Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Ramming speed!’ shouted Seuthes, and Artemidorus looked back at where the ship was heading. The last of the other vessels pulled out of her way, its captain standing on the stern, shouting something the centurion took to be insults.

  But no. Seuthes chuckled. ‘He wants us to ram the quinquireme. Give it one from him and his crew.’

  Getas laughed, clearly excited by the desperate action. ‘Any time now,’ he said.

  *

  ‘You’re not really going to ram her, are you?’ asked Artemidorus, thinking that he wouldn’t put it past them in their current mood. The harbour walls shut in on either side like crabs’ claws closing, guiding them relentlessly to that central deep-water channel where the quinquireme sat beam-on blocking the exit. But, noted the centurion, the Roman was getting uneasy now as it became obvious that Charybdis was on course to ram her precisely midships where her huge mast was stepped. And was coming to do so at the better part of fifteen knots. Without Legate Cimber aboard to guide him, the Roman captain started to get nervous. Distant orders, just audible over the lusty rowing song, came echoing into the harbour. The quinquireme began to move, easing back and swinging round to present her own ram, just in case.

  ‘COWARD!’ bellowed Seuthes as Charybdis powered through the harbour mouth. ‘But then I wagered you would be…’

  The fort full of Labeo’s men stood all too close on one hand and its twin away on the other, seeming to be a part of the massive trireme as it eased into position.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Seuthes.

  Getas sprang into action, lending his strength to that of Petipor and his brother, pulling the steering board hard over. Below deck, Olorus shouted a series of orders. The oars on the starboard side continued to pull forward at ramming speed. But those on the port side backed water, pushing in the opposite direction. Charybdis span within her own length, turning from a northward heading to a westward one. Then the port side oars were back in the water and the trireme was racing out of the harbour, steadying on her new course. A heartbeat later, yet another order caused all oars to be pulled aboard as Charybdis, with her shallow draft, skimmed over the rocky outcrop that reached from the foot of the squat fort to the edge of the deep-water channel. The wall of the castle passed so close that Artemidorus felt he could have reached out and touched the grey stones of the wall. He looked up, and there was the tribune Labeo glaring down at him. Their eyes met and the air between them seemed to shiver as though a fire burned there.

  The way came off the trireme, but she still made it over the shallows and as soon as she did so, the oars came out again and she was off, easing back to attack speed as she perfected her escape.

  The captain of the quinquireme, no doubt shamed to have been shown up in front of the powerful tribune, not to mention the legate in command of the entire fleet, ordered his own oarmaster to attack speed and the great vessel moved forward with surprising alacrity as Seuthes and Getas hooted with derisive laughter. Laughter that was drowned out moments later by the grating, grinding sound of the quinquireme’s ram running up onto that solid rock shelf.

  Seuthes shouted another set of orders and the oarsmen performed the reverse of the move that had spun them onto a westward heading so that moments later they were racing north with Neapolis only a matter of hours distant, dead ahead.

  IV - Night in Neapolis

  i

  Seuthes and Getas steered Charybdis between the modest lighthouses through the entrance to Neapolis harbour. The twin lights had guided them for the last section of the journey up from Thasos after dark, though at first they had sent a man to the masthead in search of them. This port was much wider and more welcoming than the one they had left. As they arrived after dark there was not much activity but there was room for them to tie up at the dockside and as soon as they had done so, the trierarch gave the crew permission to go ashore.

  ‘Some of them have wives and families here,’ he said to Artemidorus as they watched the men streaming cheerfully down the gang planks. ‘The rest have tabs at the local brothels. And they’ll be back to unload tomorrow bright and early.’

  ‘How can you be so sure of that?’ asked Artemidorus.

  ‘Simple,’ said Getas who stood at Seuthes’ shoulder watching the men stream away. ‘He hasn’t paid them. No pay until everything is unloaded, in the warehouses and for the most part paid for by the merchants wanting to move the cargoes on.’

  ‘Talking of moving on…’ said Artemidorus, Tribune Labeo mentioned Antony’s generals Saxa and Norbanus dug in at Amphipolis. I’ll try to reach them in the first instance.’.

  ‘You won’t get far tonight,’ said Seuthes. ‘I’d suggest a bath, something to eat and a nice warm woman to share your bed. I can recommend a taberna that has its own bathhouse. Too expensive for soldiers to visit but within your budget, I’d wager, and well clear of the barracks. Good food. And the tavern keeper’s the spirit of honesty too, though his wife would make an excellent Legate for Brutus now that Labeo has stabbed himself in the foot and let us escape.’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ said Artemidorus. He had visited the town once before, overnighted here and explored the hinterland as far as the hill-town of Philippi, but he couldn’t really say that he knew the place at all so he was happy to take Seuthes’ suggestions and directions.

  As Seuthes was telling him how to get to the taberna he was recommending, the last of the crew were leaving, Getas’ massive helmsmen amongst them. Artemidorus interrupted the captain’s directions to talk to his huge opponent. ‘No hard feelings, Petipor?’ he thrust his hand out.

  The helmsman took it, forearm to forearm. ‘You fooled me good,’ he rumbled. ‘That never happened before.’ And he went off down the gangplank with his brother and young Dotos.

  ‘What are your plans?’ asked Seuthes when he had finished explaining how to get to the tavern.

  ‘Find someone who supports Antony, though I might have to get pretty far back along the Via Egnatia to do that unless Saxa and Norbanus really are holed up in Amphipolis. Then get to the general himself if I can, though from the sound of things that’ll mean riding further west still, maybe as far as Dyrrachium and getting a ship to Italy if he still hasn’t made it across. Whatever it takes, he needs to know that Cleopatra tried to help him at least.’

  ‘I meant more in the short term.’

  ‘Travelling kit. A good horse. Armour, maybe – things could get a little challenging between here and Amphipolis.’

  ‘That’s what I supposed,’ said the trierarch. ‘So I think you’ll probably need this more than I will.’ And he handed Artemidorus the faceless soldier’s battle axe.

  *

  The tavern was everything Seuthes promised. Artemidorus felt confident enough to leave his purse and weapons with the tavern keeper when he went into the modest bath-house. Which might have been small, but was clean, well-maintained and well run and, best of all, deserted at the moment except for attendant slaves. He lay back in the steaming caldarium pool which was just short of boiling hot and considered matters. The first thing that had struck him on entering the tavern was the fact that he was alone. Even in the cheerful throng of patrons he was fundamentally on his own. Not just alone like he had been on the raft with nothing but nature to contend with – nothing but the gods to fear - but alone in a way he could hardly remember having been since childhood. He was used to having his fellows, his oarsmen companions, his gladiator associates and his various contuberniae army squads to guard his back as he watched theirs. He found it vaguely unsettling that he had to rely on the honesty of strangers rather than on the watchful eyes of Quintus and Ferrata now. And, given how challenging the little command had found the journey out here, he knew in his bones he was going to have to plan his lonely return with extreme care and caution. For, as Labeo had said with masterly understatement, everywhere east and west, north and south of Philippi had become a war-zone.

  Around the time Artemidorus and his group had set out, Antony had been planning
to send his generals Saxa and Norbanus with four legions each over into Macedonia to prepare the way for his invasion, working on the assumption that the two generals could sneak across from Italia to Thrace and Macedonia in a couple of days rather than the weeks of clement weather and clear sea-lanes Antony and Octavian would need to move their twenty or so legions with all their support units and equipment. And it seemed that even the rumour of Cleopatra’s preparations had allowed them to do so.

  Artemidorus was frankly astonished that the generals had moved so far and so fast to get past Philippi, but then to be driven back by troops loyal to Brutus and Cassius, and outflanked by Tillius Cimber and his fleet emphasised the dangers of over-extending their supply lines and communications. He assumed they were holed up in Amphipolis hoping for supplies to reach them by sea there. But Cassius’ navies and Cimber’s fleet would have put a stop to that. So at the moment he had little idea where the troops loyal to Antony were other than in their bolt-hole west of here. While he knew exactly where the troops loyal to Brutus and Cassius were – all around him. He hadn’t needed the confrontation with Pacruvius Antistius Labeo and Tillius Cimber’s flagship to realise that. Several months ago he had seen Brutus himself in the blazing heart of Xanthus. The Casca brothers had been with him, along with several other senior officers. The pair of them now Brutus’ men on the run from Antony, Octavian, their legions and their vengeance. Men like that would be scattered all over Thrace and Macedonia now, preparing for the inevitable invasion which Antony promised, when he and Octavian came to back up Norbanus and Saxa before moving on to take their war to the conspirators. Artemidorus was dreamily wondering which others of Caesar’s murderers and their friends might be lurking nearby when his nose went under the water and he realised he was falling asleep.

  The weary centurion pulled himself out of the bath and handed himself over to the slave for massaging with scented oils and a little work with the strigil. Then he climbed into his clothes and went back into the main room. Half a chicken, a sizeable loaf, yet more sausages and a jug of Falernian later, he followed a young house slave with a lamp up to the last single room in the place, loaded down with a bundle of belt and weapons he was too tired to put on properly. The slave showed him up to the second level of the building and along a balcony lined on one side with bedroom doors and on the other with a handrail designed to stop the unwary falling down into the atrium. The last of the doors opened into the modest, windowless chamber whose sloping ceiling showed it to be under the eaves.

  The slave, put the lamp on the floor and lingered just inside the doorway. Artemidorus collapsed into a sitting position on the simple bed and dumped everything onto the thin blanket beside him. He looked up at the slave. ‘Well?’

  ‘My mistress wishes me to offer you satisfaction in any form you choose. The price is reasonable.’

  The slave looked as exhausted as Artemidorus felt but he had seen the landlady in action while he was eating his dinner and he would not have wanted to cross her himself.

  ‘What is the price?’ he asked.

  The slave named a reasonably modest sum.

  ‘And how long does the giving of satisfaction usually last?’ he wondered.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Then sit here on the bed beside me and tell me about yourself. You look as though you could use a rest, and after a while I’ll pay up and off you go.’

  The slave frowned. ‘I am not used to such kindness…’

  ‘At the moment it’s all I’m capable of in any case.’ He swept the weapons onto the floor. ‘Come,’ he said gently. ‘Sit.’

  The slave obeyed but there was sadly little to describe in the life of a tavern-slave prostituted to enhance the income of the house so Artemidorus talked a little about his own life and how he managed to escape from slavery at the oar of a Cilician pirate ship to join the VIIth legion through the good offices of Gaius Julius Caesar himself; the man whose murder it was now his mission to avenge.

  About ten heartbeats after the slave left and he snuffed out the lamp he was sound asleep.

  ii

  ‘Centurion! Centurion, wake up!’ The urgent voice seemed to come from very far away.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Soldiers! Looking for you.’ The voice was familiar. It belonged to the young slave. The urgency of the tone was unmistakable.

  Artemidorus had the soldier’s trick of springing from deep sleep to complete wakefulness in a heartbeat. He opened his eyes. The slave held a lamp, shielding it with one hand. The light shone up the anxious face. There was no mistaking the truth of the words. But as he swung his feet to the floor, thankful that he had been too tired to bother removing his caligae or tunic, he asked, ‘For me? How do you know?’ His hand went to his chest feeling the reassuring bulge of the purse beneath the sturdy linen.

  ‘They have your description. They know your name.’

  ‘Is there a back way out of here?’ he grabbed the jumble of belt and weapons.

  ‘I will show you. We must be quick.’

  As he followed the slave out onto the balcony, Artemidorus was swinging the belt round his waist. The weight of the axe made it more difficult than it would have been with a gladius, but he managed to cinch it tight and settle his pugio dagger on his hip.

  A glance over the railing showed how right his young saviour was and made him freeze in place for a moment, mind racing. A ten-legionary squad was assembled down there, fully armed and looking for trouble. They were led by four men he recognised all too well. In full armour and wearing their badges of rank, the Casca brothers Publius and Gaius were engaged in angry discussion with the innkeeper’s outraged wife while Petipor and his brother stood to one side. Clearly there had been hard feelings after all, he thought wryly. But the innkeeper’s wife was being of enormous help to him, though she was unaware of the fact. Her outrage at the thought of her guests being disturbed in the middle of the night with the consequent damage to the reputation of the establishment was enough to give pause even to men who had thought nothing of personally slaughtering the most powerful man in the Republic; indeed, the most powerful man in the world.

  The slave hissed at him and he was in motion once again as he was guided down the back stairs and into the slaves’ area. The alarm had not been raised yet – though it would be the instant the Casca brothers ran out of patience and set their legionaries to searching the tavern. In the mean-time, the slave led Artemidorus to the posticum rear entrance. The door was solid and heavily barred. At head height, there was a grille over a square opening so that visitors could be identified before they were admitted; a wise move for a successful establishment in a port-town full of itinerant sailors who might be anything from foreign legionaries to Cilician pirates. The Cassius brothers and their men seemed to have left the front door open because there was a breeze coming in through the grille so powerfully it could have filled Chaybdis’ main sail.

  In the flickering light of the lamp, the pair of them slid the bolts back until Artemidorus could swing it open on thankfully silent hinges, aided by the incoming breeze. As he had already glimpsed through the grille, the door opened out into a stinking back alley which was almost absolutely lightless. The soldier stepped gingerly out into the stygian angiportum lane as the door closed behind him. He paused for a moment, waiting for his vision, dazzled by the lamp-flame, to clear. He heard the bolts sliding home behind him then, almost at once, the outburst of banging, clattering, shouting and swearing as the legionaries went to work.

  *

  Allowing Fortuna to take charge, though sending up a swift prayer to Achilleus and clutching the nameless goddess on his belt, Artemidorus turned right. What light there was seemed to be coming from that end of the alley and sufficiently brightly to warn him of the piles of rubbish and heaps of carrion and worse lying in his way. As he approached the end of the passageway, he saw a rectangle of brightness bounded by the ground, two tall walls with a narrow gap between them and a beam at twice head-height ho
lding them apart. Above the beam was the night sky, below it the reflected lustre of the flaming torches that stood on either side of the great erect winged phallus of the fascinus above the tavern’s main door. There wasn’t much brilliance because the torches were flaring and guttering in the brisk wind and the light they gave had to come round the corner of the building to reach the street beyond the back street’s mouth – and another to get into the alley itself.

  As he approached the end of the passageway, Artemidorus sucked in a deep breath, controlling his reaction to the stench of the air he was breathing. He stopped moving, straining to hear the slightest sound above the uproar in the tavern behind him. He could hear nothing, and was just about to move forward again when a shadow fell across the opening he was creeping towards. He froze, waiting. No sound. No further movement. He pulled the axe out of his belt, some distant part of his mind regretting the lack of his gladius. The axe was a considerable weapon – heavy, curved blade almost sharp enough to shave with, flat, square back with a lethal spike sticking a hand’s breadth out of it. Perfectly fashioned for combat on the battlefield; far too unwieldy for fights in back-alleys. But, on the other hand, the dagger was unlikely to be much use if the opponent was, as he feared, one of the Cascas’ men, fully armed and armoured.

  Pressing his back to the wall, Artemidorus peered round the corner and saw his worst fears confirmed. Well, he thought, perhaps not his worst fears. There was only one legionary, which was better than a whole squad. But the only things missing from the guard’s armoury were his shield and spear, which to be fair were not usually carried on city patrols in any case. But this was an experienced watch keeper, which was going to be a problem. He was standing by the far corner of the building at a slight angle which gave him excellent surveillance of the main road past the front of the inn and this one that crossed it at right-angles leading down to the docks behind the fugitive and uphill to freedom beyond the watch-keeper. The guard wasn’t just standing at the perfect angle, he was positioned with his back to the wall at the very edge of the tavern so that there was no way to creep up behind him. Artemidorus glanced back downhill – the docks would be better than nothing, he thought. But even as he did so, he saw that another legionary had taken up position down there. Unless he could think of something very quickly indeed, Artemidorus was going to find himself trapped. And, soon after that, captured.