by Peter Tonkin
‘All you have to do, Septem, is to keep Messala away from us while we work,’ added Kyros. ‘If and when he comes round.’
‘And I need to make sure User comes up with a plausible reason for taking his time coming into port,’ said Artemidorus, nodding. ‘Once we get on dry land, Messala is likely to want to deliver Brutus’ message as soon as possible, whether he’s fit to go or not. And we know Lucius is keen to go with anyone heading for Cassius’ camp.’
He ran up onto Triton’s main deck and strode across to User.
‘We need to make time before we land,’ he said. ‘I can keep control over things while we’re at sea. But once we dock, Messala will want to get on. If I try to stop him then, he’ll know something’s up.’
‘Tell him we came west in our attempt to help Arke,’ User suggested. ‘That took us away from Ashkelon. It has taken some time to move Messala safely, then free the corvus, doing as little damage to Captain Potitus’ deck as possible, and raising it into position. It is true that my oar team are largely unwounded, but they have been through a nasty skirmish and are exhausted. We will proceed at a gentle pace until sunset, therefore. Then we will anchor, sacrifice the last of the livestock in thanks to the gods who held their hands over us today and feast to our victory. Then the men will rest. And we will reach Ashkelon tomorrow. Will that do?’
‘Admirably,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ll go through it if he asks.’
‘And you could point out,’ User added, ‘that if it wasn’t for us he would be dead or on his way to the pirates’ favourite slave market by now. Where would his urgent message be then?’
Artemidorus turned away. User’s argument was unanswerable, his logic unquestionable. They had the rest of the day and tonight to complete their work, and once the ship was at anchor she should ride easily enough for his forgers to do their work perfectly. At long last, having seen to everyone else, the centurion thought it was time to see about himself. The wound on his arm was still seeping, the edges of the cut gaping open. It wasn’t deep enough to touch the bone and the arrowhead didn’t seem to have severed any arteries. But his arm was stiff and sore.
*
Artemidorus went below, past the rowers, moving to the pausarius’ easiest drumbeat, too tired to give much life to the song that kept them in rhythm. On down, past the area where Kyros and Notus were working on Brutus’ message – ensuring there was no way they could be observed by a casual passer-by. And so he entered Crinas’ area. The space was crowded. Two oarsmen had sustained slight wounds – no worse than Artemidorus’. Crinas was patching them up, preparing to send them back on duty. Lucius was there. Not because he was wounded but because his friend was. He knelt beside Messala’s still body with a worried look on his face. Crinas glanced up as the centurion entered. ‘Head wound,’ he said, motioning across at Messala. ‘Bathed and cleaned. I have no idea when he’ll wake up. There is swelling but no softness. No evidence of a broken skull. That in itself is hopeful.’
Artemidorus nodded wearily, suddenly overcome by fatigue.
‘That’s a nasty-looking gash on your arm,’ continued the physician gently. ‘Better let me have a look at it.’
Artemidorus crossed to him with a little difficulty. Sat when the oarsmen left the crowded room. Held out his oozing arm. ‘Do you think that drowning is a bad way to die?’ he asked.
‘I can think of worse,’ said Crinas, picking up a jar of unguent that smelt strongly of sage. ‘I’d guess the quicker you give into the inevitable the less painful it would be.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ added Lucius in an apparently genuine attempt to help. ‘At least if you sink quickly the sharks won’t get you before you die.’
After that, there was silence.
Crinas had spread the salve over Artemidorus’ arm and was tying the bandage in place when Lucius spoke again, ‘Crinas!’
They both looked over at the young man and saw at once why he had called out.
Messala’s eyes were open.
vi
‘They took the gold, but General Brutus’ dispatches are safe,’ said Artemidorus gently. ‘We have them secure.’
‘Where?’ asked Messala, his voice faint ‘Where are General Brutus’ messages?’
‘Just a moment…’ Artemidorus went to the area assigned to Messala and picked up the satchel. Thank the gods he had thought to put the empty tube and seal back in there after they had removed the vital scroll, prompted by Kyros’ concerns. Only the closest examination would prove it to be empty. And Messala was in no condition to do more than glance at it, which was all he did before sagging back, exhausted by the effort. ‘I’ll keep it safe,’ promised Artemidorus.
‘Where am I?’ asked the wounded Tribune.
Artemidorus drew breath to answer. But Kyros interrupted, pushing his head and shoulders into the little room. ‘Septem, there is something you should see.’
‘You explain, Lucius,’ he said as he turned to follow his forger out.
Artemidorus followed Kyros out of Crinas’ makeshift hospital, put the satchel with Messala’s kit in case he asked for it again, then followed Kyros, his mouth dry and his heart pounding as though he was about to join another battle. There was a thunderous rumbling from the deck above him. The ship’s motion changed. The oars were in and the anchor no doubt about to go down for the night.
Notus started speaking quietly as soon as Artemidorus entered the little cabin. ‘It was Caesar’s code,’ he said, ‘easy enough to break. Do you want it word for word – it’s a bit long-winded – or shall I give you the important bits?’
‘The important bits to begin with. We have all night so there isn’t too much time pressure as long as we can all stay awake and focused, but I’ll be happier when it’s all done.’
‘Right.’ Notus cleared his throat. ‘General Brutus says he has sent some of the gold General Cassius requested. Not all of it but enough for Cassius to get his legions across the border. Once in Egypt, they will be able to acquire as much gold as they could ever want, he says. Then Cassius can come back north – either over land or by sea from Alexandria. Bringing Egypt’s gold with him. Brutus suggests that the generals can get together at Sardis. It is inland from Smyrna, which has a good port but is also easily accessible from further inland, so it doesn’t matter which way he comes. Brutus’ latest intelligence suggests Antony is stuck in Brundisium and Octavianus is in Sicily trying to destroy Sextus Pompey’s fleet so they have plenty of time to get together and discuss their next move. If Cassius can get the Egyptian gold and put Cleopatra’s sister Arsinoe on the throne, so they can be certain that they have a firm friend in Alexandria, then they can combine their armies, dig in at the strongest position they can find – preferably within easy reach of the sea to keep their armies well supplied – and wait for Antony, certain that he will have trouble with supply lines and communications as he moves further and further away from his base in Italy. Especially as Brutus and Cassius will rule the waves with three navies – Ahenobarbus’, Murcus’ and the Egyptian navy which the grateful Arsinoe will be happy to put under their command.’
‘A disturbingly well conceived stratagem,’ said Artemidorus. ‘And one which, if Cassius moves swiftly enough, will almost certainly succeed. If Cassius acts on these suggestions both Cleopatra and Antony are doomed. Is there anything else?’
‘Nothing of the same importance. Brutus passes on the news of his wife Porcia’s death in case Cassius hasn’t heard. He gives some idea of friends and associates killed or ruined in Antony’s proscriptions, as well as listing those, like Messala, who have managed to escape and are coming east to join them. Then there’s a list of the towns and cities from whom he has exacted tax revenues, with details of how he did so and how much he managed to get.’ Notus looked at his translation of Brutus’ dispatch, frowning. Then he asked, ‘Captain User had family in Xanthus did he not?’
‘He did. They all died when the city was destroyed. All the citizens were either killed by frien
ds and families or committed suicide. No-one survived.’
‘Not according to Brutus. He says here that he took a few prisoners in Xanthus, mostly women and children trying to escape the slaughter. He has sent them all to the slave market in Delos together with the captives from the other towns he has sacked. He estimates that their sale will add considerably to the war-chest he is getting together.’
*
‘You know User best, Puella,’ said Artemidorus moments later. They were standing in the shadow of the tower on Triton’s after deck. Near the main mast, the crew were gathered while a goat was sacrificed in thanks to the gods for their victory. The Spartan spy should have been sacrificing to Achilleus, but Olympus, the gods and demi-gods would have to wait. ‘I’ve come to you because neither Ferrata nor Quintus likes or trusts him – even after today. When do you think we should tell him?’
‘We must tell him soon!’ Her voice was almost lost beneath the merriment down the deck. There was just enough light to see the shock in her face.
‘Yes, we must,’ he agreed. ‘But when? If we tell him now, he’s quite capable of turning Triton around and heading for Delos at once with all of us still aboard. I know his family is important and the least chance they are still alive needs to be followed up as swiftly as possible – before they are split up and sold on. But the fate of the Republic hangs on us getting our message to Cassius. The fate of Egypt too.’
‘Tell him as soon as we dock, then. If you don’t trust him to keep his word to you before he goes off to try and save them.’
‘That’s wise advice…’
‘As long as you don’t mind making an enemy of him. An enemy for life if he gets to Delos too late.’
Artemidorus nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said heavily. ‘But I have many enemies, Puella, almost all of them more powerful and ruthless than User.’
She gave a sad smile. ‘That’s true enough,’ she agreed.
‘So. The moment we dock and get ashore with Messala and the dispatches. I will try and avoid him in the mean-time.’
‘And I will tell him in the morning. Stay aboard for a while longer than the rest of you if I have to. It will be better coming from me.’
‘Good,’ he said. But he knew in his bones that it wasn’t good at all.
Puella went forward onto the centre of the main deck where the fire tray blazed and the victory feast was beginning. Artemidorus looked around, glad to find User didn’t seem to be present; immediately struck by the sad fact that Furius was not there either. His belly growled at the scent of roasting goat but at the same time he felt sick to his stomach. His body ached with fatigue and his head throbbed almost as painfully as his arm. But his work for the night was only just beginning.
He turned, bone-weary, and went back down to the cramped cabin where Kyros and Notus were waiting to hear what he wanted them to put in the forged dispatch to Cassius, to be delivered to the General and Libertore some time tomorrow. On the way, he visited Crinas’ area. Messala seemed to be improving, which was a bad thing, though he was still complaining of a serious headache. ‘I need my dispatch case,’ he said, his voice a little slurred still. ‘I don’t want it disappearing like the gold.’
When Artemidorus returned with it, he met the physician’s gaze. ‘Perhaps a medicinal draught would ease the Tribune’s pain,’ he said. ‘And help him sleep’
Crinas nodded once.
When he returned a little later, Messala was in a deep sleep. He eased the leather dispatch case out from his grasp and carried it to the door. ‘I’ll be sure to put it back before he wakes,’ he said as he left.
XVI: Cassius
i
‘Ride?’ snarled Messala. ‘Of course I can ride. It was my head that was wounded not my fornicating legs!’
In the pale light of an overcast morning, it was all too obvious his head was wounded. Crinas’ thickly cushioned, carefully applied bandage largely lay on the dockside at the irate Tribune’s feet so that he could jam his helmet in place. He had laboriously put on his best tunic, full armour and specualtore’s shoulder-bag before staggering ashore. He was standing firmly now, though he checked in the leather satchel every few moments to make sure that Brutus’ crucial dispatch was still there.
Messala had walked down the gangplank and made it here from the securely-docked ship with only an occasional a stagger. But his face was pale, almost the colour of lead.
‘We’ll probably need to get a tumbrel for your baggage and effects,’ persisted Artemidorus. ‘If you feel dizzy – as Crinas warns you will – you can always sit in that.’
‘No! I will ride. I will carry General Brutus’ dispatches and hand them to General Cassius in person, as General Brutus ordered.’ He checked in the satchel yet again.
‘Very well, Tribune…’ Artemidorus was about to add on your own head be it but thought better of that at the last moment.
He looked at Ashkelon’s dockside. Triton was moored amongst half a dozen similar vessels, though she was the only one with a fighting tower and a corvus. User’s crew were bringing the last of Lucius’ and Messala’s effects ashore. It was time to get going, he thought. The best thing to do with fear is to face it.
Quintus and Ferrata came down the gang-plank, side by side. As they approached, Artemidorus said, ‘We’ll need five horses and a tumbrel.’ He unhooked his purse from his belt and tossed it to Quintus. ‘I’ll want you two to accompany me. The others can wait aboard until we return.’
‘If we do,’ said Ferrata, sotto voce.
The two legionaries vanished up the hill towards the centre of town. Messala abruptly collapsed onto a pile of boxes and travelling chests that made a convenient seat. The leather case jammed uncomfortably under his arm. He checked in it once again.
Artemidorus crossed the quay to the foot of Triton’s gangplank and looked up it. Kyros and Notus would be sound asleep after their long night of forgery. Hunefer was up and about, his massive form unmistakable on top of the fighting tower, with Hercules only slightly smaller by his side. Messala had left Crinas tidying his makeshift hospital in a huff, the Tribune having told him that the bandages would come off as soon as he reached dry land and put his helmet on. Furius was lying at the bottom of the sea out there beyond the harbour, his spirit, hopefully, running through the Elysian Fields.
And, somewhere deep in the heart of the ship, Puella was explaining to User what Brutus’ message had revealed about his plans for the captives from Xanthus. And what he, Artemidorus, had chosen to do with that vital information.
‘Here we are, Septem,’ called Ferrata. ‘Five fine horses and a lad with a tumbrel pulled by a mule. And you even have some change.’
*
They rode in two lines, Messala in front with Lucius on one side and Artemidorus on the other, as close as they dared – risking their knees in case Messala toppled sideways. Behind them, Quintus and Ferrata, side by side. The spy felt almost as faint as the courier. He had been up all night after the stress of yesterday’s battle and the shock of losing Furius; the strain of undertaking the riskiest part of the most dangerous mission of his life. As he rode in brooding silence, he mentally rehearsed the conversations he would have with Cassius if things went wrong.
The General was no fool. Even if Kyros’ and Notus’ work was as perfect as it seemed, there might be some element of the carefully crafted message that would give the game away. And even if Cassius took the message and its contents at face value, he might still recognize Artemidorus as Antony’s man. During the terrible days immediately after the Ides of March two years ago, Artemidorus had been the vital link between Antony, Cassius, Brutus and Cicero. Disguised of course, but Cassius wasn’t blind – he could see through disguises…
But wait. Although he wasn’t actually blind, Cassius did have notoriously bad eyesight. Bad and getting worse as he aged. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise Artemidorus after all.
But, even if Cassius accepted the story that Artemidorus had become involved simply beca
use he had rescued first Lucius from Cleopatra and then Messala from pirates, wouldn’t the unrivalled ruler of this part of the Roman Republic simply assign such a useful soldier to some duties in his own command? What if, instead of handing him over to his torturers for questioning and crucifixion, Cassius simply appointed Artemidorus to his staff?
Either way, Artemidorus, Quintus and Ferrata, it seemed, would be extremely lucky to get out of Cassius’ camp – alive or dead.
Perhaps he had made a fatal mistake in coming.
And yet he simply had to see that the message was handed over in person. To support – physically if necessary – the wounded messenger and ensure he got to Cassius safely. Then he had to judge its effect on the general, his thinking and his actions. Both of which he had to report to Cleopatra and Antony. With the certainty of someone who had seen it for himself. The fate of the Republic hung on that careful forgery and Cassius’ reaction to it. Even at the risk of his life – leaving aside how he was likely to die – he had to be there to witness it himself.
ii
The gate into Cassius’ camp, the towers on either side and the wall it pierced were all much taller than Artemidorus remembered, which struck him as odd, for he had last seen them from the bottom of the ditch. The sound of the horses’ hooves rang hollow as they trotted over the bridge and into the camp. The guards in the towers and on the ground looked at them, but Messala held up his courier’s satchel which worked as a very efficient pass. The little group kicked their horses from their trot up to a canter.
‘Rushing towards our fatum doom,’ said Ferrata.
‘You’re a bundle of laughs this morning,’ said Quintus. ‘Our own little Plautus!’
Ferrata merely grunted in reply and looked apprehensively around, his one eye narrow with suspicion. But all there was to see were several thousand legionaries having breakfast of bread and vinegar water.
