Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  Artemidorus nodded, frowning. ‘We have such an ailment in Rome,’ he said. ‘Though I hear there is a new ailment decimating Egypt. We’re getting word of a kind of plaga sweeping down the Nile…’

  But the merchant’s attention had wandered. Away to his right, the triremes were pulling the supply ships out to sea. Setting sail in the afternoon, for fear the wind would change.

  ‘With this wind they could be at Brundisium in sixteen hours and arrive in the dark. But if they take their time, the voyage might last twenty hours, arriving after sunrise. They’re wise to move, I think.’

  ‘And you have ships that can, do you?’ challenged Quintus.

  ‘Sail across the wind? Yes. Have you never been to Egypt and seen the boats that navigate the Nile? I will take you aboard one of my own fleet and you will see.’

  iii

  They stopped for their first night at the village of Kavaje 20-miles south of Dyrrhachium. The via, having followed the sea-shore, moved east a little while still running southwards so that there was swampy ground on either hand, but even in the gloom of the wintery afternoon they could see hillsides away on their left gathering into mountains further inland. There was nothing much to Kavaje beyond a tiny, ill-supplied way-station and a corral containing half a dozen horses. Artemidorus talked to the local commander, and established that three men had ridden through earlier in the day without stopping, changing their horses or showing their papers. The state of the place and the lackadaisical attitude of the soldiers staffing it did not bode well for Antony’s arrival later. But, thought Artemidorus, Publius would be along soon. It was fortunate the contubernium and their escort had brought their own provisions, equipment and leather-walled tents. They set up camp as the day darkened and the sky began to fill with low, black clouds.

  They were glad to leave in the morning. But the weather had turned again, and it was slow-going through the relentless, driving rain which arrived, as User predicted, on the wings of a cold north wind. By the second night they had passed the swamps and reached the Mutatio Claudiana less than 15-miles further along the via. Here the great road turned abruptly away from the highway on down to Apollonia and swung left into a wide, flat river valley guarded on each side by forested hill-slopes. And there, on the soggy riverine plain between the steep valley sides was the transit camp. With military efficiency it was bright with lamps and flaming torches against the gathering darkness. And could afford to be so for it was walled – if not quite fully fortified – like a legionary overnight castrum. It covered much of the valley right up to the bank of the river which supplied, no doubt, plentiful fish as well as unending fresh water. Too much fresh water, for it was threatening to flood.

  As Artemidorus led the first section of his tightly-packed command through the porta praetorim main gate, guards, slaves, and stablehands scurried about. By the time he reached the end of the Via Praetoria and was dismounting outside the solid-looking commander’s accommodation, the rest of his weary travellers were crowding into the facility behind him. The door opened, and a tall man came down the steps. ‘Welcome,’ he called. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Tribune Messala, Centurion Lucius and the courier accompanying them said last night that you would be here today!’

  ‘They have gone on, I expect,’ answered Artemidorus as he dismounted.

  ‘First thing this morning. As though the Friendly Ones were chasing after them!’

  *

  The commander of Mutatio Claudiana way station was a centurion called Ventidius Rufus. Which was not surprising as his hair was flaming red. In Artemidorus’ experience, such men were short tempered and given to violence. But this Rufus could not have been more patient and friendly. ‘Fortuna is smiling on me,’ he said as he welcomed eight guests to a traditional nine-person cena after they had seen to their men, horses and wagons – and he had checked their passes and documentation, then showed them not only to their accommodation but also to the mutatio’s modest bathhouse.

  ‘No news from Rome or civilised company for months – and now two sets of dinner guests one after another! I have to tell you, though, that your friends did not fare as well as you, for they arrived unannounced. And you have them to thank for your more generous welcome – it was prepared because of their warning!’

  Artemidorus smiled gratefully and made courteous noises, though he noted an undercurrent almost of threat in Rufus’ words. He suspected Messala had set Rufus to entertain them so richly that they would be slow to depart in the morning. It was fortunate the three men in front of them would soon have drawn so far ahead that this sort of thing would no longer be possible, he thought. Though, as he lay on his dining couch with Puella at his back and User at her back, he wondered what other little tricks and traps the devious Tribune would leave in his wake to slow them further. No matter how well they had got along together in Italy, here in Macedonia Messala was Brutus’ man and therefore a bitter enemy.

  But it was impossible to resist Rufus’ good-natured enthusiasm. He and his two senior officers lay on the lectus immus, host’s couch; Artemidorus, Puella and User on the lectus medius, first guest couch, and Quintus, Ferrata and Crinas were surprised to find themselves on the lectus summus, second guest couch. ‘You will not be surprised to know that our simple country fare consists mainly of fish,’ said their host. ‘But obviously we keep our own hens and herd both goats and sheep. And, to be fair, the river can supply more than eels, carp, pike, trout and tench. And we are fortunate the coast is not too far, so we have Poseidon’s offerings as well as delicacies both to eat and drink shipped in from all over the Levante; our area here where to Roman eyes the sun appears to levare rise.’

  Rufus’ introduction hardly prepared them for the feast. There were olives, cheese – both goats’ and sheep’s, salt and sweet. Hard-boiled and roasted eggs. Huge river pike stuffed with eels. Storks stuffed with sparrows and blackbirds. A roast dolphin served whole. The most delicious honey from local bees, which was hardly sweeter than the wild figs and pomegranates that completed the feast. And a dizzying array of wines from Greece, Macedonia, Syria and Egypt accompanied the food.

  The conversation followed traditional lines to begin with. Rufus told his guests about himself, his command, his men and their duties, as was the host’s social duty. The legionaries behind him on his couch elaborated with some soldier’s stories that were almost as salty as the goats’ cheese. Then the enquiries turned to the guests, and in due course to Rome and the situation there. The five new-comers and the man they rescued were asked to elaborate on what Messala and Lucius had revealed the night before. Then, more delicately – guardedly – the conversation turned to politics. Like the city fathers in Dyrrhachium, Rufus and his men seemed to be walking a fine line between Antony, Octavianus, Brutus and Cassius – trying to ensure their future no matter who won the inevitable battle for final control of the Republic.

  In spite of his attempts to be careful what he ate and drank, Artemidorus felt over-stuffed and light-headed when at last he went to the bed-chamber assigned to him. One of three side-by-side which housed Puella and User as well as himself. They left together, which was unfortunate – he would have liked to have discussed their red-headed host with the ever-insightful Puella but not with User. Was Rufus just too friendly? Was his open-handed generosity more than it seemed? Or was he just, as the spy suspected earlier, being careful to protect his future no matter which way the wind blew.

  Mulling these thoughts over, Artemidorus lay on his pallet, thankfully keeping his tunic on. For it seemed he had hardly closed his eyes when a commotion in the corridor jerked him awake. He leapt off his bed and ran to the door. Tore it open and froze. There was just enough light in the corridor for him to see Puella wrestling with User. Both of them gasping and grunting. Instantly aflame with rage at the sight of this attempted rape, Artemidorus stepped forward, fist raised, when, providentially, he heard what Puella was whispering so urgently. ‘Latrine...’

  And, as though the word had magic po
wers, he felt his bowels clench.

  iv

  Crinas was there before them. ‘It was probably the figs,’ he said, as they rushed to join him. ‘Overripe figs are notorious.’

  ‘At least it’s not poison,’ said User, raising his voice above a certain amount of background noise.

  ‘I wish it had been,’ said Puella. ‘Death would be better than this.’

  ‘The point is,’ said Artemidorus. ‘The point is – did Rufus do this on purpose? Is it a trick to slow us down?’

  A question that seemed to be answered almost immediately when their host joined them, and silence fell.

  The night was long and taxing. Whether he had done it on purpose or not, the effect of Rufus’ generosity was that they were unfit to proceed next morning. Many of the others had eaten the honey-sweet figs, so the fact that their commanders were not fit to travel did not result in any negative comment from the men. And the cooks did not have a busy time next day.

  But Artemidorus and his followers did move on early in the morning of the fourth day – for, quite apart from any other consideration, Publius and his sizeable command would certainly be arriving soon and Mutato Claudiana could only accommodate so many.

  The weather showed no sign of easing as Februarius slipped over into Mars so that the fourth day was a bitter slog to the next statione 20-miles along the via with the weather, which had been at their backs now blowing in over their left shoulders. The next statione was the castrum of Ad Quintum – little more than a command post and a set of unexpectedly palatial baths heated by the hot springs nearby. The centurion in command happily explained that his men had built the baths because there was nothing else to do except perform drills and prepare for visitors who never seemed to come. Three travellers had passed through more than two days ago, but had not stopped – merely changed horses. And they had been the first strangers since the messenger bringing news of Divus Julius’ death.

  Basic though it was, the statione could accommodate the majority of the travellers, though some had to pitch their tents. But at least the food was plentiful – for those whose stomachs had settled. And there were no figs. A lengthy soak in the scalding caldarium did much to revive Artemidorus, Puella and User. Ferrata and Quintus had not succumbed to Rufus’ figs and so needed little in the way of restoratives. ‘I swear,’ said Puella, ‘Ferrata’s insides must be as strong as his armour.’

  ‘Iron by name, iron by nature,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘And there is nothing in nature that can stop Quintus.’

  ‘Except of course the sea,’ concluded User.

  ‘As he will point out to you,’ said Artemidorus, ‘going to sea is unnatural. If the gods had meant us to go to sea, they would have given us fins and gills.’

  *

  The via sloped gently downhill between Ad Quintum and their next stopping point of Trajectus on the banks of the River Skumbi twenty miles further on. The way station’s name simply meant ‘Crossing’ and there was a bridge over the river there which they did not use, for it carried a road that led away southwards into the wilderness and the mountains beyond; mountains which in turn led to Greece. There were mountains close to the north as well, clad with black forests which set Quintus to reminiscing about Germanian Ghost Warriors who came and went silent, deadly, black-painted and naked through just such terrain. Soldiers’ stories that came back to haunt him; to haunt all of them, in fact, but not until a few more days had passed and they arrived, weary and travel-sick, at Heraclea Lyncestis more than 100 wild and mountainous miles further along their route. At the end of a day which had blessedly been dry and, for the time of year, surprisingly warm.

  The city of Heraclea Lyncestis had been founded by Alexander’s father Philip II of Macedon, and named in honour of Hercules. It had once been an important element of Macedonian rule, guarding the kingdom’s northern border; but under Rome it had fallen into poor shape. The only thing keeping it alive was the via which passed through the middle of it. It had been walled, as most cities, towns and castra along the via were, especially out here in the wilderness. But along with the outskirts of the city, the defensive walls had fallen into serious disrepair. The garrison that Divus Julius stationed there occupied the centre of the place, billeted in buildings on a hill overlooking the main area that was still populated, which gathered round a basilica market and – providentially – a decent public bathhouse. The centurion in charge of them was called Gaius Omerus and he seemed to have a permanent chip on his shoulder. Although he never said so, everything about him made Artemidorus suspect that he felt it was far beneath his dignity to be stuck out here in the back of beyond. His name was unfamiliar, but he behaved like a patrician with forebears as ancient as Brutus’. But he was still just a centurion – and a surprisingly elderly one.

  Centurion Gaius Omerus went through a formal welcome. Mentioned that three other strangers had visited several days earlier, and left them to their own devices with no further information. A couple of ill-dressed, grubby legionaries showed them to the capacious, ill-tended billets then they, too, left them to their own devices. Publius’ men had to find the stables and see to their own horses – taking care of the contubernium’s mounts and mules as well.

  As they soaked in the caldarium, Omerus grudgingly directed them to, Quintus observed, ‘I don’t like this place.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ wondered User, his tone dripping with irony.

  The triarius looked over at Artemidorus, who nodded, giving him mute permission to voice concerns which the spy suspected they both shared. And Quintus sought the permission because he didn’t trust User either. But then, Quintus’ trust was a hard thing to earn.

  ‘It’s out on the edge of nowhere,’ explained the old soldier, taking User’s question at face value. ‘The Dacians are far too close for comfort. The garrison is under strength, apathetic, badly led by that sad bastard Gaius Omerus and stuck in a castrum that really needs proper work. The only reason I can think of that the whole place hasn’t been ransacked and put to the torch is that the citizens running the interesting market down there have come to some sort of agreement with the local brigands and the Dacians behind them. Probably Omerus and his garrison as well, now I come to think of it.’

  ‘One,’ emphasised Artemidorus, ‘that may well involve them mentioning to their murderous friends, any suspicions they might have about travellers along the via passing through. What they might be carrying, what it might be worth so forth.’

  ‘Information, now I come to think of it,’ said Puella, ‘that Messala and Lucius might have let fall on their way through. They’ve given themselves enough of a lead to make sure that any message they leave here will get out into the mountains well before we show up. They slowed us at Mutatio Claudiana with the figs. Maybe they’ll want to stop us here.’

  ‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ agreed Artemidorus, ‘The figs would be about as far as Ventidius Rufus would have the guts to go – because he daren’t identify himself with Antony’s enemies too early in the game. He has to realise the general will be bringing an army though eventually. And the whole Republic now knows what happens to people Antony and Octavian don’t think they can trust. But this far east, there are other forces at play. Military forces who don’t care about Antony and his armies. If Messala can set the Dacians on us, for instance, then that would certainly be to Brutus’ benefit and everyone here could wash their hands of us and claim innocence. Messala is more than capable of working that out!’

  ‘Always assuming Brutus and Cassius haven’t showed up with their seventeen legions in the mean-time,’ added Ferrata.

  ‘All it would take is a lead long enough to be sure any information they let slip can get to the nearest Dacian camp – three or four days, as Puella says,’ mused Quintus. ‘And there’s certainly enough in our wagons to tempt a raiding party. Arms, supplies, gold...’

  ‘Furthermore,’ nodded Artemidorus, ‘it seems to me the further east we come, the more the locals – citizens and garr
isons – lean towards Brutus and Cassius, which compounds the problems of our stay here. We can’t go on until the morning. And there may well be more than one faction trying to relieve us of vita and impedimenta, life and luggage, tonight.’

  v

  As they made their way through a surprisingly balmy evening from the baths to their billets – and the promise of dinner – Artemidorus and Quintus assessed the buildings they were passing. Not as ancient architectural gems, traditional Hellenic edifices or beautiful antique temples but as potential defensive positions.

  ‘Though of course,’ observed User, ‘if the Dacians do hit us tonight, then that’s only the start of our troubles. We’d still have to fight our way from here to Thessaloniki.’

  ‘Over a hundred miles: three days’ journey at least,’ nodded Artemidorus, ‘through Florina, Edessa and Pella. Once we make Florina, though, we’re in Greece and should be safe enough. I don’t know what there is at Edessa beyond a way station and whatever’s left of an ancient Greek city. But Pella is the capital of Macedonia, where Philip II had his palace, where Alexander himself was born.’ He paused, thinking of the manner in which the gods amused themselves. Artemidorus and his contubernium were passing through Alexander’s birthplace, on their way to the city in which he died, for whom it was named. And where he was preserved, mummified and wrapped in beaten gold, within a crystal coffin open for all to see. ‘If we make a run for Florina we can be there within a day.’ he said. ‘And I suspect only a desperate Dacian would come after us in daylight. Like most praedatores raiders they prefer to work in the dark.’

  ‘But,’ added Quintus darkly, ‘this is where we’re supposed to be leaving the escort Publius sent east with us. So we’ll be cutting our forces by more than half.’

  ‘So,’ mused Artemidorus, ‘if the Dacians do hit us tonight, we’ll have to give them such a bloody nose that they think twice about doing it again. Give us a chance to make it into Greece.’