by Peter Tonkin
‘No,’ agreed Artemidorus, turning and beginning to retrace his steps towards the gathering bustle of the hospitium. ‘If they work for Balbus then they’re on the same mission we are. And I want to get to Octavius first if we can.’
‘Our horses are rested and theirs are tired,’ rumbled Hercules. ‘Is there anywhere else that they can get mounts that are better or fresher?’
‘There are staging posts every fifteen miles,’ answered Quintus, his voice echoing a little as they crossed the vestibulum into the brightness of the atrium. ‘But I don’t know whether there’ll be horseflesh at all of them – or what it will be like if there is. No farms this near Rome; only huge latifundia estates. No horses there, either, I’d say. Not anywhere near the via at any rate. So it’ll be as Fortuna dictates in whatever towns and villages they pass.’
‘Well, as long as they’re ahead of us, they’ll get first pick of whatever they find,’ said Ferrata as he mounted the first stair.
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Especially as they’ll have limitless funds if Balbus is backing them. So we’d better hurry.’
They were ready in a surprisingly short time. Tab settled, basic breakfast in a bag and a wineskin which Ferrata carried. Horses saddled and pack animal loaded. It was still well before moonset, let alone dawn, as they led their mounts out onto the road. Artemidorus relieved Quintus of the packhorse’s lead rein. ‘As far as I can remember there is no other urbs city or oppidum town between here and Caserta or maybe Aquinum,’ he said. ‘Just one or two vici villages. And Caserta’s almost a part of the urbs of Neapolis. Two days or so from here.’
‘That’s what I remember too.’ Quintus nodded.
‘Right. Then what I want you to do is this. Take this money and go to the market in Campoverde. Hercules will guard your back. Get yourselves breakfast there and then buy whatever you think would make an acceptable gift for young Octavius. I trust your judgement. And the market is a good one by all accounts. Then catch us up again. Ferrata and I won’t go at full speed until you rejoin us. But we should still be able to get closer to Balbus’ messengers. Their horses are blown and they’ll have to rest them soon unless they plan on riding them to death.’
Quintus nodded once and turned his horse into the side road leading to the town. Hercules followed him downhill, and the westering moon kept the path between the gathering trees clear enough to follow. And to be fair, thought Artemidorus, the main town was not too far away, crouching behind its battered walls.
Then he turned his horse’s head towards the long, straight, moon-bright line of the Appian Way and eased it into a trot. Ferrata fell in at his side and the packhorse trotted happily behind.
They ate breakfast in the saddle at an easy canter as the gathering dawn lit the eastern sky away above the mountains on their left and the moon at last set in the sea away beyond Antium. Overlooked, Artemidorus judged, by the wide balcony of Cassius’ villa where he and Brutus were staying. The two soldiers were soon joined by the early traffic that usually filled the main road between Rome and the south. But it was never heavy enough to slow them – or varied enough to hide the two men on exhausted horses they were following. Even as dawn turned to day and the sun itself rose majestically over the eastern peaks.
‘Something’s just occurred to me,’ said Ferrata suddenly, after a long, thoughtful silence.
‘What?’
‘Well, if news of the boy’s arrival has got as far as Balbus, then it might well have got as far as whoever sent that assassin after you.’
‘Yes. The same thought had occurred to me,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘But they’d need to have a really good soothsayer or maybe an encantatrix enchantress to know for certain Antony would send me to greet him.’
‘Anyone who could send that assassin with that murderous bow would probably be able to get a striga witch.’
‘Then they wouldn’t need assassins would they? A striga could strike me down with a curse! In fact I’m surprised I’m still upright if what you told me is true and that striga Cyanea is still alive.’
‘Now there’s an ill-omened thought if ever I heard one!’ Ferrata clutched at the fascina good-luck charms hanging from his belt. Most of which were phalluses of one type or another. Smaller than the lamp above the hospitium’s doorway. All erect. With or without wings and testicles attached. Pulled his horse away from the spy’s as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit him.
Artemidorus drew in his breath to follow up his observation with a question. For Ferrata had been among the murderous mob to whose tender mercies he had left his treacherous lover. And yet Ferrata said she had managed to walk away from them. Having killed the first two men who released her from the whipping post to which she had been tied. And injured two others who had tried to stop her. And then had set fire to Minucius Basilus’ villa on her way out. All this while stark naked and apparently unarmed. The spy knew well enough that she had been trained as well as he. Had served as a gladiatrix just as he had featured briefly in the arena as gladiator Scorpius. She had known all of Quintus’ weapons and how to use them. But to have done what Ferrata described almost made him believe she did in fact have magical powers.
But before he could ask his question, Ferrata called, ‘Look!’
xi
Because he had pulled his horse over to the side of the road, pretending to fear a thunderbolt, Ferrata had given himself an excellent view downhill into a valley that sloped into a broad green field. And here there lay a carriage on its side. At the bottom of a track of torn and muddied grass. It was a light carriage, not quite a chariot. A wooden box large enough to seat two or perhaps four with a driver at the front. All on four sturdy wheels with a central shaft and enough tack to secure two horses to it. But the cart’s horses were gone. And in their place, two exhausted, sweat-white mounts listlessly champed the grass nearby. And someone, presumably the driver, was sprawled on the ground beside the wreck. Face down. Unmoving.
The two men reined to a halt. Artemidorus looked around but the via was empty at the moment. He slid off his horse and ran down the slope to the vehicle. Everything was still and deathly quiet. He slowed, regretting the fact that his gladius and pugio were in the packhorse’s bags. Then pressed on, thinking he was more likely to need a surgeon than a sword. For the grass around the driver was stained with russet darkness. And his head lay at a strange angle.
The shaft was still attached to the front axle so, even though the carriage was on its side, he had a foothold that allowed him to climb up and look down through the door. A young couple lay on the lower side, which was resting on the grass. A young woman and a handsome youth with their arms wrapped around each other. And, like their driver, they weren’t going to get any older. The young woman was lying half on top of the young man. And, again like the driver, various parts of their bodies lay at odd angles, suggesting that their carriage had rolled over and over on its way down here. As, in fact, the state of the grass on the slope behind him attested. But the wounds in their chests made the ex-gladiator certain they had been stabbed before their carriage was rolled off the road. Even though he knew it was hopeless, he heaved himself onto the side of the carriage that lay uppermost now and lowered himself through the door as though it was a trapdoor. Both bodies were cold. And a swift but thorough search revealed that they had been stripped of anything that might identify them. Except for their clothing, which was of good quality and looked expensive. The same was true of the roughly dressed slave who had been driving, whose corpse he checked after scrambling back out of the carriage. Not that slaves carried much in the way of identification. Unless they had been collared.
It didn’t need much intuition for him to see that the two desperate messengers working for Balbus had taken the carriage horses in exchange for their own. Leaving the exhausted animals as they would only slow them down. Even unladen and led on a long rein like the packhorse. And when the youngsters and their driver had objected, the ever-ready gladius had come out again. As swiftly
as it had in the stable. And there had been no one there to restrain him this time.
‘I don’t need to come down there do I, Septem?’ Ferrata interrupted Artemidorus’ thoughts.
‘No. Three dead. Stabbed. And the horses tell us whose gladius is responsible.’
‘That nothus bastard,’ swore the legionary.
‘Looks like they wouldn’t sell their horses,’ said Artemidorus turning and running back up the slope.
‘No idea who they were or where from?’
‘Nothing to identify them. We really ought to find and warn the local aedile magistrate. But we can’t afford the time to get involved.’ Artemidorus stopped by the packhorse. Opened the big bag and pulled out his gladius. Then, after a moment, his pugio as well. Strapped them to his belt.
‘Pass mine too,’ asked Ferrata. The spy obliged. The legionary hooked them to the only sections of his belt not covered with lucky phalluses.
Artemidorus took a short run and vaulted into his saddle just as he had seen Caesar do. Kicked his horse’s sides and trotted forward. The packhorse moved accommodatingly behind.
‘I might get involved if we find those two,’ growled Ferrata. ‘For just as long as it takes me to cut their guts out.’ He eased his gladius in its scabbard and folded his face into a murderous frown.
*
He was still frowning at midday when the sound of galloping hoof beats rose over the general bustle of the busy road behind them and warned that they were being followed. The combination of the threat from the assassin and the murder of the young couple in the carriage was enough to make both men stop and turn, hands on sword-hilts. But the men galloping towards them were Hercules and Quintus.
‘You made good time,’ said Artemidorus.
‘Thought you’d be further on,’ gasped Quintus.
‘Got distracted,’ explained Ferrata. ‘We found…’
‘Tell them later,’ ordered Artemidorus. ‘What have you got, Quintus?’
Quintus urged his horse forward as he reached into his saddlebag. He brought out a bag bulging with what looked and smelt like bread and cheese. And a wine skin. All of which he passed to Ferrata. Then he reached in a little deeper and produced, with a flourish, an expensive-looking, ornate gladius in a tooled black leather scabbard overlaid with bronze. ‘Bargain,’ he said holding the impressive weapon almost reverently. ‘Stallholder didn’t know what he was selling. Said he got it from a sailor down on his luck.’ He slid the sword out of the scabbard. ‘Look at the work on that blade. It’s superb. The quality of the metal’s excellent too. And, I know it doesn’t match, but…’ he reached into his saddlebag deeper still and produced a pugio dagger. ‘Steel’s almost as good as yours,’ he said. ‘I have no idea where the stallholder got the dagger, though. Maybe from another sailor. Who knows? But the work on both of them looks like it’s from Mauretanian Tingitana to me. North African certainly. Punic, maybe. Though I don’t think either of them’s old enough to have come from Carthage. African for sure but not Egyptian.’
‘Pity they don’t match,’ said Ferrata.
Quintus threw him a look that would have shattered marble. ‘Best I could do!’ he snapped.
‘They’re perfect,’ said Artemidorus. ‘The boy wants to be a soldier. And what soldier doesn’t love exotic weapons? These will be better than anything he’s got…’
‘Unless he’s got a gladius that Caesar gave him, of course,’ interrupted Ferrata. ‘When they were together in Spain.’
‘Ferrata,’ rumbled Hercules, in obvious amusement. ‘Are you just looking to get a whipping? Even if Septem hasn’t got a vinestock on him at the moment, he’ll be happy to use his belt, I bet, if you don’t shut your big mouth…’
Artemidorus shook his head. Hercules was right. Quintus was getting genuinely angry. Ferrata was in danger of going too far with his needling. And, as he did not have the whippy club made of thick oiled vine stems which was one of the marks of a centurion’s authority – and which was also a useful aid to discipline – he nevertheless had his wits. ‘Ferrata,’ he said. ‘Now’s a good time to tell Quintus what we found. There may have been news of missing people in the market.’
With Ferrata’s mouth gainfully employed and peace restored, the four of them rode onwards. While Ferrata’s last crack about Caesar’s sword niggled in the secret agent’s mind.
xii
They caught up with the dead couple’s horses at a mansio staging post late in the afternoon. The beasts were obviously working horses, not fleet stallions. A matched pair of brown geldings, broad in shoulder and haunch. Short-legged and powerful. But by no means built for speed. Though they, like the horses in the field with the corpses, had been ridden into the ground. Were covered in salt sweat and would take days to recover.
‘Do you know who these horses belong to?’ Artemidorus asked the man who owned the stable. A matched pair like that would be expensive, he thought. And, taken with the quality of the dead couples’ clothes, suggested a rich and influential family. From somewhere not too far away along the Via Appia.
‘No. Certainly not to the men who left them here. A right couple they were. Riding horses into the ground like that. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering. So, you gave them a pair of horses in exchange for these?’
‘In exchange for these and a fair quantity of coin.’
‘Do you have horses we can exchange for these five – and a fair quantity of coin?’
‘I do. And better horses than I gave those supercilious snot-nosed nothi bastards. I hate to see horses treated like that so I gave them a couple of nags they couldn’t run to death.’
‘That’s perfect,’ said Artemidorus, deciding not to ask how Balbus’ murderous messenger had put the man’s nose out of joint. Other than by their treatment of horseflesh. Happy just to thank Fortuna and his personal demigod Achilleus, hero of Troy, for the good luck. ‘Quintus, would you oversee things here. Then join us in the mansio itself. Just food and wine. No bath this time. And we won’t be staying. It’s going to be another clear night and the moon’s full. We’ll push on as soon as we’re ready.’
As he sat at the mansio’s largest table, with Ferrata and Hercules opposite, Artemidorus laid the gladius and pugio that Quintus had bought on the table. They made an impressive sight, even though they did not match. He eased the pugio out of its sheath and tested the point against his thumb. Then sucked the blood off his wounded skin when the blade sank in as though his flesh was cheese. ‘Sharp,’ observed Ferrata.
The secret agent nodded. And pulled his own dagger from its sheath. Laid it on the table beside the sword. Ferrata gave a low whistle of astonishment. ‘Yours is a much better match,’ he said. ‘They could almost be a set.’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Artemidorus. But the conversation stopped there with the arrival of food and wine. To make room for which the weapons had to be cleared away.
They were in the saddle again before sunset. And discovered with some pleasure that the stableman had not lied. These were four fast horses, and a pack animal strong enough to keep up with them as they thundered southwards into the brief darkness between sunset and moonrise.
*
Two days later at sunset they pulled their mounts to a stop immediately outside the gate of Capua city, just as they would have in Rome, and put their swords into the saddlebags. This was a civilised Roman town. There would be rules of conduct, aedile magistrates to see them enforced. Patrols of vigiles constables to back them up. So, armed only with their daggers, they entered the city and found the forum. It was easy to do so because although Capua was an ancient Etruscan and Samnite settlement, the Romans had laid it out in the Roman way when they took over its governance. The central square of the thriving metropolis was full of people going about the last of their daily rituals. Men and women strolling from the baths to their villas, planning cena dinner and their evening’s entertainment. Going to and from the temples of Diana Tifitania and Hercules, both popul
ar local deities. The markets, shops and stalls were still open, though business was easing off. Above two or three welcomingly open doorways, lamps in the shape of winged penises burned, draped with garlands that emphasised the fact that they were at least taverns, and probably hospitia.
‘See?’ grumbled Ferrata, who was tired, saddle-sore and increasingly mutinous. ‘We could have come straight down the Via Latina. And it wouldn’t have made any difference. Saved some time, that’s all. And a good few blisters on my backside…’
For much of the afternoon they had been riding through increasingly populous country past the point where the Via Latina rejoined the Via Appia. Through great fields that would be green with spelt later in the spring. Past copper mines in the distant hills; foundries and workshops nearer at hand. And, lingeringly, past the infamous schools that produced the greatest gladiators of all.
‘Didn’t you do some training here?’ asked Quintus. ‘During the Third Servile War? Before you became Scorpius, scourge of the arena?’
‘Just before you slaughtered Spartacus, you mean?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘That’s only a rumour,’ snapped Quintus.
‘Can we at least pause here for long enough to get some feeling back on my culus arse?’ demanded Ferrata. ‘It feels as though Spartacus and half his army have been…’
‘Very well,’ nodded Artemidorus. But then he said, ‘Wait! Look.’
Crossing the square towards one of the garlanded doorways, oblivious to the common bustle of their surroundings, strode the murderous soldier and his patrician companion. The setting sun struck across the square of the forum, lighting their faces and blinding them. Seeming to cast the pair of them in bronze. There could be no mistake.
Praying, aptly enough, to Achilleus that his legs would work properly, Artemidorus slid off his horse. ‘Hercules, look after the horses,’ he ordered. ‘Quintus. Ferrata. With me.’
xiii
The atrium of the hospitium was almost as busy as the forum outside. The three companions stood for a moment at the inner end of the vestibulum entrance hall looking around. Lingering here, they were three steps above the level of the atrium floor. And that was just about the only difference between this and the hospitium of Campoverde. Though this was, if anything, larger and more sumptuously appointed. Just the sort of place for the short-tempered soldier and his supercilious associate.
