Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘That’s worrying,’ said Artemidorus. It was dangerous enough, he thought darkly, to have given golden bribes even to men whom the old soldiers liked and trusted. To do so in a camp that was effectively being run by Popilius Lenas and his vicious cohorts made things potentially even worse. There was a very good chance indeed that once the tribune and his brutal centurion got wind of what had gone on they would come after the remaining gold in person.

  But the bribery was an important part of their mission – and a risk they had had to take. ‘If what they get up to in the mountains is worse than what we saw,’ he continued, ‘then I don’t want to know any details.’ He paused for a heartbeat then added, ‘If they’re that bad, why doesn’t Decimus stop them?’

  ‘He can’t do it – or won’t. The centurion councils have effectively given up on him. He’s a broken man. Although their motivations might be different from Lenas’ and Herrenius’, they’re all just looking for a way to desert that won’t destroy the name and standing of their legions.’

  ‘They could just move out,’ said Artemidorus. ‘The same as the Martia and the IVth did when they deserted Antony and joined young Octavian last year. Didn’t do their reputation any harm. May have made them a fortune, too, if Octavian has paid them what he promised.’

  ‘They’re aware of that. But they feel trapped. The Martia and the IVth just had to march up the coast from Antony’s camp to Octavian’s. When Antony was away in Rome in any case. Performing Consular duties – while he still had any. And given the extra motivation that he had just decimated both legions. Which had the opposite effect to what he intended. Didn’t frighten them into submission – just moved them into open revolt. But it’s a long way from the foothills of the Alps to Bononia if they want to join Octavian. Almost the entire width of Gallia Cisalpinus. While Antony’s stuck on the far side of the mountains, well out of reach without making proper preparations for the journey. And Decimus is still there. In his tent – which is one thing. Worse than that, even, from their point of view at least, is that Plancus and his legions are there too. They like Plancus. They wouldn’t much care about deserting Decimus. But Plancus is another matter.’

  ‘Plancus is thinking of deserting the Senate’s side, though,’ said Artemidorus thoughtfully. ‘I would guess he’s getting fed up with being ordered about by Cicero who – as usual – seems to be sending letters full of instructions when he should be sending gold to pay the troops. That’s what the secret messages we are carrying are all about. Plancus will be with Antony or Octavian by the Autumn; I’m certain of that.’

  ‘When he goes, Decimus’ legions will go too – if they haven’t run out of patience before then,’ Quintus confirmed.

  ‘And Decimus doesn’t see this coming?’ demanded Puella. ‘Doesn’t he realise...’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to care,’ chimed in Ferrata. ‘He’s like Achilles sulking in his tent. Well, only in terms of the sulking, anyway. I can’t offhand think of anyone less like Achilles in every other regard...’

  ii

  Notus interrupted the conversation then. Taking the opportunity presented by a lull in the bustle coming past them up and down the Via. ‘I’ve opened the letter, Septem. It was obviously written in haste. And by someone who has yet to master penmanship. But the contents are much as you might expect. There does not seem to be a code of any kind. It’s all quite clear. Tribune Popilius Lenas is simply telling Octavian that if he and Herrenius are allowed to join the Caesarean legions, there is nothing they will not do. Then he lists a series of skills, some of which only Furius would understand...’

  ‘I can’t read, boy,’ called Furius. ‘Or write either, come to that. Better sing them out.’

  ‘He presents the pair of them not only as soldiers – widely experienced and survivors of many desperate engagements, Forum Gallorum and Mutina being merely the most recent. They have served all over the place. Gaul. Syria. Macedonia... They have also worked as carnifices torturers. There’s a list here of things they have done.’ He looked up. ‘We’ve already witnessed crucifixion, impalement and heads on stakes. They seem to have done everything else up to and including poena cullei. They did that, apparently, when working for Cicero’s brother Quintus Tullius when he was governor in Asia. He apparently enjoys that kind of thing. Did it twice, with extra whipping just for fun. To a sister as well as her brother, both accused of murdering their father.’

  ‘They’ve done poena cullei!’ called Furius, impressed. ‘The full bit? Stripping and whipping the condemned until they are completely covered with blood. Sewing them into a leather sack with a dog, a cat a cockerel, a monkey and a snake then chucking them in the river or the sea to tear each other to pieces as they fight against slowly drowning?’

  ‘Apparently so. And to women as well as men as I say. They are also expert with disembowelment, limb-breaking and the application of red-hot irons. Not just that. They are also widely-practised sicari and interfectores – secret killers.’

  ‘But he’s a Tribune!’ said Hercules, late tutor to Marcus Lepidus’ son – a man who had led a sheltered life until recently, therefore. ‘A man of reputable family, good standing. A man with political responsibilities and powers. A property owner! How can he admit to such things? How can he boast about them? It is inconceivable!’

  As Notus read out the list of the two soldiers’ horrific accomplishments, and Hercules voiced his confusion, a picture rose into Artemidorus’ mind, seemingly out of nowhere. A picture of a beautiful, golden-haired woman tied, stark naked, to a whipping post in the centre of a lovely peristyle garden. It was not a fantasy but a memory. The visualisation was of his treacherous lost love Cyanea as he had found her in the garden of Quintus Tullius Cicero’s friend, one of Divus Julius’ murderers, Senator Minucius. After she had broken down at the threat of torture and betrayed Artemidorus, the contubernium and Caesar himself. Handing over to the men plotting Caesar’s death the secret information they needed to succeed in their homicidal objective.

  Minucius Basilus, Gaius Trebonius and now, apparently Cicero’s brother Quintus Tullius, all took sexual pleasure from hurting and humiliating others. Beating them or watching them being beaten. Beaten or worse. Particularly slaves, of course, for a Roman citizen could do anything they liked to a slave with absolute impunity. Slaves were not covered by the law. They were merely property, of less account than animals. Minucius Basilus’ villas in Pompeii and Formia were notorious amongst the locals for the number of nubile slaves who went into them and were found washed up on the shores nearby, mutilated and murdered. Quintus and he had even witnessed some of the perverted goings-on in the Pompeii villa as they spied on Minucius Basilus on orders from Tribune Enobarbus. ‘Seal it up,’ ordered Artemidorus. ‘We’ll pass it on to Octavian. Let him decide what to do with it. And with them.’

  Then he rode on in silence as Notus carefully obeyed.

  ***

  ‘So the gold got you information,’ said Artemidorus after a while, turning back to Quintus. ‘Did you get the feeling it might prompt any actual action? Other than motivating greedy bastards like Lenas to try and steal it from us?’

  ‘It levelled the battlefield so to speak,’ said Quintus. ‘Put Antony back in the reckoning. Because Octavian has had men infiltrating the castrum for weeks, promising thousands of sestercii to anyone willing to go over to his command. But, as you’d expect, one solid gold coin is worth hundreds of whispered promises...’

  ‘Did you get any names of these infiltrators? Octavian’s men we should look out for?’

  Quintus shrugged. He shook his head.

  ‘I got one,’ said Ferrata. ‘A centurion, I think. Lucius Flavius Felix. Second cohort, Martia legion apparently.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Quintus? Lucius Flavius Felix?’

  The old legionary shook his head. ‘Must be one of the new men, I suppose.’

  The comment, unconsidered and almost throw-away, started a chain of thought in A
rtemidorus’ head. For he suddenly realised, with something of a shock, that Quintus had hit upon a truth which had unexpected ramifications. Octavian did indeed surround himself with new men. Homines novi as they were called. Most of them young – as Octavian was himself. Divus Julius had boasted of his aristocratic ancestry stretching right back to the Goddess Venus Victrix, founder of the Julii gens bloodline. Antony might be technically of plebeian stock, but he too presented himself as a direct descendent of the demigod Hercules. Octavian on the other hand, traced his family back to Caesar – who he had caused to be deified as Divus Julius. One generation – two at the most. And who were his companions? Agrippa, Rufus, Maecenas? Boys with no great heritage.

  And who was Octavian in direct opposition to? The old aristocratic Senatorial families who had looked down on Julius Caesar almost as a parvenu. Brutus for instance tracing his family back more than four hundred years to the birth of the Republic – which his ancestor, another Brutus, had founded by driving Tarquin, the last king of Rome, out of the city. Many of Brutus’ friends and associates – either in secret or outright – also took great pride in the antiquity of their family trees. Most of them looked at the plebeian upstart Cicero as a man of little account sprung from a family of no account at all.

  In a weird way, the spy could almost feel the weight of history turning like a great door upon a hinge. If Octavian fulfilled his potential, then there was a strange new world on the horizon. Where men might look to the future instead of wallowing in the past. Where men of proven ability rather than of aristocratic family might hope to make their way to the very top.

  iii

  By sunset they were well on the road to Placenta. The hilly country that reached back to the mountains behind them, being replaced by the promise of flat alluvial plains drained by the great River Po. While they moved eastward it was almost as though they were going southward – the heat began to build. As Ferrata had calculated when he gave away their supplies, there were both tabernae and hospitia in abundance along the road, though no villages or towns as yet. But two things militated against the rest of his calculations. First, it was busy time of year on an extremely busy road. There were no beds to be had. Certainly not for a group of eight soldiers accompanied by half a dozen slaves. Secondly, last year’s harvest had been bad – a situation not much improved by most of Gallia Cisalpinus being a war-zone since Antony decided to forcibly remove Decimus Albinus from Mutina. A war-zone consequently home to more than twenty marauding legions. This year’s harvest promised to be worse still, and the local herds of cattle, sheep and goats had been decimated. So food was scarce and accommodation non-existent.

  At last they found a taberna which could provide – at an exorbitant price - water and fodder for the horses, cena of roast chicken, emer bread and pulsum porridge for the travellers, and a field out back where they could all bed down. This final element nearly caused a rift between Artemidorus and Quintus. For the field was not suitable for adapting into a castrum. Fair enough, there was a narrow path between the side wall of the building and that surrounding the orchard next door. A path which was only just wide enough to admit the wagons. Which could be parked in the field after they squeezed through, then have the horses tethered or hobbled between them. But as for digging a trench and erecting an earthen barrier – it was out of the question. So said Artemidorus after talking to the innkeeper. Much to Quintus’ loudly pronounced disquiet. Though, to be fair, thought the spy, the garden was effectively walled in any case – what with the rear elevation of the main building, the orchard wall on one side and thick hedges at the back and on the other side.

  The night was very warm and dry. The sky clear, stars low and the moon bright – though waning now. Artemidorus put himself almost irretrievably beyond Quintus’ approval by allowing them all to remove their mail vests when bedding down. ‘You’ll be futuens coupling with Puella next,’ snarled the discontented legionary. ‘And sending Ferrata off after whores!’

  ‘Well,’ answered Artemidorus – amused at the warlike little man’s indignation and relieved to see Puella also was more entertained than outraged. ‘At least we will set watches. Will you take the first? I will take the second... If Puella and I have finished coupling in time.’

  The last phrase went some way to mollifying Quintus who began to see the funny side of things and luckily did nothing to upset Puella. So a kind of peace had been declared by the time they all bedded down. And an hour or two later, the entire matter was resolved.

  For Quintus, as usual, was proved right.

  ***

  His hand came down on Artemidorus’ shoulder gently and the spy sprang awake. Without conscious thought he reached out with his foot to nudge Gretorex before he remembered where he was. ‘Is it time?’ he asked, supposing next that Quintus was passing on the watch-duty.

  ‘No,’ breathed the legionary. ‘It’s trouble.’

  Artemidorus sat up at once. Although the moon was almost set, it and the stars gave enough brightness to see that Quintus was kneeling on one knee beside him and the fact that he was pointing towards the taberna. Where, it suddenly registered with the rapidly wakening spy, there was a group of cavalry. Ten or so by the look of things, well-armed. Waiting restlessly out on the Via at the far end of the narrow alleyway between the orchard wall and the taberna itself. Horses stamping impatiently, most still mounted. Two men on foot coming out of the taberna towards the horsemen, gesturing back at the field where Artemidorus’ command was bedded down.

  ‘Popilius Lenas,’ breathed Quintus. ‘I saw his face in the lamp light.’

  ‘What does he want?’ grumbled Ferrata, also beginning to waken up. ‘Changed his mind about the letters he wrote to Octavian? Thinks he can get a better deal elsewhere?’

  ‘He’s just found out about the gold I expect,’ said Artemidorus grimly. ‘That will have made the letter totally irrelevant. A sestertius in the hand is worth any number of plans and promises. As you discovered last night.’

  ‘Either that,’ whispered Puella. ‘Or he thinks we have more of that delicious dried fish...’

  ‘Either way,’ grated Artemidorus, ‘he and his men will chop their way through us to get their hands on what he wants.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Quintus cheerfully – the only one amongst them armed and armoured – ‘someone decides to stop them.’

  Quintus pulled himself to his feet, lifted a plank from the flatbed of the nearest wagon, pulled out a helmet and a shield then strolled away across the field towards the inn.

  ‘Stercus shit,’ said Ferrata. ‘You know what he’s planning to do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I know what he’s planning to do. Get your armour and your sword as quickly as you can. Even Horatius needed a couple of helpers.’ As he pulled on his own armour, he said to Puella, ‘I’m relying on Hercules and you for back-up. Get the others organised as quickly as you can. Slings and arrows. Maybe pilae and scuta like the one Quintus just took. The spatha cavalry swords you like so much. The extra weapons are under the wagons’ boards with the disguises and the gold.’

  By the time he had finished speaking he had managed to shrug his mail vest over his head and shoulders. As he reached for his caligae boots, Puella tightened the straps. Buckled his belt round his waist. Ferrata was helped by Hercules then the pair of them were hurrying after Quintus, all three of them swinging their swords and easing their shoulders. Glittering in the moonlight like men made out of ice. Only Quintus was fully armed - with his shield on his shoulder and his helmet firmly in place.

  iv

  Quintus’ unexpected appearance at the end of the narrow pathway made Lenas’ men pause. Even the brutal Tribune hesitated.

  ‘What are you doing there old man?’ demanded Centurion Herrenius.

  ‘Keeping the bridge, boy,’ said Quintus. ‘Keeping the bridge.’

  ‘Oh in the name of Hades!’ snapped Lenas. ‘Somebody ride the old fool down!’

  ‘Wait!’ snapped Herre
nius. ‘With your permission, Tribune, let me clear him out of the way. I could do with a little exercise.’

  ‘Make it quick! Or we’ll have them all coming at us!’

  ‘It was always going to come to that at some stage in any case, Tribune. Them against us.’ As he said this, Herrenius came striding forward, pulling out his gladius. Reaching onto his left hip for his pugio. Behind him, several more of Lenas’ command slid off their horses’ backs and formed up into a phalanx. ‘Come on then, old man,’ he continued. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got!’ He broke into a run. Clearly planning to use his considerable, muscular bulk to smash the shorter, slighter Quintus back out of the way. Raised his sword with arrogant overconfidence, planning to chop Quintus’ head in two.

  Artemidorus also broke into a run, praying to Achilleus that he would reach his friend before the two unequal bodies collided.

  Just at the last moment, Quintus dropped his shield, crouched, turned slightly, pulled in his head like a turtle and hurled himself forward, shoulder first. The move was too quick and unexpected for Herrenius to vary his attack. Like most of Artemidorus’ own command – like Artemidorus himself - the Herrenius was wearing chain mail. Quintus was wearing the latest design of plate armour with overlapping steel sections curving round his shoulders as well as breast- and back-plates. His armoured shoulder smashed up into Herrenius’ belly just beneath the ribs. The chain mail would have stopped an arrow or a dagger point; would have turned a blade. But by its very nature it folded, yielded. It simply couldn’t withstand that mighty upward blow – compounded as it was by the centurion’s own weight and the momentum of his charge.

  As the winded man collapsed over Quintus’ shoulder, the legionary completed his up-thrust with a toss of his helmeted head. Which smashed into Herrenius’ face, flattening his nose and smashing his lips against his teeth. The overconfident centurion reeled back, all of the wind knocked out of him and the normal avenues for inhaling more air blocked by crushed gristle and foaming blood. Dropped both gladius and pugio clawing at the smashed front of his skull.