Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Until noon, then,’ said Spurinna, turning away. ‘Go to the Senate House and the villas of both co-consuls,’ he ordered his assistants. ‘Inform everyone that today is well augured…’

  Artemidorus also turned away. And retraced his steps to the practice area. There were two strapping legionaries guarding the door through the rough wooden wall. Who snapped to attention and saluted their centurion with thunderous punctiliousness. But there turned out to be only one other person present in the training area as Artemidorus entered it. Gaius Quintus Tarpeius, the last of the triarii stood in full armour. Like the old-fashioned triarii legionaries, Quintus was older than the average. A slight, whip-strong gallus rooster of a man; with something of the fighting cock about him. A comparison emphasised by the bright red crest to his shining steel helmet. Artemidorus was momentarily distracted by the thought of the fearsome bantam-cock Quintus sewn in a sack with Brutus as the Poena Cullei was inflicted. Tearing his face off would be the least of it, he thought, with wry amusement. For Quintus had a fearsome reputation as a soldier. He had at one time or another served round all the edges of the empire as well as at its heart with generals like Marius, Sulla, Pompey, Caesar and Crassus. Some said that it was Quintus who had killed Spartacus himself. Face to face in a duel at the climax of the final battle near the village of Quaglietta. A battle that remained nameless because it had been fought against slaves. Just before Crassus crucified six thousand of the rebel gladiators all along the Appian Way. Beheading the nightmare that always arose when slaves turned on their masters. And, some said, venting his spleen after Pompey, as usual, came in at the end of the campaign and took much of the credit for other men’s work.

  Quintus had joined the VIIth even before Caesar’s uncle Marius had reorganised the entire army. He was an enormously rich citizen of ancient Patrician Tarpean lineage. With no family to survive him. The legion was his life. And he committed everything he owned – everything he was – to his beloved VIIth. Though he had only been seconded to it twenty-two years previously in 689auc when Pompey raised it in Hispania. As a companion to the VIth Ferrata Ironclads. His armour was the best and most advanced that could be purchased. The best, but never the brightest or most ornate. Over the standard chain mail he habitually wore the overlapping steel plate shoulders, breast and backplates that were only just coming into fashion. The steel of his gladius and pugio was only fractionally less advanced than that of the dagger on Septem’s left hip. In battle, Quintus and his companions were traditionally placed in the third wave. Which was why they were called triarii. Thirds. This was because they were the most experienced. The best armoured. Best equipped. The shock troops who would break the weakening wave of opponents already flagging after fighting their way through the first two ranks. Or, if things were going badly, they would be the rock on which the rising wave of enemy warriors would founder.

  It was Quintus’ place in the undercover contubernium that Artemidorus ran and Enobarbus commanded, to act as weapons instructor and equipment officer. And the armaments in whose use he trained Septem and his agents were every bit as advanced and exceptional as the arms and armour that he wore. His wealth of both money and experience meant that whatever was most likely to serve Artemidorus and his associates would be brought to the VIIth’s armoury. From the past and the present. From the ends of the empire and beyond. And then presented to the spies. Who would be trained in their use up to the highest possible level of expertise. Arms and equipment not only useful in whatever mission they were undertaking. But also in any assignment they might ever be required to undertake. This particular well-augured morning, Artemidorus observed, the practice was to be with sling-shots.

  iv

  Artemidorus liked the sling. It was a weapon that he thought was wrongly underestimated. Caesar himself found slings, their stones and bullets of every style and size extremely useful. From pebbles taken at random, through heavier, specially tooled lead bullets, to huge steel-tipped bolts, massive boulders and incendiary bundles hurled by huge ballistae and fundibalae catapults. Quintus was expert in all of these weapons too. Sharing ideas and experiences over the years with Lucius Cornelius Balbus, the praefectus fabricum chief engineer who became Caesar’s secretary, and the military architect Vitruvius. Unlike bows, slings were easy to carry. Unlike arrows, the projectiles they fired rarely ran out. There was always a pebble or a rock somewhere underfoot – even on the busiest battlefield. Like Marius’ pilum spears, but unlike arrows, the more advanced bullets could not be reused. They lost their form and edge on impact. They could easily be beaten back into shape but not in the midst of combat.

  In the hands of special soldiers, trained in the skills of Thracian and Balearic slingers, slings were comparable to the bow and arrow in terms of range, impact and rate of fire. In some areas, indeed, superior to the bow and arrow. Arrows were slow and easily visible, for instance. He had seen testudo shield-covered tortoises formed by men waiting for arrows to fall. You didn’t know a sling bullet was coming until it hit you. Then it was often too late. Therefore he worked as hard to keep his skills with the sling as well honed as those with the bow, the pilum spear, the gladius and the pugio. And Quintus would train up the rest of the undercover operatives. For the battlefield was by no means the only place where slings could be lethally effective.

  What Quintus had prepared today was something unusual, however. On a long table that almost stretched from side to side of the range, there were several slings laid out. Short, medium and long. A trio of simple slings of traditional design, each longer than the other, and a staff sling with a short piece of wood attached. And piled by each sling was a range of bullets, from simple stones rounded by agitation on riverbeds to leaden bullets of various sizes, weights and forms. In front of the table, down the length of the range stood four posts. One at fifteen paces, then thirty, forty and fifty. On each post sat a watermelon. Impaled on a spike. Just as Antony planned to do with the Libertores’ heads in the Forum when the time was ripe.

  Each melon wore a legionary’s helmet. In front of each post stood a scutum shield. The area between the top of the shield and the brow ridge of the helmet was narrow. In battle, just wide enough to allow a soldier to see ahead. There was about the width of a palm between the shield rim and the helmet edge. ‘Target practice?’ wondered Artemidorus as he came level with the table.

  ‘A little more than that, boy,’ answered Quintus. Sounding, as ever, short-tempered. As though the spy’s simple observations were underestimating his plans and wasting his all too valuable time. ‘Try the first. The short Thracian. Let’s see if the last few weeks of undercover work have spoilt your aim. Notice the pouch is wider even on the short sling so that it holds the stone more firmly.’

  ‘Making it more accurate,’ suggested Artemidorus.

  ‘Obviously!’ snapped Quintus.

  Smothering an affectionate smile, the spy placed a stone in the sling. The short sling was a shepherd’s weapon. This one was of Thracian design, as Quintus said. There was little more to it than a long piece of woven fibre with a pouch in the middle and a knot at one end. It was exactly the same as the shepherd’s sling that the Jews still saying mourning prayers for Caesar every night would recognise. From the duel between the shepherd boy David and the giant Philistine warrior Goliath of Gath. Which was recorded in the scrolls of the Nevim, second section of their Holy Tanakh.

  With these thoughts running through his mind, he whirled it and fired almost casually at the nearest watermelon. The stone sped fifteen paces and over the top of the scutum faster than the eye could see. It hit immediately below the helmet’s ridge. If there had been a face there it would have shattered a septum or taken out an eye. On its way into the skull itself. Only the weight of the helmet stopped the melon from exploding.

  ‘Good enough, boy,’ allowed Quintus grudgingly. Who never called him by rank or code name when they were alone. Who stood on every ceremony in front of others. ‘Try the next.’

  The second w
as the longer sling, as used by the lethal Balearic sharpshooters. It was a more substantial weapon altogether. Instead of a knot there was a loop at the end. Artemidorus picked it up as ordered. It was the first – shorter – of two slings of the Balearic design. He slipped the loop over his finger and took a heavy lead weight shaped like a big almond with sharp edges. It sat firmly in the wide pouch. Artemidorus whirled it expertly and fired. This time, at the greater distance, the bullet clipped the top of the shield, making the curved wood rock back and forth. But it shot up off the rim and smashed into the watermelon with such force and at such an angle that the helmet lifted and everything beneath it shattered. Red flesh exploding into red mist.

  ‘That’s some poor bastard’s face,’ observed Quintus approvingly. ‘And his brains, likely enough. But there’s something else I want to try…’

  Quintus sped down the thirty paces – never a man to walk when he could run. He stooped. Produced another melon from behind the scutum and replaced the red mess on the stake. This time he turned the helmet sideways on. The cheek guards hung down like broad metal daggers. Joined to the bowl of the helmet itself by a couple of hinges at the top. The opening for the ear gaped in front of the scoop of the neck protector at the back. Satisfied, he hurried back again. If we’d been chasing Quintus instead of Cicero, we’d never have caught him, thought Artemidorus indulgently.

  ‘Don’t aim for the ear,’ commanded the bantamweight legionary. ‘Try and hit the cheek flap. As near to the hinge as you can.’

  Artemidorus accommodatingly removed his own helmet, placing it on the table. Ran his fingers through his hair as he assessed the target and the distance. Then he took a heavy lead bullet and placed it in the sling. Whirled. Fired. Faster than the eye could follow, the projectile flew down the range. And hit the melon precisely where Quintus had told him not to hit. In the unguarded ear section. The melon rocked. A black hole appeared in the near side. A lumpy red mist exploded from the far side. ‘In one ear and out the other,’ said Quintus. His tone conflicted. ‘I told you not to do that, boy.’

  v

  ‘I apologise, magister…’ said Artemidorus. His tone placatory rather than insubordinate.

  ‘It’s just a waste of my time and my melons,’ grouched the armaments officer. ‘Though it was an excellent shot. Let’s see if you’re more accurate with the long Balearic at forty paces…’

  He doubled down the range and began to fiddle about with the third melon. Placed the helmet with a purposefulness verging on outrage. ‘HERE!’ he bellowed, slapping his hand against the cheek guard. Talking as though to a child. Or an idiot. ‘Hit it here!’

  Artemidorus took yet another heavy lead bullet and loaded it into the third sling. The strings to this one were slightly longer again. Of woven fibre. The pouch of soft leather that seemed to cling to the keen-edged, sharp-pointed metal. The loop gripped the base of his finger snugly. He swung it, feeling the motion begin to possess the whole of his body. While he narrowed his eyes and focused on the distant hinge. As soon as Quintus was out of range, he fired, with all his strength. There was a loud CLANG! The helmet seemed to jump. The melon rocked. When everything settled, Artemidorus could see that the hinge was broken and the cheek guard was hanging at a slight angle.

  ‘Good lad!’ called Quintus. ‘Now come and look at this.’

  Artemidorus ran forty paces down the range to where Quintus stood beside the damaged headgear. As the spy approached, he lifted the helmet gently off the melon. The green skin showed a decided dent where the hinge had been driven inwards by the force of the lead bullet.

  ‘Where is that hinge?’ demanded Quintus. ‘On your own head and helmet where is that hinge?’

  Artemidorus accommodatingly indicated the side of his skull just above his cheekbone. Between the top of his ear and the edge of his eye. There was even a little indentation there from the hinge of his recently removed headpiece.

  ‘The bones there are not strong,’ Quintus informed him with all the authority of their colleague the physician Antistius.

  ‘I see…’ said Artemidorus, his tone making it clear that he didn’t.

  ‘Go to the melon. Push the tip of your finger against that little mark your bullet made when it hit the hinge,’ Quintus ordered.

  Artemidorus obeyed. And as soon as he pressed his finger to the spot, the entire section beneath it collapsed. Red flesh dotted with black seeds burst out. ‘Even beneath the helmet,’ Quintus explained, ‘the bones simply shatter. This one would be just as dead as all the others so far.’

  ‘Interesting…’ said Artemidorus, looking around for something to wipe his hands on.

  ‘There’s a cloth on the table,’ Quintus informed him. ‘Beside the staff sling. While you wipe your hands, I think I’ll just…’ He took hold of the third stake, which was held erect by a cross of wood designed to sit firmly on the ground. And he dragged it right to the far end of the range. Where he stood it just in front of the wooden wall. The better part of sixty paces from the table with its slings and bullets.

  Artemidorus returned to the table and wiped his hands. When they were clean, he picked up the staff sling. It looked like slings he had seen in Egypt. He knew how to use it. And was as accurate with it as he was with the Thracian and Balearic slings. But it was different in more ways than in simply having a length of wood secured to it. The wooden handle made it more powerful, somehow. In the past he had seen these fired and heard the string snap with a crack like a whip. The idea of whips made him briefly think of Minucius Basilus and what he had planned to do to the treacherous Cyanea. A picture of her pale nakedness lashed to Basilus’ whipping post flashed unbidden into his memory. But the spy drove such distractions from his mind with brutal efficiency. Focused on the sling in his hand. Whether it cracked like a whip or not, it certainly fired a heavier bullet. Faster. And across a greater range. Eyes fixed on the target fifty paces distant, he put the bullet into the pouch.

  Aware of little besides its considerable weight, he began to swing the weapon. The technique was different. The balance too. He almost crouched as his thighs and knees joined his arm and shoulder to launch the weight while the sling snapped back on its staff with its distinctive whip crack. But the sling itself was not the only thing making a sound. For the bullet screamed a persistent, piercing, terrifying howl as it sped towards its target. It hit the shield which toppled backwards, allowing the missile to shriek onwards. It smashed into the stake in the centre of where the soldier’s chest would be. And buried itself in the wood. The impact was so powerful that the melon rolled back and fell to the ground. ‘Low,’ called Artemidorus apologetically.

  ‘True,’ answered Quintus. ‘But if that had been a legionary you would have smashed his ribs. Maybe done even more damage. If he’d just been wearing a leather breastplate you’d probably have killed him. Chain mail or fish-scale armour even. Only a solid steel one like mine would have survived that.’ He beat his steel-shelled chest in illustration of his words.

  ‘Always assuming the soldier didn’t die of fright at the sound the bullet made…’ added Artemidorus.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Quintus approvingly. ‘A couple of hundred bullets coming screaming in like that is likely to unsettle even a well-trained cohort, I should think. Superior to arrows. Especially as you can’t see them. But just as deadly. I heard that in Gaul Caesar had some of the bullets made red hot and fired from special slings. Set whatever they hit alight. Or whoever, in some cases. And unlike arrows they came in invisibly. Particularly good for street fighting and besieging walled towns. Thatched roofs and wooden walls just burst into flames for no apparent reason. Most unsettling.’

  As they talked, Artemidorus placed another bullet in his sling. Quintus stood the battered scutum up again, replaced the melon and stood clear. The spy swung the sling again, leaning into the movement, feeling the heft of the heavy lead weight in the straining pouch. When he fired, the bullet screamed away, its trajectory more accurate than last time. It was just poss
ible to see the black dot as it whipped through the air. Just a heartbeat before his eyes told him it would hit, there was a CLANG. But before the sound arrived, the helmet had jerked back as though struck with a club. The melon fell off the post. ‘Always assuming you didn’t shatter his forehead, even through the helmet, you’d probably have broken his neck!’ called Quintus grudgingly. ‘Still, you don’t seem to have lost your touch. Think you can hit the far one? Better part of sixty paces. Quite a distance…’

  vi

  Quintus watched Septem placing the bullet into the big Egyptian stick sling and beginning to move. The old soldier smiled with simple pride and affection. But he was careful to do so inwardly. It would never do for the centurion to know that he was the best slingman Quintus had ever seen. That he was, in fact, the best soldier Quintus had ever seen. Had the old triarius been lucky enough to have fathered children, Septem would have been the perfect son. The Vestal Virgins, in fact, held a will formally adopting the boy, although Artemidorus had not the faintest idea of its existence, let alone its contents. When Quintus died, the centurion would find himself the head of the Patrician Tarpean family and one of the richest men in Rome. Something that would cause almost as much surprise and consternation as the fact that Caesar had named his sickly nineteen-year-old great-nephew Octavian as heir to his name and fortune in the will published after his murder.

  These thoughts took Quintus through the moments before Artemidorus fired. The stone screamed down the length of the range and slammed into the wall an arm’s length to the right of the target. It stuck there, its sharp lead point buried deep in the wood. ‘Again,’ called Quintus.

  Artemidorus overcompensated. The next bullet slammed into the wall on the left of the target.

  ‘I thought today augured well,’ called Quintus brusquely. ‘Clearly not for your aim, boy.’

  The third bullet smashed into the scutum. Wedged in the curve of hide-covered wood. Sending the shield skittering back to slam into the post. The melon rocked but did not fall.