Caesar's Spies Omnibus

by Peter Tonkin

  Her thigh slid cajolingly across his loins and he thought of the last woman he had trusted as much as he trusted Puella. The breathtakingly beautiful Cyanea, whose treachery had ultimately been equal to that of Decimus Albinus in responsibility for the death of Divus Julius. Who had told every secret whispered into her delicate ear to the monstrous Minucius Basilus as he tortured Septem’s agent Telos just as Popilius Lenas tortured Quintus Gallius. Eyes and all. Cyanea, whom he had thrown naked to the mob in revenge – but who had escaped, becoming mistress first to Basilus by helping him in his sick games of sexual torture. And then to Basilus’ equally perverted friend Trebonius. Whom she had robbed and left to die in agony at the hand of Cicero’s son-in-law Dolabella. There was a sickness running in those men and everyone who touched them, he thought. Basilus, Trebonius, Dolabella, Quintus Tullius Cicero – with their lust for pain and humiliation. Their arousal at the sight of torture...’

  ‘Tell me,’ Puella whispered again.

  He began to put his half-formed thoughts into words. ‘No-one must know of this,’ he said. ‘Not until I brief everyone together. Whenever that might be. To begin with, I have told you all a half-truth...’

  ‘The best place to start a lie,’ she said, pressing herself even more tightly against him.

  ‘The truth is this,’ he said seriously. ‘I have a note from Caesar which details the situation as he sees it and gives us a secret mission.’

  ‘From Caesar! But you are Antony’s man! So are we all.’ She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘All Antony’s men.’

  ‘Antony arrives tomorrow. Lepidus the day after. Within a day or two of that, let us say within six days of the kalends first day of December, there will be a law passed establishing the Triumvirate and giving them all the power they need to proceed with their plans. Until that time, the proscription lists will be limited. Lenas, Felix, Lupus and their men will be kept close-leashed here in the city. No more able to get out through the gates than the men they are hunting.’

  ‘But not us, eh?’ she whispered, her eyes wide and shining.

  ‘Not us. Tomorrow, after Antony’s sacrifice, leaving the Tribune to cover for us if need-be, we must find a way to escape from the city.’

  ‘And go hunting outside the Servian walls!’ she said. ‘Throughout the whole of Italy!’

  ‘Not quite. And this is where I flirted with the truth. We go after Cicero. When we find him, we convince him to run. Get to Athens – he’s always talked of going there and he will be protected by Brutus if he does. His son Marcus Tullius Minor is studying there – learning Greek declamation with Cassius and Latin with Brutus as far as I know. The old man would be safe...’

  ‘Until Antony and Caesar destroy Brutus and Cassius...’

  ‘Which may take years – if it happens at all.’

  ‘And if he won’t go?’

  ‘I’ve considered that. The only way from here to Athens involves going by sea for at least part of the journey. He hates the sea and it is the worst time of year for such a voyage anyway. So, if he refuses, then he signs his own death-warrant. His head is ours. But before we take it we must ensure him an honourable, painless death.’

  ‘Why us?’

  ‘Me, because, for a series of reasons too lengthy to consider, they all trust me. Antony, Caesar, Cicero... Even Brutus and Cassius trust me. The only one who doesn’t is Minucius Basilus and we’re not supposed to see hide nor hair of him.’

  ‘But why us? Why all of us?’

  ‘Because Caesar thinks he can trust Felix and his contubernium, but Lenas is Maecenas’ man and Lupus is Lepidus’. He’s worried that when they realise we’ve gone then Lenas and Lupus will be coming after us. And believe you me, they won’t think twice about killing us if we come between them and those heads!’

  ‘Like they tried to do,’ said Puella darkly, ‘when we came between Lenas and the gold in Antony’s wagons.’ She rubbed the ridge of scar tissue that lay hidden beneath her hair. ‘He’d be happy to settle that score. He must hate you almost as much as that treacherous bitch Cyanea does. We’d better tell Quintus what’s going on so he can supply the deadliest weapons he has available!’

  iv

  ‘Does Antony know about this?’ asked Enobarbus.

  ‘Not as far as I know, Tribune.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him, Septem?’

  ‘Yes. Otherwise I wouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘That’s wise.’ Enobarbus nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Self preservation,’ shrugged Artemidorus. ‘Under the current circumstances, anyone upsetting the General is only going to end up on his proscription list. Rich or poor. Important or not. Citizen or slave. It’s a license to kill, after all.’’

  ‘Good point.’

  The Tribune looked around the auguraculum from his position on the top step of the portico fronting the Temple of Julia Moneta on the peak of the Arx. It was just after dawn next morning and everything was arranged precisely as it had been for Caesar’s entry into the city yesterday. As the tribune had just arrived to check, only to find himself taken aside by Artemidorus at once for a carefully worded report which gave him the details that the spy had shared with his lover last night. A discussion which had made the tribune more alert than ever. So that as he looked around the sacred space now, he noted that there were in fact one or two changes from yesterday. One or two absences.

  ‘Quintus and Ferrata,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I have things I want them to do in case Antony sees any possibilities in Caesar’s plan. Remember, if he is agreeable it will give us as his team a head-start. So to speak.’

  ‘Head start. Most amusing. But I suspect you’re right. There’ll be no question of actually helping the old man get to Athens, though.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘A dangerous game, Septem. You will almost certainly anger one or the other. Antony or Caesar. No matter what you do. And they both have proscription lists handy.’

  ‘Then I shall pray the gods are with me. Tyche, Fortuna and Achilleus at any rate.’

  ‘I’d start sacrificing to Mars and Hades. Chances are you’re going to meet one or the other. Sooner rather than later.’

  Where Caesar had been careful to ensure that his entry to the city looked nothing like a triumph, thought Artemidorus, Antony did the exact opposite. He led his troops, not on horseback, but in his famous chariot pulled by four huge male lions. Which explained at least part of Enobarbus’ mission over the last couple of nights down in the animal pens by the Circus Maximus. He wore his Herculean lion skin over his full armour, as if anyone actually needed reminding that he claimed direct descent from the demigod.

  Beside him in the gilded vehicle stood Fulvia, accepting the cheers of the crowd as though they were actually applauding her rather than her all-conquering husband. Artemidorus seriously doubted that she was whispering the words tradition demanded on such occasions – remember you are mortal...

  Antony’s Praetorian guard marched in close ranks behind him. Behind them came Gretorex at the head of his full, thousand-man cavalry alae wing. Only then did the Alaude, Divus Julius’ deadly Fifth Legion, the ‘Larks’ arrive. The cheering crowds gave the lions a wide berth but otherwise pressed forward as close to the gleaming soldiers as possible. It seemed that the whole city had turned out to greet the returning hero. With some notable exceptions. Young Caesar, his friends and the Martia legion were, probably wisely, absent.

  Antony ran up the hill and arrived to make his sacrifice hardly out of breath. But then proceedings stopped as they waited for Fulvia to catch up with him. He used the interim to take Artemidorus and Enobarbus aside. ‘All quiet?’ He asked.

  ‘It was quiet until you arrived, general,’ said Artemidorus.

  Antony laughed. ‘Good. And the bloody boy’s parade yesterday?’

  ‘Also a very quiet affair,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘In comparison.’

  ‘I heard about the vultures,’ said Antony cheerfully. ‘A ni
ce touch. Luckily I don’t need such tricks. The people love me. Always have. And talking of people who love me...’ he strode off to greet Fulvia. ‘Come to my villa as soon as this is over,’ he flung over his shoulder. ‘We have a lot more to discuss.’

  Antony and an unusually contented-looking Fulvia were seated in the palatial tablinum of the huge villa Pompey had built at the height of his power and which Antony had bought for next-to-nothing after his death. Antony also looked content. There was an amphor of finest Falernian in front of him. One goblet and no water. ‘So,’ said the general expansively, ‘let’s go through the bloody boy’s cunning plan one more time, shall we Septem?’

  ‘It is simple enough, General. While he and Lepidus hold their execution squads in Rome for a few more days, he wants my crypteia to leave the city undercover and hunt Cicero down in Puteoli or whichever of his other villas he is hiding in. Caesar wants me to give him a chance to run – presumably to Athens. But if he refuses, Caesar is agreeable to my taking his head.’

  ‘Putting the responsibility on Cicero himself. He can choose to run or to die. If he loses his head then it was ultimately his own decision. You have to agree, the boy has the makings of an astute politician,’ said Fulvia.

  ‘With an eye on what History will say about him,’ nodded Antony.

  ‘A kind of insurance in case he doesn’t get to write the history himself like his adoptive father Divus Julius,’ added Enobarbus.

  ‘Though I suspect,’ added Artemidorus, ‘that part of your plan in making Lepidus a member of the Triumvirate is that he can be blamed for any actions that might tarnish your name or Caesar’s in whatever record of these days goes down into history.’

  Antony burst out laughing. ‘You see my dear?’ he said to Fulvia. ‘I told you he would see the truth of the plan you begged me to follow! That’s why I employ him after all. You can’t hide the truth from Septem!’

  And another element of the truth you can’t hide, thought Artemidorus, is the fact that this whole thing has been a test. Probably thought up by Caesar or Maecenas. I appear to be too much of a good thing to them – always there at the crucial moment; always able to help. While Antony – or rather Fulvia – worries that although Antony is my general, I seem to be helping Caesar more than she would like. This one test demonstrates my loyalty to each. But only if I accept Caesar’s mission – while telling Antony I have done so. Had I done anything other than what I have done, then my throat would have been the next throat under the knife as a sacrifice to their ambition and their inability to trust anyone for long.

  v

  Ferrata and the Gaul shared a table at one of the larger taverns in the Subura. An ugly-looking crowd of his guards filled the tables between them and the tavern door. They watched Artemidorus cross to Ferrata’s side with all the dark suspiciousness shared by Maecenas and Fulvia. Piled between the gang leader and the soldier was a range of farcimen sausages, a cold roast chicken, boiled eggs, olives, bread and wine. A lot of wine. No water. ‘Am I paying for all this?’ asked Artemidorus as he joined them.

  ‘I’m sure as Hades not,’ said the Gaul cheerfully.

  ‘Well, let’s hope it’s going to be worth it,’ said the secret agent, easing himself onto a stool and reaching for the nearest sausage.

  The huge, blond gang-leader reached across and tore the chicken in half, as though challenging the man who had only taken a puny sausage. ‘Exactly how many do you want to smuggle out?’ he asked.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘A lucky number,’ nodded the Gaul approvingly.

  ‘Six men and a woman,’ continued Artemidorus. ‘If that makes any difference.’

  ‘Only to the luck,’ said the Gaul. ‘Women are infortuniam bad luck.’

  ‘This one isn’t,’ said Ferrata. ‘And once she’s dressed you can’t tell her from a man. Not that I’ve ever seen her undressed, mind,’ he added for Artemidorus’ benefit. ‘And she’s one of the best warriors I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘Makes no difference,’ shrugged the Gaul. ‘She’s your woman. It’s your luck.’

  ‘So,’ said Artemidorus. ‘You can get us out of the city with no-one the wiser?’

  ‘Truth to tell, you could probably do it easily enough yourself. Disguise yourselves as peasants – not slaves mind, but farmers – and walk out.’

  ‘We thought of that, but it’s mostly slaves working the big latifundia farms near the city,’ said Artemidorus. ‘There aren’t any small holdings left. Just huge estates owned by patrician families. Other than overseers, the men and women that do the work are slaves – and we’d need some sort of identification as well as slave rings to be wandering about unsupervised. Besides, it’s not just us. There will be a sizeable consignment of weapons.’

  ‘The Cloaca Maxima main sewer is popular with those who are desperate,’ observed the Gaul round a mouthful of chicken breast. ‘You can get into it all over the city and it comes out at the Tiber under the Sublicius Bridge outside the Servian Wall. Short swim to Transtiberim on the far bank. Take what you want – as long as it’s well wrapped up.’

  ‘Look,’ said Ferrata. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. We want to come and go undetected once we’re out of the city. So seven of us stinking like walking dungheaps really not going to fit the bill.’

  ‘Well if you’re going to be all picky about it, then I’ll have to charge you extra. I was going to have to charge extra for the horses you want waiting down the road in any case. Tell you what, though. I have an interest in a couple of vineyards south of the city. I have three carts laden with empty amphorae going down to Puteoli for re-filling at the vineyards there later today. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll put false bottoms in them then you can take whoever or whatever you want out of the city.’

  ‘Puteoli,’ said Artemidorus. ‘That’s where we want to go. But it will take your wagons a week or so. We want to be in Puteoli sooner than that.’’

  ‘Right,’ said the Gaul. ‘Then I’ve a fair idea who you want to sneak up on whether you stink of shit or not.’

  ‘He was surprisingly amenable,’ said Artemidorus as Ferrata and he were making their way out of the Subura towards Quintus’ villa and the rest of the contubernium. ‘I didn’t think even bribery would make him that helpful.’

  ‘He’s still grateful we didn’t hurt his niece. He’s a soft spot for her, possibly in his bed. Besides, I slipped him some useful information.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That the heads on the stakes in the Forum are only the start of it. In a few days’ time, anyone with a list detailing where there are rich families who have stood up for Divus Julius’ murderers and spoken against Antony will be in a good position to make a fortune. If they have sharp enough swords.’

  Artemidorus was silent. His face folded into a frown.

  ‘Look,’ persisted Ferrata. ‘It’s going to happen anyway. We can’t stop it. So we might as well use it to our advantage.’

  ‘Advantage,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Not profit.’

  ‘Of course not!’ said Ferrata not altogether convincingly. ‘The men that take the heads get the rewards.’

  ‘True enough. Patrician or knight, freedman or slave as I understand it. Whoever brings the head to the Triumvirs to be displayed in the Forum. The men with the heads - not the men who tell them where those heads might be found.’

  ‘As if I would...’ said Ferrata. But he somehow managed to avoid Artemidorus’ direct and disbelieving gaze.

  They arrived at their unofficial headquarters as it was just coming up to noon. They had eaten what little they had managed to snatch from the hands of the ravenous Gaul. The others were grabbing a light and early cena. In the tablinum rather than in the triclinum. Assembled round a work table rather than a dining table. Which was, in fact, piled with Quintus’ work. A range of weapons suitable for hunting men rather than animals. For confronting and fighting other crypteiai of hunters. And, in the final analysis, for taking heads. No matter how thick the n
ecks on which they might be sitting.

  ‘Right,’ said Artemidorus, ‘here’s the plan. ‘Quintus, Puella, Ferrata, Hercules, Mercury and Furius are detailed to accompany me. We will be smuggled out of the city in carts laden with empty amphorae, later today. By happy coincidence heading for the vineyards in Puteoli. Which is where we want to go – but we’ll be riding south on fast horses not wagons after we’re safely through the gates. Puteoli is where we start our hunt for Cicero, acting under orders of both Antony and Caesar. We should find him before anyone else does because the full proscription lists have not been posted yet and anyone else likely to be hunting him will be kept in the city for at least a couple of days. Perhaps until the twenty-seventh. What happens when we find him will depend on fortune and circumstance. Caesar wants him helped to get to Athens if he’s willing to go. Antony wants his head. Is that clear?’ He looked around the expectant faces. ‘Right,’ he said again. ‘Finish your food, visit the latrines, put on your armour and choose your weapons. We leave within the hour.’

  XII

  VENATORES

  i

  Puella pushed herself hard against him. Crushing her breastplate against the mail covering his back. Slipping the soft leather of her soldier’s bracae breeches over his. The heat of her inner thigh burning through the layers of hide with disturbing power. She reached round his hips and explored the front of his body. ‘Ouf!’ she breathed. ‘Is this your gladius or...’

  ‘Enough!’ he whispered back. ‘Be quiet now. We’re at the gate.’

  The three carts, laden with Artemidorus and his venatores hunters were unexpectedly comfortable. The secret compartments filled with the fragrance of freshly hewn wood and the clean straw with which they were lined. Straw which, above the flatboards, was tight-packed around the fragile amphorae. Though not particularly roomy, there was sufficient space for Artemidorus, Puella and Hercules in the first; Ferrata, Mercury and Furius in the second and Quintus with their weaponry in the third. The three carts, apparently piled with nothing more than the empty amphorae drew up at the Porta Capena, through which the main roads leading south left the city. In a couple of miles, the Via Latina would split from the Via Appia. The horses should be waiting at the junction if the Gaul was keeping his side of the bargain. While the carts were destined to lumber one way along the Via Latina, the crypteia were planning to race south along the alternative route down the Appian Way to their common destination.