘Not in too much detail, though, General,’ warned Enobarbus. ‘Because you know the first thing to die in a battle...’

  ‘...The Plan. Yes, Tribune. I know from bitter experience. At Forum Gallorum for a start. Just as the first casualty of war seems to be The Truth. As is evidenced by Cicero’s lies if by nothing else. How many Philippics has he published against me so far? Thirteen?’ Antony’s tone darkened. His words became bitter. His frown thunderous. ‘Maybe he’ll stop now that I am technically friendless, stateless, powerless; flat broke with all my wealth and property confiscated by the state. And my mother, wife and children only having a roof over their heads because Titus Pomponius Atticus took them in. Much to Cicero’s annoyance so I hear. Something I will never forget. About either of them.