Caesar's Spies- The Complete Campaigns

by Peter Tonkin

  iii

  Artemidorus slipped the axe back through his belt and retraced his steps. Using his nose, fingertips and what little light there was, he selected the most promising bits and pieces of rubbish he could find. Pieces of wood, old bits of cloth, clothing, sacking. Straw from a burst bale that had just been kicked aside and left. Quickly but carefully, building section upon section, straw, wood, cloth, more wood, more cloth – damp this time - he knelt and piled it all against the tavern door. Then he pulled out the flint and steel. Three firm strikes and the showers of sparks set the straw to smouldering. He blew on the straw until there were flames crackling through the kindling and suddenly one of the pieces of sacking caught – soaked in something combustible. Using the same technique he had employed to send that signal to Charybdis, he soon had a thick column of smoke pouring up against the outside of the door. But most of it only went up as high as that grille, through which it was sucked into the building.

  Artemidorus straightened. Turned. Looked down the alley. Another benefit of the fire was that it lit his way so that mere heartbeats after he turned, he was back at the corner, looking uphill at that all-too impressive guard. He had only been there for a few moments before a riot seemed to break out in the tavern. Someone had smelt the smoke. Fire was among the most feared of all emergencies, here as well as in Rome where fortunes had been made by men like Marcus Licinius Crassus who controlled the vigiles firemen. Guests and staff in various states of undress came streaming out coming past the corner and into his view, followed by the Casca brothers and their men, officers shouting orders and blowing whistles. The watch-keeper was simply swept away from his corner and into the confusion leaving the way uphill open if Artemidorus could get past the milling crowd unsuspected.

  But then footsteps behind him reminded the half-hidden centurion of the other guard – the downhill one blocking the escape route to the docks. Artemidorus drew right back into the mouth of the alley as this soldier pounded past, and he was just about to look out once again when the footsteps stopped; turned; began to come back. Of course they did, thought Artemidorus grimly as he slipped the axe out of his belt once more. What had been a black-throated gut between the backs of two buildings was now as bright as day: enough to attract the attention of a blind man.

  Artemidorus tensed himself. The moment the soldier’s face appeared round the corner, frowning with confusion, he was in motion. Every bit as swiftly and purposefully as he had run at Petipor, he hurled himself at the legionary. The surprise was absolute. The legionary – hardly more than a boy – gaped in wonderment at this vision charging towards him framed in fire like a demon from Tartarus. Killing him would have been easy. He was wearing chain mail armour but the axe would have cut through that – or through his neck or any limb with equal ease. Instead, Artemidorus contented himself with driving the eye at the very top of the axe-head – the only non-lethal section of the weapon – straight into his midriff. Artemidorus’ long-sunken lorica segmentata steel-hoop armour might have withstood the blow – mail never could. It gave way beneath the brutal assault – not breaking but simply yielding. The boy collapsed, winded, choking and puking, fighting almost silently for breath. Artemidorus knelt beside him and slipped off the balteus baldric that contained his gladius and stole his helmet. That was all he could do at the moment – there was neither time nor opportunity to steal his mail coat. So, with the axe safely in his belt once more, the baldric over his shoulder and gladius sitting snugly, Artemidorus put on the legionary’s helmet and made a run for it – uphill heading out of town as fast as he dared.

  *

  By the best of good fortune, the vigiles arrived at the front of the taberna at the same moment as he did and their presence between him and the soldiers searching for him was a very effective piece of cover. He hesitated as the man who looked like the leader of the fire fighters ran past. ‘It’s at the back,’ he called. ‘In the alley behind the inn. Be quick!’ Then he was off again, allowing the shadows to cloak him from the general view. The shadows became his friends from then on, for Neapolis seemed unusually wakeful that evening - not that he had spent much of the one night he had visited here on his way to Alexandria wandering the streets.

  He had only the vaguest notion of the town’s civic plan – it was certainly nothing like a proper disciplined Roman township with its sprawling lay-out and lack of proper design. This seemed especially so after his months in Alexandria with its almost Pythagorean grid of thoroughfares as laid down by Alexander himself. But at least there was one indisputable direction he could rely on. Downhill led to the docks and uphill led inland. There was a city wall as far as he remembered but the outskirts stretched well beyond it and he had no doubt that if there was much in the way of a main gate he would be unlucky to find it guarded.

  It look him a little while to reach the main via joining the town gate to the main dock, which was technically part of the Via Egnatia but the military road seemed somehow diminished by its civic setting into a broad avenue leading straight uphill that seemed vaguely familiar, even under the inconsistent brightness of the torches that blazed on the occasional street corner, house front and municipal building. He seemed to remember riding up this way with his lover at the time the impressive warrior Puella and merchant captain User who had seduced her away. They had been on their way to buy supplies in the market at Philippi. At any other time the memory would have been painful but he had no time to linger over his wounded pride or his damaged heart now.

  The Via led up to the gate. The gate led out to the suburbs. The suburbs flanked the increasingly military extension of this thoroughfare which ran northwards up towards Philippi as straight as an arrow. The Via was a proper Roman army road which linked Dyrrachium on the Macedonian coast opposite the Italian port of Brundisium in the west to Byzantium, 750 Roman miles away to the East. If he was ever going to get to Antony, following the Via Egnatia westward would be the way to do it; especially as it led to Amphipolis, Saxa and Norbanus on its way towards Rome. The problem, with that was if Pacruvius Antistius Labeo, Publius and Gaius Cassius and anyone else nearby were really serious about stopping him, they also knew the Via was his only way back.

  These thoughts were enough to take him to the main gate where the increasing danger of his situation was further emphasised by the fact that it was guarded after all. To be fair there wasn’t actually a gate as such – merely an opening in the wall with a guard tower on either side. But it looked as though there were men in each tower – there were lights and movement at least; and two pairs of legionaries marched from side to side of the roadway, exchanging a word or two as they passed each-other.

  Artemidorus lingered in the friendly shadows, his mind racing, assessing and dismissing one possible course of action after another. He had no papers, even forged ones, so deception was not going to work. Disguise was out of the question. Simple frontal attack was too mad even to be considered – one against four was long odds but might just be feasible, however he had no idea how many more guards were in the towers. Time was also not on his side. The winded legionary would be warning of his attacker’s escape as soon as he got his breath back and everyone knew that apart from the docks there was only one way out of town.

  Should he return to the docks? He wondered, or look for some other way to get through or over the wall.

  He was still calculating the odds when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder

  iv

  ‘There you are!’ hissed Seuthes. ‘We’ve been searching for you ever since Dotos told us what that bastard Petipor was up to. It’s lucky there’s only one road out of here or we’d never have caught up with you. And now that we have, we’d better hurry. The confusion around the tavern won’t last much longer now the fire’s out.’

  Artemidorus turned round. Charybdis’ captain, pilot and oarmaster were backed up by a good number of their crew. ‘How did you find them all?’ he asked, side-tracked.

  ‘We know which whorehouses offer credit,’ said
Seuthes.

  ‘What are you planning to do?’ asked Dotos. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘I have to get through that gate. You can help me do that. And thank you all – especially you, young Dotos.’

  ‘I thought you’d be trying for the gate,’ said Seuthes. ‘You’d better take off the helmet and leave it here. Getas, the wine!’

  The pilot swung an amphora of wine into the air, splashing the liquid liberally over Artemidorus as he stooped to put the helmet on the ground. As the centurion straightened, his nostrils filled with the heady odour of the stuff, he realised that everyone around him also smelt the same.

  ‘Right,’ said the captain. ‘Form up!’

  ‘We do this from time to time,’ whispered Dotos as he took his place at Artemidorus’ side. ‘But it’s usually to get one of the crew away from trouble, hidden in the middle of a larger group.’

  Artemidorus suddenly found himself at the centre of a tight formation of obviously drunken and belligerent sailors. Mostly oarsmen, as they were bellowing their celeuma rowing song – though the lyrics had been adapted to give new meaning to the repetitions of IN and OUT. As tightly organised as any phalanx of legionaries on a battlefield, they marched towards the gate, those on the outside of the group waving amphorae – as though anyone needed any explanation of what was going on here.

  The guards stopped marching from side to side of the road and turned. The four legionaries looked down at the dozen or so drunken sailors lurching towards them. ‘Optio!’ shouted one of them, and the optio custodiarum petty officer in charge of the guard post appeared with two more legionaries at his shoulder.

  ‘OPTIO!’ bellowed Artemidorus’ companions. ‘Let us through!’ continued their inebriated captain. ‘There’s a new lupinarium brothel outside the adiles’ magistrates’ reach where the meretrices are the most beautiful and accommodating in all Macedonia and we’re only in port for one night!’

  ‘IN!’ sang his companions. ‘OUT!’

  The optio looked at the approaching mob with experienced eyes, clearly weighing the odds, possibly also trying to work out if the man they were looking out for was one of the drunken sailors. The outcome of his calculations was by no means hard to predict. If he and his six men tried to stop the raucous crowd they would be outnumbered at least two-to-one and they’d have to make a fight of it. Fair enough, the legionaries were armoured and armed with swords and daggers but the approaching men were big, strong and determined. Carrying the gods alone knew what weapons concealed about themselves. Confrontation could only lead to bloodshed at best or deaths at worst; reports to irate commanders and local authorities both in the town and down in the docks – everyone from those pompous Casca brothers to the local prefect to the harbourmaster – not to mention the paperwork. Headaches of all sorts. And he was here looking for a well-turned out, recently shaven officer fresh and fragrant from the already legendary court of Queen Cleopatra, not a pack of legless wine-stinking matelots out whoring.

  ‘Alright men,’ he said. ‘Let them through.’

  *

  Seuthes and his crew led Artemidorus into the nearest convenient side-street outside the gate. ‘What are you all going to do now?’ he asked. ‘You can’t go back in tonight…’

  ‘We could,’ said Seuthes. ‘We could pretend to be disappointed because our search for this brothel failed to find anything.’

  Artemidorus said nothing. The captain’s tone gave too much away. So it came as no surprise when Dotos added, aglow with youthful enthusiasm, ‘The brothel is real. We can spend the night there!’

  ‘Join us?’ suggested the captain. ‘I wager you can still do with a good night’s sleep. Even counting what you must have paid for that sacrifice in the Temple of Poseidon, you can certainly afford it!’

  ‘No,’ decided Artemidorus. ‘I had better push on. You may have managed to smuggle me through the gate but I’m still a hunted man. The search will spread out beyond the walls pretty soon after anyone talks to that optio. When they find you in the brothel you said you were heading for, there shouldn’t be any trouble. If they find me there too then you’ll all be crucified.’

  ‘What’s the plan then?’ asked Seuthes.

  ‘Same as before,’ shrugged Artemidorus. ‘Go west until I find Antony or Generals Saxa and Norbanus – who should be able to help me get to him…’

  ‘The immediate plan?’

  ‘I can walk to Philippi up this section of the Via Emilia in maybe four hours, get there soon after dawn, go to the market. Spend some of this silver more sensibly than I would do in your brothel. Get a decent horse at any rate. Then head west along the Via.’

  ‘I hope Fortuna smiles on you, then, and Achilleus holds his hand over you.’ Seuthes offered his hand as he spoke. Artemidorus took it, forearm to forearm, first with the captain and then with all of the men who had helped him escape. Dotos last. ‘Take care, lad.’

  ‘I will!’ promised the boy, but Artemidorus suspected that care was the last thing the young sailor would take. At least it looked as though the captain was taking a fatherly interest in the lad.

  At last Artemidorus turned and began to trudge northwards as Charybdis’ crew members vanished into the shadows behind him. Pretty soon he left the outskirts behind and followed the road as much by feel as by sight as the darkness closed around him. But his eyes adjusted somewhat. The stars were out, clouds hurried away by that brisk wind. The sickle moon was thickening and sitting just above the eastern horizon on his right. The north-running roadway was twenty feet wide and glimmered faintly dead ahead. His ears and nose helped too. During the first hour or so he found himself walking between increasingly steep forested hill-slopes and the scents of the woodland seemed to sharpen his senses like wine. But after that he found himself descending onto a vast open plain. The slope he was following gave him a broad vista of everything that lay before him as he went down onto the level. On his left there was a great area of swampland webbed with rivers that all seemed to flow into a great moon-silvered lake at its heart. The swampland stretching away to the west where the moon lay and the wind was coming from. The reeds that clothed it stood tall and whispered in the steady breeze. The stench of bog came and went. Every now and then the Via stepped over a river and the smells of mud and water intensified. The sounds of wind in trees and rushes were briefly subsumed in the gurgle of running water. On the other side, on his right, a plain stretched away eastwards towards more, invisible, mountains which the east-running arm of the Via could only cross by following steep-sided, precipitous passes in the tribal lands of the Sapaei and the Corpili.

  As the hills between Artemidorus and the port town fell further behind, so the areas to right and left underwent subtle changes. A chorus of frogs and toads rivalled the oarsmen’s rowing song in volume in the wetland on one side. Cicadas sang in the grassland on the other. But there was more than singing and whispering from the reeds – the sounds of larger animals rooting around in there caused Artemidorus to frown and touch the haft of his axe. But even when he stopped and stared there was nothing to see. Only a steady westerly blowing in over the reedbeds, now bringing the stench of bog and swamp, now bringing an aroma reminiscent of wheat fields at harvest-time.

  On his right, the grassland stretched away, cicada singing and invisible at first, but as dawn began to threaten in the east, he heard the howls of hunting wolves coming closer amongst the last of night’s slowly departing shadows. The first great flights of birds winged low overhead, flying towards the sea and Egypt or Africa Province beyond.

  Such was the enchantment of the experience combined with the still strong exhaustion he was feeling that he did not hear the thunder of hoofbeats approaching behind him until it was very nearly too late.

  v

  Artemidorus scrambled down the incline leading off the elevated Via into the swampy reed-beds. The light was beginning to gather, colouring the sky above him the pale blue of a marine’s uniform tunic washed with pink and gold. Any moment now, he th
ought, it would illuminate the bending, seed-filled fronds at the tops of the reeds themselves. The Via stood high enough to allow anyone paying attention to look across the reeds and see the tracks left by any large body moving heedlessly through them. Especially someone sitting higher still on horseback. He hesitated at the wall of tall stems that represented the eastern edge of the vast swamp, therefore, and invested a little of the brief time he had in easing himself into the cover, leaving as little trace as possible behind himself.

  The whispering reeds closed around him at once not only hiding him but also effectively blinding him. Nevertheless, he pushed forward for several minutes as the sounds of the horses and their riders seemed to approach the very spot where he had left the road and linger there. Hooves stamped and voices called indistinctly above the rustling, rattling, rooting and wheezing. He reckoned anywhere between four and six riders. But who were they? What had caused them to stop where they had?