by Peter Tonkin
Nor, when he returned to the window, did he have any trouble picking his objectives out of the busy throng as soon as they arrived, given that he had worked out exactly what he would be looking for. Vedius Pollio and his two companions came into the square in an arrow-head formation, the prefect of cavalry first, riding, with his back as straight as a pilum spear, head swivelling, eyes everywhere as he guided the horse through the crowd with arrogant indifference, seemingly deaf to their complaints. It seemed to the observant spy that overwhelming rage sat like a thundercloud above him. A test of the man, he thought cynically – was he angry at the loss of one of his men or at the damage the incident might do to his career. He had clearly talked with the optio on guard duty at the gate. He obviously knew that there was someone here taking the part of his dead subordinate – something that troubled him, made him vigilant but also confused and disturbed him, which was all part of Artemidorus’ plan. One other detail that he was pleased to observe was that the equestrian officer was liberally speckled with blood – a situation he would be keen to put right as soon as his duties allowed. The men behind him were both on foot leading laden horses. One with the cloak-wrapped corpse over his saddle and one with the dead boar tied to his.
The soldier with the boar stopped at the butcher’s stall while Pollio and the man with the corpse went up the street behind it, heading either for the aedile magistrate or the barracks and the duty officer. Artemidorus put on his helmet and laced it tight, eased his belt and settled the dagger and sword on his hips, settled the axe and touched the nameless goddess for luck. He went down and out into the market square. Effectively invisible amongst all the other off-duty legionaries, he lingered between two stalls, one selling cloth of all types and the other selling jewellery and tiny statuettes of various gods and heroes, hesitating like a man looking for a gift but unable to make up his mind. His actual objective was to watch the cavalryman as he haggled with the butcher on the assumption that Pollio would either have given him orders where to come once his business was done or planned to come back here and pick him up once the corpse was left in the care of whichever authority seemed most appropriate.
As it turned out, Pollio and the second cavalryman came back before the butcher had agreed a price for the boar. Both were dismounted now and leading their horses. The prefect of cavalry brought the haggling to an abrupt end by agreeing the butcher’s price – bargaining with plebeians far beneath his equestrian dignity. Then he led his little command over to the tavern that Artemidorus himself was staying in. The spy bought a statuette of Achilleus and decided that the nameless goddess on the dead soldier’s belt must be his mother the water-goddess Thetis – for she had certainly held her hand over him while he was stranded on the raft. Mother and son would hang side by side in future, guarding him by land and sea.
*
There was a vacant table just close enough to Pollio and his men for Artemidorus to make out what they were saying despite the lively conversations taking place all around them. As the three men settled a slave brought Pollio a drink, but she had a little trouble putting the goblet on the table in front of him because Pollio had brought his saddle-bags in with him and they lay there now, with his right hand resting on them.
‘…he’s here in Philippi,’ Pollio was saying with a decided sneer in his tone. ‘That stupidly unwise conversation he had with the optio custodiarum at the gate proves it. Gave the game away altogether. I cannot imagine what the fool was thinking of. We’ll need to split up and look for him soon. But I need to eat first and I must bathe. There are beds for you at the legionary barracks when you need them; your horses can be stabled there and you will eat there. We’re here until we find this spy and either take him back to Neapolis for crucifixion or kill him ourselves.’
‘But won’t he get away if we don’t start searching for him at once, Praefactus?’ asked the man who had bargained with the butcher.
‘No. I ordered the optio to arrest him on sight if he came anywhere near the gate and that’s the only way out of the city. He obviously thinks the cavalryman’s uniform is a good disguise but of course it will only make the fool easier to find. If we have any trouble tracking him down, the centurion at the barracks will let us have a squad of legionaries to help us. But it will be much more satisfactory if we sort this out ourselves. It will look better to our commanders the Casca brothers and go a long way to excusing the fact that we left Vindex alone to get murdered while we went off after the boar, then allowed his murderer to escape – a situation complicated by the near certainty that the murderer is in fact the spy Artemidorus whom we are seeking.’
After the cavalrymen left, Pollio sat for a moment, deep in thought. Artemidorus could almost read his mind – the officer had been on the road since well before dawn. He was, as he had said, hungry, but he was also soiled with boar’s blood. He would not eat until after he had fully cleansed himself. In spite of his mounting dislike of the arrogant officer, Artemidorus had no plans for him further than relieving him of his commission, calculating that it would allow more freedom of movement through the territory currently occupied by legions faithful to Brutus and Cassius. Especially as he planned on heading west via Amphipolis towards Antony. To make his report about Cleopatra and her ill-fated attempt to help the triumvirs. How that theft was to be effected depended entirely on what Pollio did with his saddle-bags when he went to the baths. By the look of things he wasn’t going to let them out of his sight; perhaps not even beyond his reach.
Gambling on the hope that he was right - with the abandon of Captain Seuthes betting on a sure thing - Artemidorus rose, went up to his room took off his helmet, belt, dagger and gladius then he heaved the scale mail over his head. Within a very few moments he returned to the tavern’s atrium and, seeing Pollio and his saddle-bags had gone, he strolled across to the bath-house.
iii
It was early. The baths would not be busy for an hour or so yet, then they would be full from the eighth hour counting from sunrise, to the tenth or eleventh hour in the late afternoon when all good citizens would be cleansed, fragrant and heading for their cena dinner. Artemidorus lingered in the apodyterium changing room on the pretext of having an attendant slave oil him as he examined the niches where bathers’ clothes and other effects were kept under the watchful eye of yet another slave. Pollio’s saddlebags were not there. With his skin gleaming, he stepped into the sculponea special sandals with extra-thick wooden soles designed to protect his feet from the floors heated by the hypocaust hot air system beneath them. First, he walked into the steaming caldarium. The hot pool was empty. Neither Pollio nor his saddlebags were there. Deep in thought, Artemidorus walked through to the palaestra open air exercise area. Here bathers could work up a sweat before the slaves with strigils scraped them clean. The hot bath, the tepid bath and the cold bath led to massage and scented oils – but here was where a dirty man would come to get clear of anything soiling him. All around the edges of the central grassy plot, lay exercise aids. Everything from a series of metal and marble weights to balls of various diameter and mass, from hoops in all sorts and sizes to texts for vigorous elocution. Outside these there was a stone-floored running track. Artemidorus kicked off his wood-soled sandals and walked naked into the centre of the grass plot.
Pollio was in the open space, his lean, muscular body gleaming with oil and the beginnings of perspiration. His mouth was wide and he was breathing heavily. Opposite him stood a muscular man of middle years, still strong but physically past his prime. He might have been a retired gladiator but for the slave collar round his neck and the loincloth. The collar’s simple existence revealed that he belonged to the municipality which ran the baths and the loincloth showed that his function was clearly to help bathers exercise, not to bathe himself.
With the briefest glance over his shoulder that encompassed Artemidorus and the precious saddle-bags, Pollio threw himself forward while the slave, also looking at the newcomer, was distracted. One hand reached behind the s
lave’s neck and the other round his waist. Pollio swivelled, bringing the slave’s belly against his hip. He heaved and the slave was thrown over and down onto the grass. He landed badly, rolled onto his side and began to pull himself back onto his feet. But half way up he stopped and grimaced, clearly in pain. Pollio strolled over to him and pushed him with a careless foot – not quite kicking him. ‘Come along! My exercise has hardly started. I’ll need more than that to raise a sweat and rid myself of this blood.’
‘Master…’ said the slave through gritted teeth. ‘You have damaged me. I cannot…’
‘What!’ snarled Pollio. ‘Perhaps we should see whether the whip will cure your hurts!’
‘I tell you what,’ said Artemidorus, his tone every bit as patrician as Pollio’s, his accent as Roman as Mark Antony’s, ‘let’s see if I can make you sweat.’
‘Do I know you?’ demanded Pollio in a sneering tone that made it obvious that he did not.
Artemidorus didn’t hesitate. Almost without thinking, he assumed one of the aliases he had been using recently at Cleopatra’s court – whenever friends of Brutus or Cassius asked who he was. ‘The name’s Dellius,’ he said. ‘Quintus Dellius, tribune of the Thirty Sixth under General Cassius.’
‘What are you doing here, Tribune?’ Polio’s tone moderated and he frowned, clearly racking his memory for information about Quintus Dellius.
‘The same as you,’ answered Artemidorus easily. ‘Preparing the way for Brutus and my General when they come out of Thrace and march west like Xenophon and his Ten Thousand across Macedonia to Dyrrachium and the sea.’
As he spoke, Artemidorus leaned down, helped the crippled slave up and fell into a broad-stance defensive position, legs spread, shoulders slightly turned to lead with the right, and arms wide. Face bland and mind racing – how could he use this bout to his advantage? How could he make it a stepping stone to getting a look into Pollio’s saddle bags?
*
Pollio looked uneasy and Artemidorus almost read his mind. He could wrestle with a slave confidently, certain that it was more than the man’s life was worth to do him serious damage – or even to best him in a bout. But the tables were turned now. If he beat Tribune Dellius of General Cassius’ staff, what would that do for his future hopes, both military and political on the Cursus Honorum ladder to power? Especially as they had potentially been damaged by the death of his subordinate and his failure – so far – to catch the murderer. Still, he leaned in and the two of them came to grips as the slave limped away, leaving them alone.
‘Three points for the match?’ suggested Artemidorus.
‘Well…’
‘Don’t worry. I’m no Milo of Croton. This isn’t the Olympic games. We’re just here to raise a sweat.’
‘Very well, three points,’ agreed Pollio uneasily.
For the first few encounters, they were simply testing each-other, exploring their opponent’s technique, looking for weaknesses. The rules allowed pain and fear to be used as well as physical moves such as throwing, tripping, and trapping. Points were scored when someone’s back touched the ground, when they fell outside the wrestling area and when they submitted. In a bout such as this, especially without a referee, only the first was feasible. So, after the exploratory clinches, the two men locked their arms round each other’s necks and shoulders while their legs kicked and danced, each trying to trip the other.
Artemidorus fell first, so suddenly that it caught Pollio by surprise and he fell too. But as the centurion dropped, he twisted so that he landed on top of his opponent, chest to chest, with Pollio’s back on the grass. ‘Score one to me,’ he said, springing easily erect and offering his hand to the fallen man. Pollio took it with ill grace and pulled himself upright with a jerk that put his helper off-balance, using the momentum to tackle Artemidorus at once, coming in from the side, hard against his shoulder and sweeping his right leg from under him. The spy went down and only his swift reactions saved him from serious damage. ‘That’s one point each,’ said Pollio, looking down at his fallen opponent with no sign of helping him up. ‘The next one is the decider.’
Artemidorus picked himself up and began to circle his opponent warily, as though his confidence had been damaged by the last fall. His eyes flickered from his opponent’s icy gaze to his hands, his feet – and for the briefest instant – beyond. Establishing with that flicker of a glance where the weights lay piled and where the grass of the exercise area met the stone of the running track. Then he stopped moving, without actually having assumed any proper stance at all. Pollio attacked at once, sensing hesitation, disorganisation and weakness. He went in low, grasping Artemidorus’ thigh just below his genitals. The grip was followed by his arm and torso and he reared up in a move that was illegal as it placed his opponents testicles in danger. Briefly astride Polio’s shoulder, Pollio’s ear against his lower belly, Artemidorus twisted free. He slipped off and staggered back, fighting to find his footing. He half turned, clearly off-balance, and Pollio was on his back in an instant, forearm closed tight across his throat.
Artemidorus wrestled helplessly, fighting for breath, staggering towards the edge of the grass area as though hoping to step outside the ring, lose the match but save his neck. Frustrated only by the little wall of weights piled immediately in front of him. Then, just at the very last moment, he froze. Every muscle in his frame tensed., he threw himself forward from the waist, catching Pollio’s forearm and pulling it with the enormous strength of a man who had spent time at the oar of a pirate galley. He went down on one knee in a move of irresistible power. The praefectus alae flew over his head and crashed upside-down into the weights, head and shoulders first, scattering them over the running track as he himself rolled out to lie flat on the stone circuit. Rolled out, face-up, splayed like a starfish, and lay still. ‘My match, I think,’ breathed Artemidorus as he straightened, looking down at the unconscious officer.
Artemidorus was at the saddlebags a moment later, opening one side and then the other, pulling out Pollio’s paperwork, glancing at scroll after scroll until he found the one he was seeking. ‘By order of Publius Casca under direction of General Marcus Junius Brutus, all citizens, allies and slaves of the Roman Republic must upon pain of death render to the bearer any information, provisions, transport or such other assistance he requires in the confidential mission to which he has been assigned. Signed and sealed by the said Publius Casca on this ides of Sextilis in the year 712 since the founding of the City.’
iv
With the pass in his hand, Artemidorus slung the saddle bags over his shoulder, picked up the unconscious man as best he could, draping one arm round his neck and putting the fist that clasped the letter of authority invisibly in the armpit of the other. Thus burdened he staggered through into the apodyterium changing room and placed the sagging body on a bench, leaning back against the wall. When he straightened, he left the scroll carefully hidden in Pollio’s armpit, concealed from view by this upper arm in case any of the slaves got inquisitive before he could hide it somewhere about his person and get it safely and secretly out of here.
‘One of you needs to summon a physician,’ he told the anxious slaves. ‘The praefectus has been hurt in our wrestling match but not too seriously, I think. There will be a medicus attached to the legion up in the barracks beyond the market who can also look at your damaged friend. The barracks are where the officer’s men are as well – you had better summon them too. In the mean-time I will put my tunic on and then get him dressed. But – and I cannot stress this too forcefully – you must guard these saddle bags. Assure the praefectus when he wakes up that I have brought them to you with him, all untouched, and that you have ensured they remained closed tightly in the meantime.’ Which with any luck will stop him checking immediately and slow down further pursuit, he thought.
As the slaves hurried to do his bidding, he swiftly put his loincloth on and pulled his tunic over his head. A quick glance around established that he and Pollio were alone for
a moment once again. He slipped Legate Casca’s commission into the waist of his loincloth, invisible beneath the stout red linen of his tunic. By the time that the military physician arrived, Pollio was dressed and lying on a massage bench with his saddle bags beside him, while the injured slave waited in the background. Happy to leave both of them in the army doctor’s capable hands, Artemidorus returned to the tavern, put the commission in his saddle bag, pulled his armour on and prepared to move out – his only regret that he had not in fact managed to bathe at all.
By the time Artemidorus arrived back at the gate, the dead man’s clothing was all packed with Pollio’s commission in his saddle bags and, except for the axe he wore at his belt, he looked nothing like the cavalryman who had entered first thing – for whom Pollio commanded the optio to keep a look-out. In fact he looked much more like the arrogant equestrian officer he had just beaten. Even so, the spy was careful to choose a moment when the roadway through the gate was particularly busy with carts coming and going as well as pedestrians both civilian and military. He followed a squad of legionaries out, appearing to the gate guards to be associated with them. But despite his careful exit, he felt the weight of the optio’s suspicious gaze lingering on his back.
Once out on the road he kicked his horse into a slow trot, weaving in and out of the traffic as he went down the hill towards the Via. He glanced into the woods as he passed them, wondering whether he should change back into his disguise now that he was safely out of the city, but he decided against it because there was too much coming and going to guarantee that he could do so unobserved, especially as he had a nasty feeling that Pollio and his men would soon be back on his track. Especially as Pollio would realise the truth as soon as he discovered that his scroll was missing. To the order that he find and arrest the spy were now added the extra motivations that he had killed one of his men and put his chances of promotion in jeopardy and, further, that the spy had beaten him in something as personal as a wrestling bout and stolen his commission from him. The praefectus alae’s mission would be intensely personal now; his motivation simple revenge. And a man like Vedius Pollio was unlikely to stop before he was satisfied, no matter what it took or how low he had to stoop.
