by Peter Tonkin
‘That the best you can do?’ jeered Quintus. ‘Who’s next?’
The answer came in a hail of sling-stones. But they appeared to be mostly pebbles picked up from the roadside. They bounced off Quintus’ plate armour and helmet as he reached for his shield. Another volley followed the first – better aimed, but still making Artemidorus see all too clearly why Lenas had ordered his men do that murderous target practise. Also making him realise with a twinge of relief that the men Lenas brought with him had not come armed with bows and arrows. Clearly they expected simple sword and dagger-work – not a battle. A third volley whispered past. One struck his shoulder. There was a spattered rattle of strikes against the walls on either side. A crack! and a quiet hiss from behind him.
Then the tribune ran out of patience and Artemidorus’ attention focussed forward. ‘Ride him down!’ shouted Popilius Lenas. ‘Festus! Do it now!’
Immediately one of his horsemen kicked his horse into motion and came charging full-pelt down the narrow way. Paying no attention to the choking centurion, he galloped past him - straight at Quintus. Just as Artemidorus and Ferrata arrived at his back. Not that they would be much help against the armoured breast of a charging war-horse.
No sooner had Artemidorus thought this than another sling shot screamed over his head. Screamed literally. As it sped unerringly in the opposite direction to all the slingshots so far. It was one of the new moulded, sharp-edged lead slingshots Quintus had brought with his other advanced weaponry hidden in the wagons. It had holes in it to make a decidedly unsettling howling noise as it was in flight. Its weight and shape – that of a Greek peach-stone but twice the size – made it an uncannily accurate missile. With a potentially devastating impact.
The lead weight smashed into the charging rider’s right eye. The whole orbit from cheekbone to temple exploded. Only the tight-laced cheek-flap of his helmet, it seemed, held his face together. His head slammed round so forcefully that Artemidorus wondered whether his neck was broken. The rest of his body followed. His right hand, with the rein wrapped around it, was wrenched back with brutal force. The head of the charging horse went with it and the animal stumbled. Its face hit the orchard wall as it too was wrenched sideways. This time there was no doubt about whether the neck was broken. There was a crack as loud as that of a breaking branch. The horse crashed down, dead before it hit the ground. The power of its charge sent it rolling a few more feet forward. Then it stopped, to lie on its side, blocking the whole of the little alleyway with its body, its galloping legs still moving, but more slowly now.
Quintus walked forward until he was standing behind the dead animal, the great round barrel of its belly almost as high as his waist. Ferrata and Artemidorus joined him, shoulder to shoulder between the still-twitching legs. ‘Now we have a defensive wall as well!’ Quintus called. ‘Who’s next?’
There was a moment of stunned silence broken only by Herrenius’ choking attempts to breathe and a faint whimpering from the dying rider trapped beneath the dead horse.
***
Then a new voice entered the conversation. ‘What in the name of Divus Julius is going on here?’
Popilius Lenas swung round. Artemidorus stepped forward, craning to see what was going on at the far end of the alley, his sword hand on the rump of the fallen horse. He could see Lenas – the only man standing as Herrenius was on his knees, Festus was on his belly with what was left of his face in the mud and everyone else on horseback. Behind him, a line of his legionaries all mounted and re-mounted. Beyond them, what looked like a full alae wing of cavalry which had apparently just appeared out of the blue.
The man who was clearly their commander urged his horse forward. Lenas’ men fell back, hangdog, all too well aware that they had been caught riding a carriage and horses through the Twelve Tables of the Law.
‘A misunderstanding,’ Lenas capitulated. ‘We were just leaving. You two – he pointed at the nearest pair of his legionaries. ‘And you two beside them. Help the Centurion onto his horse and pull Festus out from under his. Then we’ll be on our way.’
Quintus watched the bustle of activity for a second, then he called, ‘Don’t you want your horse back? I know you like to eat horses. You did in Mutina at any rate. I was outside with Antony, watching you poor bastards feasting on horse-meat, dog-meat, cats, rats...’
Lenas did not rise to the bait, but the look he shot down the alley, intensified by the lamplight coming from directly above him, would have frozen fire.
‘You’ve made a lifelong enemy there,’ said Artemidorus.
‘He was my enemy long before that moment,’ answered Quintus. ‘From the instant I saw the priest nailed to his temple wall and the first baby impaled on the pilum on our way out of the mountains he was my lifelong enemy.’
‘Mine too,’ growled Ferrata.
‘And mine,’ added Puella, as she joined them. Wrapping her sling round her fingers and slipping it into her belt. Then she thoughtlessly wiped the back of her hand across her forehead just at the hairline. Artemidorus turned back, looking at the departing tribune. Puella, frowning, looked down at her hand. And the blood smeared across it. Brought it to her mouth. Licked her dark skin clean. Raised slightly shaking fingers, gently probed the top of her head, feeling beneath the thick curls of her black hair for the source of the blood. Saying nothing. Showing no evidence at all that she had been hurt.
They stood quietly, waiting for their hearts to slow now that the action was over and the danger past. The commander of the new band of horsemen slid onto the ground, threw his reins to a companion and strolled towards them.
‘Lucky I happened by,’ he said.
‘Why lucky?’ asked Quintus, still full of fight. ‘We were doing very well without you!’
‘Indeed!’ laughed the stranger. ‘I meant lucky for Popilius Lenas and his cohort of robbers and murderers. I think they were outmatched even before Horatius was joined by Herminius and Lartius – not to mention your dark Diana with her sling. Now, which of you is Centurion Iacomus Graecas Artemidorus, primus pilus of the legendary VIIth legion?’
‘I am.’ Artemidorus sheathed his sword as he spoke. ‘I’m Artemidorus at any rate.’
‘A pleasure to meet you. I am centurion Lucius Flavius Felix, second cohort, Martia legion. I suspect my general Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Fili would be pleased if I escorted you to him as I understand general Plancus gave you letters to take to him - along with those entrusted to you by Antony himself. But we had better move this horse first, I think.’
v
‘There is a certain amount of debate about you in Caesar’s camp,’ said Lucius Flavius Felix to Artemidorus next morning. The two commands had joined together and set out early – despite the strenuous adventures of the night.
‘About me,’ said Artemidorus, his tone flat, his expression guarded.
‘You and your organisation. Septem and his... familiarites... associates, shall we say. Agrippa and Maecenas in particular have been debating whether you are the leader of a good, solid traditional Roman military contubernium or a sneaky, Greek undercover cryptaia.’
‘And have they reached any conclusions?’ asked Artemidorus. All too well aware that, at the Battle of Mutina – at least – Antony had specifically ordered Septem and his associates to act like Spartan cryptaia, the undercover death squads that had helped Leonidas hold the pass at Thermopylae – removing all badges of rank, all legionary identification marks. To vanish anonymously onto the battlefield seeking out specific targets – the enemy leaders – to kill them in any way they could. Within the rules of war – or without.
Easy enough in a civil war where combatants on both sides were dressed alike. Artemidorus had more recently been thinking of ways to push the notion further – for he had used a series of disguises most effectively taking messages between Antony, Brutus, Cassius and Cicero in the days immediately following Caesar’s murder. Had, in fact, worked undercover in Brutus’ household disguised as a common work
man until he stole Puella. Believing what she knew of the assassins’ plans would prompt Antony to stop Caesar walking into their trap. The outcome of that mission was famously negative. But the method, he was sure, was sound.
‘I personally favour the cryptaia argument,’ Felix was saying. ‘As does young Caesar himself, I believe. After watching you at work during the Battle of Mutina. After all, a contubernium is simply a group of legionaries with similar training and skills who have been assigned to share a tent. And that is that. What you have organised is very different is it not? You have selected men and women who have a range of special skills relevant to the collection, encryption – or decryption – of information. Of the swift and secure passage of that information to the people who need it most. Trained in the arts of disguise and disinformation – if such a word exists. Trained in the use of advanced weaponry. Trained to a formidable degree – as Popilius Lenas discovered last night. And that is something intriguingly new to us. Even if, as with everything else it seems, the Greeks thought of it first...’
‘And you, friend Felix,’ countered Artemidorus. ‘Why are you a part of this debate? And, come to that, where did you spring from so conveniently?’
‘I’m sure a moment’s thought will explain that. I am in some small degree your opposite number under Caesar as you are under Antony – under Gaius Cilnius Maecenas’ direct command as you are under the Tribune Enobarbus’. It has been one of my first legations missions during the last weeks to infiltrate my men into Decimus’ camp and persuade his soldiers to join Caesar. In an organised manner rather than randomly. With reports back and assessments of effectiveness. Budgetary considerations and so-forth. We are in the military after all.
‘Of course the activities of your, shall I call them counter spies the night before last alerted me at once to your arrival. Particularly since they seemed to be offering gold coin instead of vague promises – which I call blatantly underhand! But in truth, the instant I got a whiff of your presence I tasked my best men with finding out where you were and what you were up to. They seem to have succeeded, so here I am.
‘The damage to Decimus’ command is done. They will either go to Antony or come to Caesar. Plancus wavers but will go one way or the other soon. So the moment I got wind of Lenas’ departure and the probable cause of it I withdrew my men and came after you. Clearly an enormous amount turns on the messages you carry and their delivery to the men they are destined for. An enormous amount militarily, politically and perhaps even historically.’
***
Artemidorus rode on in silence. He was not immune to the cheerful, confiding charm of the young man. But, as Felix admitted at the outset, he was Septem’s opposite number. And by definition, therefore, he was unlikely to be what he was pretending to be. Indeed, as he had already intimated, he had got wind of the gold. That alone might be his motivation as it had – less subtly – been Popilius Lenas’. His whole approach could easily be a cover for darker and more complex machinations. Were he, for instance, really working for Plancus rather than Caesar Octavian or himself, his objective might well to be put Artemidorus’ mind at rest before luring him into a trap. But of course, Artemidorus was Plancus’ messenger now as well as Antony’s. And in the matter of the gold, Felix could have waited for Lenas’ men to take it – at whatever cost to life and limb - and then just take it from Lenas in turn.
But what – the thought struck Artemidorus with almost physical power – what if Felix was really working for Cicero? The old man was certainly more than clever enough to have come up with the idea of briefing Felix to deceive and destroy Antony’s couriers. And, as Felix had watched Lenas discovering the hard way, that was by no means an easy task. Cicero was certainly sufficiently learned to have come across Spartan cryptaia and applied their methodology to what his enemies were doing, learning to fight fire with fire. And, from what Artemidorus understood of the current situation in Rome, Cicero was growing desperate enough to risk such a manoeuvre. For the Senatorial legions which were the basis of his military power had gone over to Octavian on the deaths of the Consuls Hirtius and Pansa who held imperium over them as the Senate’s leaders and representatives.
Cicero’s next moves had to be to beg Brutus and Cassius to bring their burgeoning armies back from Syria and Macedonia. But the men most responsible for Divus Julius’ murder were seemingly hesitant. Antony was corresponding with Brutus and seemed fairly clear on that point. They were still building their power – and were certainly aware that Antony and Octavian were busily building their own. There were a couple of legions in Africa, but it would take time to get them to Rome. Always assuming they agreed to come. And always assuming they stayed faithful to the Senate when they did so. Confronted as they might well be by a sizeable army commanded by Octavian. Or one just as large commanded by Antony. Or – as was no doubt the overriding objective now - by one huge army commanded by both of them. Like Decimus’ men, in the face of such odds, there was a fair chance they would simply down swords and defect from the imperium of Cicero and the Senate to the imperium of Octavian and Antony.
V
MAECENAS
Late July
i
Octavian’s base was almost as large as the combined camp housing Plancus’ and Decimus’ legions. Ten thousand tents stretched away across the hot, flat, fertile plains drained by the River Po. Accommodating eight full legions - in excess of one hundred thousand soldiers, support staff, slaves and hangers-on. Laid out, no doubt, with the kind of precision that Divus Julius and his uncle Marius would have approved. For Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Divus Fili was very well aware of all the responsibilities that came with his new name. As well as the rights and powers. But as there were almost no eminences or vantage points in the flat terrain – hardly a hill in sight, mused Artemidorus – it was impossible to get an idea of the actual scale or the layout of the encampment. Unless one could fly like an eagle.
Artemidorus, Felix and their commands came down the Via Aemilia from the bustling military city of Placentia onto familiar territory. Marching past Mutina, in the siege of which they had all been involved on one side or another. Then heading on southwards across the twenty five military miles to Bononia and the man who would be Caesar in more than name.
During the days of their travels together along the Via Placentia, through the town itself and on down the Via Aemilia, Artemidorus had focused almost all of his attention on Felix. And had begun to trust him. Not absolutely, but enough for current purposes. It was not hard to aim the majority of his attention on Felix because Puella was unusually quiet. Without really thinking the matter through, he assumed that this was her time of the month, when she was often distant and moody. Quintus stoutly refused to be charmed by Felix. Ferrata and the rest cheerfully took Octavian’s undercover legionaries at face value.
The young centurion certainly worked hard to be charming. Insinuating. That was really the only cause of Artemidorus’ lingering doubt. Felix just seemed to be trying too hard to be friendly. Not only to Artemidorus but to all of them. Even gruff Quintus and distant Puella. Though the spy was becoming more willing to admit that Felix might just be a little awestruck and nervous in the company of the crypteia he himself so fiercely wished to emulate. And working hard to ingratiate himself in consequence. Certainly, by the time they reached the Porta Principalis of Octavian’s castrum, they were getting on very well indeed.
Artemidorus could have found his way round Octavian’s camp with his eyes shut but he didn’t need to. Felix took them past the guards on the main gate then guided them all to the central compound where the forum stood surrounded by the leaders’ tents, the rostrum and the secure tent that housed the legions’ eagles and pay chests under 24 hour guard. Here both teams began to split up. Felix sent the crushed foot, the slashed thigh and the wounded arm to the camp physician, the Greek doctor Glyco who had been accused of killing the severely-wounded Consul Pansa on Octavian’s orders. He had been exonerated. His accuser, Pansa’s Qu
aestor Manlius Tarquatus, was no longer in post. Or, indeed, in the camp. Octavian preferred his own men handling the legions’ pay and provisions. And Glyco was by all accounts an excellent doctor.
After a brief discussion with Artemidorus, Felix then sent the gold-laden wagons to the camp’s secure tent under guard – with Puella and Quintus as beady-eyed guards guarding Octavian’s guards. The slaves were dismissed to the slave quarters with the slaves that had accompanied his own troop. Felix assigned each of Artemidorus’ contubernium a ‘companion’ from his own, using budding friendships that seemed to grow during the journey. And sent them away to settle into relevant accommodation.
‘Right,’ he said when all was said and done. ‘Now we report...’
But Felix did not take Artemidorus directly to Octavian. Instead he took him to the largest of the nearby tents, which stood immediately behind the camp’s altar dedicated to Mars and – of course – to Venus Victrix, the founder of Caesar’s gens bloodline, the Julii. He spoke to the guards at the entrance and showed Artemidorus in – while remaining outside himself for the moment. Something that the spy and courier found a little disturbing – particularly when he saw who was actually waiting to speak to him.
Artemidorus did not know Marcus Cilnius Maecenas particularly well. Though he knew Maecenas had been in Octavian’s entourage since his return from Macedonia on the news of Caesar’s death – and the young man’s place in his will. And that Maecenas had been involved in the battle of Mutina along with Octavian and his other companions. His previous dealings with Octavian had featured meetings with Agrippa and Rufus as well as with the young man’s distinguished relative Quintus Pedius. But his path had never really crossed Maecenas’.
