by Peter Tonkin
The long journey aboard Triteia from Philippi and Neapolis had been further lengthened by contrary winds and two storms from which they had sheltered in the lee of islands and the welcoming sanctuary of deep bays in mountainous shores. The extra time had allowed the little unit to hone and extend their skills. Not only with sword and dagger, right hand and left. But also with bow and arrow, slingshot and pilum. Though spears and arrows were tied to lengths of cord so they would not be lost overboard. When slings ran out of bullets, they raided the ballast for pebbles. The extra time allowed Quintus and Ferrata to find their sea legs. And finally it allowed some changes to the way the contubernium was constructed – especially when it was heading for trouble.
As his curt order still echoed on the deserted dockside, therefore, Artemidorus took the lead at the point of an arrowhead. Behind him at his right shoulder came Quintus, in the middle towered Hercules, and at his left shoulder Puella. This arrangement allowed Quintus to use his right hand to wield his gladius. And Puella to use her left. Hercules was tall enough to see even over his centurion’s crest. This also allowed each of them to use Artemidorus as a shield even as they guarded his back. For none of them carried a scutum. Behind them came Ferrata on the right and Kyros on the left. Guarding their backs in turn – but alert for the slightest sound or movement at their rear – at which they would whirl and form a circle of sharp steel. Almost comparable to the testudo tortoise the legions were trained to form with their shields. Kyros, who was beginning to share some of Puella’s ability to wield his weapons with either hand.
iii
But as Artemidorus led his tight-knit command up the hill from the docks towards the town itself – birthplace of Homer, whose poetry recorded the deeds of his personal protective deity Achilleus at the twenty-year siege of Illium, also known as Troy – the streaming vias remained empty. The threat he felt was in the air – not on the streets. For the moment, at least. Artemidorus’ eyes were narrow. And not because of the rain. He didn’t know Smyrna – except by reputation. But he knew cities. This was a commercial neighbourhood. The one closest to the docks always was. Merchants’ villas liberally interspersed with their warehouses and shops. Hospitae. Tabernae. Lupanaria. Serving the city and the travellers who came and went through the port. Not to mention the nautae sailors who transported them. But all he saw on either side were closed doors and fastened shutters. It was as though Smyrna was under siege like Troy. But that could not be – the seaways were clear and the docks were open. There was something else going on here that he didn’t yet understand.
Until he reached the city’s main forum. And found the Governor of Asia Province crucified against the door of the town hall.
Artemidorus could not identify Trebonius at first, for the body hanging against a wooden cross propped against the wooden doorway was so battered and bruised it was scarcely recognisable as human. Only the scantiest loincloth preserved some element of modesty. Above it, the belly and breast were a mass of welts and bruises. Open wounds and black burn marks. Below it, the legs, clearly disjointed and broken, reached down to crushed and blackened feet. Ropes had been secured round ankles and knees; wrists, elbows and shoulders. Though the outstretched arms and hands in no better shape than the legs and feet. At first glance, the rope holding the outspread arms seemed to be a kindness. But Artemidorus knew better. For, at the end of the Third Servile War against Spartacus he had seen six thousand men crucified by Marcus Licinius Crassus all along the Via Appia. And he knew that crucified men often died because they could not breathe properly. So the ropes were just a way of saving the tortured victim from asphyxiation – and so extending his agony. The head hung down, hair pulled forward by the weight of sweat and blood. For the door of the curia was protected from the rain by a formal colonnade that stretched across the width of the building at the top of an impressive set of marble steps. And, even as Artemidorus stood, stunned by simple shock, the head moved. Lifted. Revealing the smashed and battered face that, after a moment of utter disbelief, he realised he knew.
On either side of the cross, lines of legionaries stood guard beneath the colonnades. Armoured and fully armed. As though on parade. Artemidorus recognised their insignia at once. They were from the legion he had followed all the way down the Via Egnatia. The last Macedonian legion which Dolabella had brought with him from Dyrrachium.
Dolabella had done this!
Artemidorus’ mind reeled. That one governor should torture and crucify another governor. Both Roman citizens. Patricians. Generals into the bargain. It was scarcely comprehensible. Under Roman law, slaves could be tortured – could only give evidence in court if there was proof that they had been tortured. But to torture a Roman citizen was to declare war against the city and the state. And if anyone other than Cicero himself should be fully aware of this, it must surely be his ex-son-in-law. As these thoughts span through Artemidorus’ head, he was mildly surprised to find his gladius in his fist. And, beneath the relentless roaring of the rain he heard the hiss of five more swords sliding out of their soaking scabbards.
‘Forward!’ he ordered, and the tight little arrowhead moved across the forum behind him.
As his mind grappled with the horrific fate of Governor Trebonius, so he began to see the implications – and understand why the citizens of Smyrna were all in hiding. To begin with, they might well be terrified by the possibility that Dolabella planned that they should share the fate of their governor. Or simply that he proposed to unleash the legionaries on them. Or alternatively there was the very real prospect that the Senate would want to take revenge for the treatment of their duly appointed governor as soon as the news reached Rome. Vengeance not only on the people who did this to him – but upon the people who did not stop them doing this to him.
The moment Artemidorus’ foot went onto the bottom step, the centurion in charge of the guards stepped forward. Stood solidly in front of the dying man, just inside the warm, dry colonnade. Looking down through the relentless curtains of rain. ‘No closer,’ he said. ‘On pain of death.’ His face was set like marble. ‘And, as you can see, I do mean pain…’
‘I am here on the commission of Consul and General Mark Antony,’ said Artemidorus, so used to using the phrase that he forgot Antony had not been Consul since the calends beginning of the month. ‘I carry his seal and authority. I speak with his voice.’
‘You’d better speak to General Dolabella then,’ answered the centurion. ‘He’s in the governor’s palace.’ He gestured with his chin towards an imposing building on the right-hand side of the square.
But something in Artemidorus’ ringing declaration of his authority seemed to get through to Trebonius. The head beyond the centurion’s shoulder stirred again. The battered face came up. The swollen, blood-crusted lips moved. Trebonius shouted a message to the spy and courier. The words came out as a garbled whisper and were only uttered once. The head fell forward once again, overcome by the effort of communication. Artemidorus had turned and begun to lead his command towards the palace before he fully understood what the words had been.
‘My woman. Dolabella has her…’
iv
Publius Cornelius Dolabella was exactly as Artemidorus remembered him. A spare man with a long face and thinning mud-coloured hair. Cold, narrow eyes. A downturned, pouting mouth above a weak, receding chin. It was difficult to imagine what Cicero’s daughter Tullia had seen in him. Other than a political marriage to further her father’s ambitions. But it was easy to see why his ex-father in law found it so easy to dislike him now that she was dead and his ambitions lay in other quarters. But Artemidorus was still staggered that the man was capable of such unbelievable cruelty.
‘So…’ Dolabella raised those cold, calculating eyes from his perusal of Artemidorus’ letters of authority which lay spread across the table in front of him. ‘What exactly is it that Antony wants you to do, Centurion? You and the five companions waiting for you outside?’
‘To establish precisely what
is going on in Smyrna – was going on before your arrival at any rate. To prepare a report for him. And to bring him Trebonius’ head if he has been involved in any actions against the general and his interests.’
‘That’s quite an assignment. For a centurion and five helpers.’
‘Catiline sent Centurion Gaius Manlius north to raise an army.’
‘And look what happened to them. Courtesy of my revered ex-father-in-law. But I take your point. Centurion Manlius raised a considerable army. On his own. We should never underestimate what a centurion is capable of.’ The Governor of Syria stood up. The whiteness of his toga cast a bright reflection over Antony’s orders. ‘Well, I am prepared to help Antony, even though the calends of Januarius has passed and we are replaced as co-consuls by Hirtius and Pansa. It so happens that the foolish ex-governor of Syria Province not only refused to give assistance and support me and my legion as we passed through his territory. He also put his trust in a woman.’
‘Really?’ grated Artemidorus. ‘What woman is that?’
‘Some canicula bitch of no account. Who, when I put the case to her forcefully enough, was happy to recount all the pillow talk the stultus fool shared with her.’
‘Forcefully enough…’ Artemidorus’ voice was husky. His throat dry. How he wished he had been allowed to wear his sword or dagger in here. Or even to bring his five companions into the room with him.
‘Making her watch the beginning of Trebonius’ questioning was enough to break her down. In every regard except one. Which is why she is awaiting my pleasure. When I have finished with her ex-lover.’
‘And that is?’
‘Where he has hidden the gold he brought out from Rome with him.’
‘He brought gold, Governor? I thought – the general thought – he was relying on the taxes collected by Governor Marcus Apuleius, the man he was relieving.’
‘That’s what Antony thought, was it? Unusually naive of him, I’d say…’
Artemidorus frowned, trying to work out what Dolabella was driving at. But before he could even get his thoughts in order, the governor slapped his palm onto the tabletop beside Antony’s letters of commission. ‘I think you need to see the lady in question. Talk things over with her. Then you’ll understand.’
‘Understand, Governor?’
‘What I have done and why I did it. And you can report it all to Antony when you hand over Trebonius’ head. Which, in due course I will give to you. When I finally allow him to die.’
*
The guard Dolabella assigned to guide Artemidorus had no orders concerning his five companions. As they, like their leader, had been disarmed at the door, he allowed them to accompany him as he led them through the governor’s palace. In common with many other great official buildings, it was not furnished with dungeons. Which were reserved for the local carcer prison. Instead, there were storerooms with heavy doors secured by Greek locks that could be locked against people breaking out as well as against people breaking in.
The six of them followed the legionary down steps into the lower floors of the palace, where the air was fragrant with the smell of cooking. Dolabella, Artemidorus recalled, always preferred a well-furnished table. Which seemed to have no effect on his lean, spare figure. Perhaps he was a regular visitor to the vomitorium, emptying his belly after each course – as some Epicurians were said to do. The guard led them past the culina kitchen itself and into the corridors beyond. Here, heavy doors secured all sorts of supplies – mostly vegetable, mineral, oleaginous and alcoholic – against theft. At the end of the corridor, a door stood ajar, opening out onto a rainwashed street and a small paddock full of fatted animals.
The animals being outside, thought Artemidorus, made it clear what lay behind the last door – through which it was possible to hear movement and ragged breathing.
With a flourish, the legionary thrust a massive key into the simple lock, turned it and threw the door wide.
The occupant of the room came out like a wildcat, springing for the soldier’s face. It was more by luck than judgement that he stepped back – thus saving his eyes if not his cheeks. But the shock of the attack wore off almost instantly and he caught his assailant’s wrists and threw her back. Stepped forward as she staggered, still on her feet and ready for a fight. Punched her with all his strength immediately between her breasts. She crashed backwards into the darkness of the room. ‘You wait, bitch,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you pay for that in ways you can’t even imagine…’
Artemidorus stepped past him. ‘That will do, soldier. You are dismissed!’ he said, pushing the door wide to allow some light into the place. Whose occupant was already rolling over onto her side, ready to pull herself onto her feet. As the enraged legionary pushed roughly past Puella and vanished.
But when she saw Artemidorus she froze.
‘Salve, Cyanea,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
v
Cyanea shook with simple, scarcely controllable rage. ‘Why,’ she demanded. ‘Why am I always surrounded by men whose dreams and plans are so much bigger than their brains? So much greater than their reach?’
Artemidorus was here to ask questions – not to answer them. And in any case, he realised that this question was rhetorical. Born from the frustration of defeat. The prospect of a truly terrifying death. The present state of her hair, which was a tangled mess. Of her clothing which was filthy and spattered with what looked like blood. Probably Trebonius’. Of her face – which was no cleaner than her clothing. And of her nails which were packed with skin from the legionary’s cheeks. She was not a vain woman. Especially considering how beautiful she was. But, cat-like, preferred to stay neat and tidy. Filthiness had always appalled her.
However, he was having trouble putting the questions he wanted answered into any kind of order. So, logical to his Greek fingertips, he started with the most immediate. ‘What was Trebonius up to, Cyanea? What made Dolabella do these terrible things to him?’
Cyanea’s eyes narrowed. Even so, they seemed to catch the light of the lamp Ferrata was holding. And gleam like blue-green chalcedony. ‘Up to? He was helping Brutus and Cassius of course. Trying to make up for the mistake they made in leaving Antony alive on The Ides of Mars last year. Specifically, he arrived with the huge cache of arms and armour Caesar left in Dyrrachuim to supply his Parthian Campaign. Then the moment he made contact with Governor Marcus Apuleius, who he was relieving here, he sent Apuleius south with the arms and the entire year’s tax revenue from Asia Province. When Brutus gets the money, and Apuleius as a new lieutenant, he will be better off by two hundred million sestertii!
‘And Brutus is on the move with Cassius, by the way. He has plans to recruit the men from Pompey’s army who escaped after the battle of Pharsalus and settled in Greece, Macedonia and Syria. While Brutus is working up in the north, Cassius may go as far south as Egypt on his recruiting drive. Though I don’t know how Cleopatra’s going to feel about that! The fact is, you can build a good many legions with two hundred million sestertii. Especially if the men you’re recruiting came from Pompey’s command. An army Caesar defeated. Who loved the man whose head he took. Some of whom, into the bargain, have had farms and townships raided by Dolabella’s legion as they made their way out here.
‘And Cassius, of course, is still amazingly popular with the men he led to safety after Crassus’ defeat at Carrhae just over ten years ago. There are thousands of them settled locally as well. When they hear the news about the money and the armaments he’ll have to fight them off, they’ll be so eager to join him. Almost at one stroke, Trebonius has turned the situation in the East on its head. He was enormously proud of that. Until Dolabella arrived, at any rate. Probably still is. All he’s actually said, even under torture, is “Civis Romanum sum! I am a Roman citizen!”’
‘But Dolabella’s concerns are even more immediate than arms and tax revenue, Brutus and Cassius, aren’t they?’ probed the spy.
‘Trebonius’ gold, you mean?’ shrug
ged Cyanea. ‘Yes. That’s the one thing I haven’t told him yet.’
‘But you know where it is…’
By way of answer, Cyanea changed the subject. ‘These are the spies you’ve replaced Telos and me with are they? I know Spurinna’s slave boy Kyros here. And Ferrata. Quintus, of course. I seem to remember the giant. And the girl you stole from Brutus. Is she your new mistress? She looks the part, I must say. You being Greek and her being dressed as a boy…’
‘I look more the part than you do,’ snapped Puella. ‘Even in armour!’ Artemidorus swung round. Puella was looking down her long nose at the bedraggled Cyanea. Her expression one of pure, aristocratic disdain. A few weeks ago she had been a slave. A possession; a thing. Hardly even human. Now she was using icy looks he had only ever seen displayed by Cleopatra at her haughtiest.
*
Dolabella agreed to accommodate them in the governor’s palace. There was plenty of room. And they were, after all, Antony’s emissaries. As his guests, they were welcome to use the baths, and while they did so, a messenger went down to the docks to summon their slaves and their baggage. Then, clean and appropriately dressed, they were invited to cena dinner. Only Artemidorus, however, was invited to the triclinium formal dining room. Here he found Dolabella, his tribunes, and several leading citizens of Smyrna. Nine guests in all, arranged in traditional threes on the couches around the central table. The others – even Puella – ate with the centurions in the officers’ dining room.
Artemidorus was preoccupied, as he mentally wrote and rewrote the report he would send to Antony. Which he would take to Antony in person if matters moved on as quickly as he hoped. Along with Trebonius’ head. He was sufficiently part of the conversation, however, to note that the local dignitaries were nervous on several counts. Who, they wondered, would take over from Governor Trebonius? Who would run their city when Dolabella and his troops moved on? How would the Senate in Rome react to what had happened here? And, perhaps most worryingly, how were the citizens of Smyrna going to react when the shock of their governor’s death began to wear off? There had been talk of riots…
