by Peter Tonkin
‘More likely a powerful headache,’ said Glyco, his long, bony fingers busy amongst her hair. Then, ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘There is a swelling here. Crusted with blood. A swelling but no softness. The bone is intact. That and the fact that she has been awake since the injury gives me great hope. Her vital spirits have been subdued by the blow. But they seem to be fighting back. Have her carried to my hospitium tent and I will see to her. Don’t worry. I am sure she will recover, given time and tending...’
As the legionary slaves were carrying her out – bed and all – Felix reappeared. ‘Septem,’ he said, his voice unusually agitated. ‘You must hurry. We are getting ready to depart. Caesar has given me the letters you are to carry and Maecenas wishes you all good speed. Agrippa will see to everything else as you have agreed.’
Artemidorus tore his anguished eyes away from the rapidly disappearing bed and the wounded woman in it. He took a deep breath and turned to Quintus. ‘Get your gear,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Rome.’
VI
CORNELIUS
Late July
i
Artemidorus had half expected a body of men this size to travel south in a series of forced marches. But Octavian was impatient, so they rode. Matching his young general’s mood, Cornelius preferred a slightly shorter cross-country route than the traditional one that followed the Via Aemilia to the town of Ariminium on the east coast then along the Via Flaminia from sea to sea across the southern Apennines. So instead they followed a well-worn trail across the northern Apennines, camping overnight, covering a rocky 35 military miles each day.
On the second evening they descended into Divus Julius’ military city of Fluentia and set up their castrum outside the walls as night fell: a smaller version of the city’s classic soldiers’-camp layout. Cornelius sent men into the city to buy provisions and they all bedded down for the night. Next morning they joined the Via Cassia and were cantering up to the Colline Gate in Rome’s massive Servian Wall two days later, at the end of another sweltering afternoon.
Tradition and Roman law dictated that they should disarm before crossing the pomerium city limit and entering the Gate into Rome itself. Cornelius was hesitant to do so. As he explained to Artemidorus – in whom he had begun to confide: ‘It would give the wrong impression,’ he said. ‘Caesar would want his demands presented from a position of strength. Going unarmed will make us look weak. And sneaking in after nightfall will only make things worse.’
Artemidorus frankly agreed with him. But he was also very well aware that a show of too much force too soon would only serve to back Cicero into the corner he had been tasked to keep him clear of - if such a thing were possible. The phalanx of horsemen trotted northwards, therefore, into the sloping fields bordering the Via, on the outer slopes of the Quirinnial Hill. Thus clearing the gate for the bustle of citizens, commoners and slaves pouring in and out of the city. Under the eyes of legionary guards in full uniform – the only armed men allowed inside the pomerium. Who were watching Cornelius and his men very nervously indeed.
Artemidorus looked around and suggested, ‘Why not set up a castrum here outside the Servian Wall on the slopes of the Quirinnial. You are right beside the Divus Julius’ gardens at the Horti Caesarius. There is plenty of room. You could camp a couple of legions here with no trouble – it’s an open area almost as big as the Campus Martius. Send some men into the city to get provisions while Quintus and I join the crowds over there to go in and spy out the lie of the land. Then we can have a council later and decide how we can best implement Caesar Octavian’s orders when we all go into the city tomorrow to talk to the Senate. Quite apart from anything else,’ he added, ‘we have to be certain that the Senate is actually going to meet. In the absence of any Consuls to summon them officially.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘First, I can check with Octavian’s relative Quintus Pedius. He’s in the city and will know. And he’s a senator. Mind you, as I said, the Senate may not be expecting to meet. They’re mostly old, thin-blooded and hate the heat. A good number of them will be at their estates in the middle of Summer. The city will be like an oven. Midsummer meetings are always the worst attended, I believe.’
‘Caesar thought of that. He sent messages ahead to his contacts. The word will be out that we’re coming. That should pull them in. But we may have arrived sooner than they expected. And he doesn’t like to be called Octavian any more,’ said Cornelius. ‘Just Caesar Divus Fili.’
‘If I was in his position I’d probably want the same,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘Caesar is the most powerful name there is – nothing should detract from it. But in the meantime...’
‘It’s a good plan,’ said Cornelius. But his eyes were narrow and his expression – for the first time – a little suspicious. Because, for the first time since they met, he would be letting Antony’s spy out of his immediate control.
‘Do you think you should come with us?’ asked Artemidorus, feigning innocent concern. ‘Caesar has given us specific orders to try and contact Cicero. I have messages for him after all. I was going to do that after I’d seen Quintus Pedius. If there is no Senate meeting scheduled, Cicero is one of the few men who could convene one. So I’ll definitely have to find him and discuss what’s likely to be going on during the next few days, independently of passing on Caesar Octavian’s messages. Then I’ll feed back to you after I’ve talked to him.’
‘I’d better not come if you’re going to talk to Cicero,’ decided Cornelius. ‘I’d probably end up showing the old goat the sharp end of my gladius. I tell you what, though, I could send young Felix with you. Three heads are better than two.’
And, thought Artemidorus cynically, Cornelius had found a simple answer to the old riddle Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will spy on the spies? – Felix will.
***
In fact, taking Felix along turned out to have its positive side. Having to teach the eager young centurion some of the basic points of spycraft made Artemidorus think through and begin to codify his own espionage techniques. Beginning with the art of disguise. Felix planned simply to swagger through the Colline Gate just as he was, fully armed and armoured. Confident that the nervous guards would never dare to challenge him in front of his four hundred well-armed friends.
‘If you do that,’ warned Septem, ‘you would stand a good chance of starting a panic and complicating Cornelius’ mission. Word will have gone out that there is a considerable number of soldiers waiting outside the walls. Especially if Caesar Octavian’s messengers have warned everyone to look out for them. If you go in fully armed, the citizens will think an invasion has begun.’
‘I’ll put on a long cloak, then and take off my helmet.’
‘A cloak? On an evening as hot as this? Half the citizens of Rome will be wearing next to nothing. Even patricians will be thinking twice about going out in their togas. And you think a cloak will disguise who you are and help you fit in?’
‘Well, then, what?’
‘We’ll just wear our tunics. Mingle with the crowds. Pick up the gossip as we go.’
‘But people will think we are plebeians!’
‘And a good thing too!’ Quintus growled. ‘Common plebs and household slaves usually have their fingers on the pulse of what is really going on. But they don’t talk to patrician soldiers much.’
‘And we’ll be unarmed!’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Artemidorus. ‘You see those men over there? The ones dressed just as I suggest we should dress?’
‘Yes... Oh! I see. They’re all carrying baskets or bundles...’
‘Well, so will we. Bundles of swords and daggers wrapped up in rags. Bundles that could also contain letters and passes. Which we will have no trouble delivering because no-one will take any notice of us.’
‘I see...’
ii
The three men who hurried through the Colline Gate could hardly be distinguished from the bustle of sweating humanity thronging the streets and forums of
the summer-bound city. If their perspiring faces were cleaner or their chins shaved with military thoroughness, these things were soon covered by a little dust. If their boots were thick-soled, hobnailed military caligae, then so were many others’ for Rome was full of old soldiers. Certainly the bundles on their shoulders – conveniently placed to hide their faces in case they bumped into old friends or colleagues – were no larger or smaller than the average. And so they simply vanished into the throng.
Although the enervating temperatures of midday were long past, the walls, the cobbles of the streets and forums, gave off the overpowering warmth that had soaked into them when the sun was high. As well as the heat, the smell was intensified. Much of it strikingly unpleasant to men used to military encampments out in the countryside. The tight-packed, perspiring bodies also seemed to radiate heat, compounding the effect of the utter windlessness in the constricted byways that stank of humanity, excrement and offal. Not a breath of breeze anywhere, unless it was generated by the body of someone hurrying by. And even then it was as though it had blown out of an oven.
The sweltering atmosphere was compounded by the mood of almost frenetic tension that also seemed to radiate from everywhere and everyone around them. Tension explained by the snippets of conversation they overheard as Septem led them down towards the heaving pit of humanity that was the Subura.
‘... four hundred of them...’
‘... fully armed and armoured...’
‘... Cavalry. Centurions... Probably got Gaulish auxiliaries coming next...’
‘... Gauls. They’re the worst. Hide your daughters and lock up your wives...’
‘...Forget my wife... It’s my gold I’m worried about...’
‘... just the vanguard, I tell you...’
‘... thousands more coming...’
‘... all of Caesar Octavian’s legions...’
‘... It’s an invasion!’
‘... What in the name of all the gods are the Senate going to do about it?’
‘Running like frightened rabbits – that’s what the Senate are doing...’
‘Taking their valuables and their families with them I’ll bet!’
*
Septem took a hand then and joined in the conversation, pausing in the first small forum to catch the sleeve of the nearest passer-by. ‘But, friend, I thought the African legions were coming to protect us,’ he said in a thick Tuscan accent, all wide-eyed country-bumpkin innocence.
The man stopped in his tracks. Adjusted the oozing basketful of fish on his shoulder. Turned and looked at the spy as though he was mad. Frog’s eyes bulging beneath a high, balding forehead, separated by a flat nose above a loose mouth and a chin so weak it vanished straight into the bulge of his throat. ‘Two legions?’ He shrieked. ‘Two! Against fourteen? They’ll do what the Martia and the Fourth did – go straight over to Octavian. If they arrive from Africa in time - which doesn’t look very probable now. The Senate has a couple of old soldiers trying to scrape together another legion. But it’s all peasants and farm-boys from the towns beyond those bloody great new latifundia. Useless. If they stand and fight, they’ll be slaughtered like Crassus’ troops at Carrhae. If they’ve any sense, they’ll run or change sides. And what good will that do us? It’ll be Sulla all over again. Great long proscription lists and heads spiked in the Forum!’ He readjusted his burden and pushed past Artemidorus, leaving a lingering stench in the still air behind him. As much of fear as of fish, thought the spy grimly. Thank the gods he had talked Felix out of coming in fully armed. The whole city was like tinder – and not just in terms of the heat. One spark was all it would take...
Artemidorus turned away and shouldered on down the hill with Felix and Quintus close behind. They formed a tight group, each of them adjusting the bundle on his shoulder so that the grip of his gladius was close to his hand. And needfully so, for as they reached the Subura itself, the mood of panic was further compounded. This was where the plebeians lived, tight-packed into dangerously overcrowded ill-constructed insulae. The stamping ground of the street-gangs, heirs to those of ruthless gang-leaders Milo and Clodius – both dead but not forgotten. Whose political masters were preoccupied or absent. Certainly in no position to control their brutal underlings. Who therefore used the current panic as an excuse for even more violence and rapacity than usual.
The narrow, nameless streets wound between the tall blocks of flats separated by alleyways scarcely wider than a man. Overhanging the narrow roadways, almost meeting above their heads. Closing off what little light there was. Insulae interspersed with occasional dilapidated villas which at least had flambeaus blazing outside their crumbling frontages. As the law required. Leavened by occasional brightly-lit markets – doing brisk trade in the early evening as it was marginally cooler than daytime. Every now and then a cistern, surrounded by boys and men as well as the more usual groups of women whose task it was to fetch water for their households. Everyone looking for a cool shadow, a cool breeze, a cool drink.
Except for those looking for trouble.
Later, Artemidorus was to wonder how differently things would have turned out if the figure who came screaming out of the side-street into the quiet forum just ahead of them had been old and ugly instead of young and beautiful. As soon as he saw her he shouted, ‘Watch out – it’s a trap!’ Even as he gave his warning, the forum emptied and the three of them were alone.
The woman’s clothing, a simple stola, was torn in several revealing ways. Her breasts exposed with each heaving breath and pathetic scream. Her hair unbound and streaming behind her. Her feet bare, the calves and thighs above them gleaming palely as she ran. Everything about her claimed attention, tempting them to look to their right as she staggered towards them.
Pulling his gladius free, therefore, Artemidorus span on his heel to face the black-throated alleyway on his left. Not a moment too soon. A group of burly thugs came pounding out, swinging an assortment of clubs. ‘Two more behind the girl,’ said Quintus. ‘Six in all – unless she’s a pale reflection of Puella, then it would be seven. But I can’t see any weapons on her. And I can see everything else.’
‘You take them,’ ordered Artemidorus. ‘Felix and I will deal with this lot.’ He pulled his pugio out of the bundle as it dropped from his shoulder, weighted by the weapons’ empty scabbards, the letters and passes. And fell into his fighting stance.
iii
The nearest attacker hesitated. Artemidorus could see why. Three apparently helpless strangers, isolated by the cowardice of the local citizens, distracted by the female accomplice, had suddenly transformed into well-armed, streetwise opponents ready to make a fight of it. His companions charged past him – probably wisely. Committed to the attack, they would have to carry it through or be branded as cowards – a death-sentence in most street gangs. But the downside of course was the possibility that they were going to end up as brave cripples. Or courageous corpses.
But then the time for thought was past. The first club came down like a battle axe, aiming to shatter the top of his skull. He met it with the crossed blades of gladius and pugio, allowing his arms to flex as he absorbed the power of the blow. The club was nothing more than a roughly fashioned tree branch, worn smooth with use, with no guard protecting the grip. He twisted the crossed blades, pushing them away so that they slid down the length of the wood to slice deep into the fists that were holding it.
The pugio, with its almost magical blade, took off the nearest finger then buried itself in the meat below the thumb, all-but severing it. The gladius lopped off the other thumb and the first finger behind it. The man staggered back, dropping his weapon, his eyes fixed disbelievingly on his ruined hands. Artemidorus stepped towards him and drove the dagger into his right arm-pit, already looking over his shoulder at the next assailant. Whose approach was exactly the same as his dead friend’s.
The dead robber was still standing, his weight beginning to sag against Artemidorus’ chest. Before his knees buckled, Artemidorus s
wung his gladius round the far side of the corpse’s chest, slid it under his left arm and held him erect with both blades as he danced him into his companion’s path. So that the club shattered the crown of the dead robber’s head an instant before the gladius slid further still past the motionless ribs to pierce the breast of the oncoming assailant. The momentum of his attack impaled his body on the blade. Artemidorus twisted free and stepped back, jerking the two blades out. Both men fell together into a rapidly widening pool of blood. Where they were joined by the unfortunate raptor thief who had tried to rob Felix. Also stone dead with the top of his head gone as though it was a hat blown off in the wind. The hesitant one turned tail and vanished.
‘He won’t last long,’ said Artemidorus as he also turned. But his words were drowned beneath the screams of the woman – suddenly very loud and strikingly genuine. The men who had followed her out of the alley were both on their knees in front of Quintus. One trying to hold the yawning wound in his throat closed. The other frantically trying to pick his guts up off the cobblestones and pack them back into his gaping belly.
The woman turned to flee. ‘You want her?’ asked Quintus.
‘Yes,’ answered Artemidorus. The legionary tossed his pugio in the air, caught it by the blade and hurled it after her. The heavy pommel smacked into the back of her skull with a similar sound to Puella’s slingshot hitting Lenas’ charging cavalryman. She dropped on the spot. Quintus strolled past her companions, who finally understood that they were not going to survive this encounter. Even as he moved, they both keeled over. Their choking and whimpering stopped. He retrieved his dagger then stooped to pick the unconscious woman up. Slung her over his shoulder as though she was a sack of feathers and returned.
‘What do you want her for?’ asked Felix, retrieving Quintus’ bundle and wrapping up his gladius for him.
Artemidorus looked down at him as he sheathed and covered up his own bloodstained blades, making sure he didn’t soil the letters or passes. ‘We just declared war against someone,’ he said. ‘Someone she and these poor bastards worked for. I’ve no idea who that is and it’s too late to ask any of them. The woman will tell us when she wakes up. In the mean-time, like Cicero might say: it’s better to have a hostage, just in case.’
