After The Ides (Caesar's Spies Thriller Book 2)
After the Ides
Peter Tonkin
© Peter Tonkin 2017
Peter Tonkin has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For
Cham, Guy and Mark
as always.
*
And in memory of a dear friend:
Jill Andrews
1929 – 2017
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
i
The dead man’s name was Gaius Amiatus and he was standing in front of a makeshift altar shouting at a sizeable crowd. He didn’t yet know he was dead. Or even that he was condemned to die. He was dressed in a loose-fitting black tunic because he was in mourning. In mourning for the god to whom the altar behind him was dedicated. A god called Gaius Julius Caesar. Who had recently been so violently translated from the earthly sphere to the ethereal.
Gaius Amiatus, his altar and his audience were in the Forum Romanum, where Caesar’s corpse had been cremated by vast crowds running dangerously out of control after his funeral. The gold that had been thrown into the flames as sacrifice by the grieving multitude and had run molten from his funeral pyre’s blazing foundations still gleamed on the stones of the Forum’s pavimentum pavement. Still gathered brightly in the cracks between them. Having survived more than a week of inclement March weather. And the soles of thousands upon thousands of sandals and boots.
‘I am the grandson of the great General Gaius Marius, Caesar’s relative and mentor,’ Gaius Amiatus was bellowing. ‘If anyone should be leading you in acts of vengeance against his murderers, it is I! Think what Caesar has done for you! The money he left you. The gardens he has opened to you. The lands, farms and townships he has promised you. He loved Rome! He loved you as though you were his sons! He was truly Pater Patriae, the father of his country. And he was divine! We should call him Divus Julius! Julius the God!’ Gaius Amiatus gestured to the altar behind him. ‘This altar should be at the heart of a shrine! A temple!’
The crowd stirred and muttered.
‘Yet those ruthless butchers slaughtered him without a second thought.’ The rabble-rouser continued. ‘They stole from you the pledges he made, the promises he embodied! The legendary wealth of Parthia. The lands beyond, perhaps. Like Alexander, he would have brought the fabulous wealth of the Orientem to you! Laid it before you in triumphs and in games! Shared it with you in golden gifts and sestertii. Hundreds of sestertii for every man here! But Brutus, Cassius, Decimus Albinus, Trebonius and the rest robbed you of all that when they robbed him of his life. They robbed us of a living god! Kill them all, I say. Burn their houses. Slaughter them as they slaughtered him. Without hesitation. Without compunction. Without mercy!’
Like the rioters who immolated Caesar’s body here, this crowd was largely composed of old soldiers, many of them from beneath the banner of the bull. Caesar’s own. Who had come to discover what would happen now that the man they worshipped – as a leader if not quite yet as a god – was dead. They raised a raucous cheer at the rhetoric. Gaius Amiatus looked at them proudly, impressed by the power of his words.
In the front row stood two men who were clearly legionaries. Or had been, at least. Perhaps still in uniform. Though it was hard to tell beneath the cloaks they wore. Long and mud-coloured – nothing like bright red military saga. But they both wore soldiers’ caligae boots. They looked like useful men who would make excellent lieutenants when the real rioting began. And the looting. One was tall, lean-faced, with a dark, square jaw, short red-brown hair and blue-grey eyes. All just visible within the shadow of his hood. Beside him almost his twin in build. But slightly shorter. Fair haired and brown eyed. With a deep cleft in his chin.
When Gaius Amiatus swung round and began to lead his ragged army across the Forum, past the Domus Publicus where Caesar had lived, and up towards the Palatine Hill where, he reckoned, the aristocratic murderers might still be richly housed, these two men fell in at his shoulders. Like legates beside a general. Like Antony and Lepidus beside Caesar in the wars. He raised his left hand again, gesturing his little legion onwards. In the manner, he imagined, that his grandfather, the great General Marius, might have done. Revealing, through the sag of his loose black clothing, a dark-haired armpit. Thick black fur matted over the curve of ribs. Reaching round to an equally hairy chest.
But as he did so, completely unexpectedly, it seemed to him that a hornet stung him beneath his raised left arm. The pain was sudden. Intense. Piercing. It winded him. His steps faltered as he fought for breath. The hooded soldiers at his shoulders did not slow. They marched on towards the Via Sacra, side by side.
Gaius Amiatus’ raised arm fell abruptly. Too heavy for him to hold aloft any longer. The rabble behind him began to gather round, frowning in confusion. The two cloaked soldiers vanished. Gaius Amiatus staggered. Went to his knees, still fighting for breath. He put his right hand into his left armpit, where he thought he had been stung. Pulled it out and stared at the palm stupidly. Seeing only a tiny smear of blood. ‘What in the name of the Divus Julius has happened?’ he wondered.
It was his final thought. He pitched forward. As dead as the cold stones he crashed down onto.
ii
The two soldiers lingered in the mouth of an alleyway, looking back. ‘That was neat, Septem,’ said the man with the cleft chin. Pulling back his hood. Watching his companion wipe his dagger clean. ‘The way he raised his arm opened up the ribs to your pugio dagger. You may even have stabbed him to the heart. In and out so swiftly I don’t think he even realised…’
‘You sound like a physician, Tribune,’ answered Septem, the taller of the two, sheathing the dagger on his left hip. Pushing his own hood back onto his broad shoulders. The movements revealing the uniform and badges of a centurion of the Seventh Legion. Which explained the name the tribune was using: Septem – Seven. ‘General Mark Antony said to make it quick and quiet. But get it done in any case. He really wants to keep the streets safe now that Brutus, Cassius and their friends are on the run. I think he’d rather be going after them than stuck here keeping the peace.’
‘He ought to be able to trust Gaius Lepidus to do that. Lepidus commands the Seventh Legion camped out on Tiber Island and can bring them onto the streets if he has to. That’s why Antony’s promised him the governorship of Narbonese Gaul and Nearer Spain. To keep him loyal.’
‘But this near-riot makes it clear yet again that Antony has to find a way to avenge Caesar – to placate the Caesarian factions in the Senate and on the streets. Not to mention the legions,’ Septem the centurion answered. ‘Until he does that or moves the old soldiers out, this sort of thing will just keep happening. Only he can’t go after the murderers too publicly or he’ll lose the majority of the Senate who still support them. He needs the Senate and the power they confer on him. Will do so for a good while yet. And meanwhile his problems are starting to multiply. Were doing so, even before we began questioning witnesses to the murder itself and assessing their evidence against the Twelve Tables of the law. What they actually saw in Pompey’s Curia as Caesar was being slaughtered. Saw and heard.’
‘Well at least he has plenty to occupy his mind and time while he’s trap
ped here – trying to enact Caesar’s plans and wishes as he’s been commissioned to do,’ said the tribune.
‘While fighting to keep Rome as quiet as possible as quickly as he can,’ agreed the centurion, Amiatus’ carnifex executioner. ‘But only so he can leave the city and start to settle all these soldiers on the farms Caesar promised them. And that’s just the first task on the list that Caesar left. It’s as well he claims to be descended from Hercules. He has almost as many labours to fulfil.’ He paused, looking back at the swirling crowd in the Forum, which was beginning to disperse now, leaving the black-clad corpse for someone else to deal with. ‘And that’s the Gordian knot, of course. Because it’s the retired soldiers who are making most of the trouble on the streets. That mob Gaius Amiatus was just about to lead in a riot was mostly old soldiers.’
‘But settling a couple of legions on new farms and townships will take a fortune. One way or another…’
‘From a man who is famous for the massive debts he owes rather than the limitless riches he can call on. I almost pity General Antony. He’s been offered the chance of a lifetime. At the moment when all the Fates seem to be in league against him…’
‘Still, back to the matter in hand,’ shrugged the tribune. ‘Do we come back and tear down the altar later? Has the general told you?’
‘It stays. And there’s talk of erecting a column in Caesar’s memory too. That’s to go ahead as well. We have more important work than hanging around here keeping the peace like vigiles policemen. So, in fact, have Lepidus and the Seventh Legion. Not to mention Antony himself, as I say. But our hands are tied until the city’s under some kind of control and the streets are safe. We’d better report back to him and see what the next set of orders are.’ He glanced back at the last few men hovering uncertainly around the corpse beside the altar. Looking up at the gently weeping spring sky as they shrugged and walked away. He could understand their confusion. They’d be lucky even to see the dagger-wound beneath all that hair. They probably thought Gaius Amiatus had been struck down by jealous Jove. For singing so loudly the praises of another, lesser, god. ‘The general thinks that if they start worshipping Caesar, they’ll be less worried about avenging him,’ he concluded.
The tribune nodded. ‘We can pray that that at least is true. What is it our Jewish friends say when they address their one and only god?’
‘Amen,’ answered Septem the centurion and carnifex executioner. ‘Amen to that.’
I
i
The three men ran through the darkening streets. Two were hunters. The third was their quarry. Around them, the city snarled and howled like a wild beast. Dusk was gathering swiftly. The dangerous air of lawlessness intensified as the light thickened. Mobs of men and women charged madly from place to place around them. Armed with kitchen knives and cleavers. Sharp-pointed spits torn from the cooking-fires. Clubs. The sprinkling of ex-legionaries amongst them with gladius swords and pugio daggers. Even a few ex-gladiators with the bizarre weapons from the arena. Appearing and disappearing like wolves in a forest. As the shadows deepened, they lit flaming torches, which only served to add to the feral threat they gave off. The atmosphere was one of utter lawlessness.
The man hurrying home alone glanced increasingly nervously from side to side. All too well aware that he had made several serious miscalculations. Any one of which might prove fatal. Which, taken all together, he would be lucky to survive. To start with, he should never have agreed to visit the villa he had just left. Certainly not in secret and unattended by the guards and servants which were his right. Next, he should have been much more acutely aware of the passage of time. For the gathering darkness had come as a complete surprise. But the conference he and the villa’s owner had just concluded – in itself another dangerous mistake – had seemed to both men to be vital and secret enough to warrant a little danger. So he had not asked for an escort from his host’s personal squad of gladiators to see him safely home. Which now appeared as another grave miscalculation. For the danger was not so ‘little’ after all.
The route home he had chosen to follow, carefully avoiding the Forum, had seemed a safe one. But now, he deduced, he had overlooked a simple probability. That the soldiers whose duty was to keep the peace during the night would assemble there at sunset. Making the Forum itself safe. While driving the murderous mobs out into the suburban streets and minor forums east and north of it. Through which he was now fleeing so desperately. The local aediles magistrates should have vigiles watch patrols out, too. But probably not yet – for night had not quite fallen. And in this dangerously darkening half-light, it seemed that the law was asleep. While its exact opposite ran riot.
The white of the fleeing man’s toga glimmered for an instant in the distance. As he ran from one shadow to another at the far end of an angustum alleyway. Too narrow to admit a cart. But not too narrow to admit ruffians, thieves and murderers. ‘Do you see him, Septem?’ one of the hunters asked.
Septem nodded. ‘I see him, Tribune,’ he answered.
Both hunters were in full military uniform once again but without the hooded cloaks. Septem was now wearing a helmet bearing a centurion’s brightly coloured lateral crest. His companion wore the armour and trappings of a tribune on the general’s staff. His helmet was crested with a black plume that fell almost to his shoulders at the back. Both men were seconded from military duties to serve as spy and spymaster. The man code-named Septem, Centurion Iacomus Artemidorus, was the leader of a group of secret agents, undercover operatives, agents provocateurs, carnifex torturers or executioners and interfectores assassins. He himself being a master of all the skills involved in his work. As the unfortunate Gaius Amiatus had recently discovered. The Tribune Domitus Enobarbus his direct link to the Co-consul and General Mark Antony who had assumed command of them on Caesar’s death. Had in fact employed them to keep his friend and mentor safe on the Ides of Mars.
Artemidorus and Enobarbus stood at the centre of a new concept in military organisation. A covert cadre dedicated to the gathering of military intelligence. Or, as in more recent times, political intelligence. A secret service. Something that had grown in strength and importance during the latest decades. First conceived, perhaps, by Scipio Africanus in the Punic wars against Hannibal and Carthage. Organised by Caesar more recently. Working, now, for Antony.
‘He’s beginning to slow, Tribune,’ grated Septem. ‘We’ll catch up to him soon.’ But even as he spoke, the pale gleam of the toga vanished into the dangerous darkness once more. He redoubled his speed. The iron nails on the soles of his caligae boots struck sparks off the cobbles in the stygian alley. The walls of which seemed to brush both of his shoulders at once. Their bricks striking against the tip of the gladius sword on his right hip and the lethal pugio dagger on his left, which they were only able to wear legally within the pomerium city limit because they were soldiers in uniform and on duty.
The lone man could hear the hobnailed footsteps echoing out of the black throat of the alley. He too redoubled his speed, his nervousness blooming suddenly into full-blown fear. He had no idea why he was being followed. Or by whom. But he was certain that his pursuers had no good intentions. He was, in fact, increasingly convinced that anyone he was liable to meet tonight was likely to cut his throat first and ask questions later. Despite his fame, wealth, social standing and political importance. All evidenced by the senatorial stripes on his formal clothing.
A minor forum opened before him. A lake of grey shadows into whose depths he plunged. The beat of his own sandaled footsteps echoed in his ears almost as fast as the drumming of his heart. Those of his pursuers joined in, making a strange, confusing rhythm. Which was somehow more threatening still. Almost as threatening as the smell of burning that hung in the grey air all around him. He glanced right. A vicus street leading south towards the Forum Romanum seemed full of flickering light. He wondered whether he should run towards it. Hoping for vigiles watch patrols. Or legionary peacekeepers. But then, over that un
settling rhythm of footsteps and heartbeat, he heard a baying. More animal than human. As though Cerberus the multi-headed hound of Hades had joined forces with Harpies hunting blood.
But straight ahead opened a friendlier thoroughfare. A proper via, wide and familiar. And, with a stab of relief that was almost agonising, he realised he was nearly home. He tried to put on a final spurt, spurred by the promise of safety. But he was at the end of his strength. He was by no means a young man. And the toga he wore was designed for stately, dignified progress. Not wild dashes through benighted streets. Which was one of the reasons he normally travelled in a litter borne by slaves. Preceded by torchbearers and lictors guards.
A kind of helpless incredulity swept over him. As he realised that his legs were going to let him down. Even though he was in sight of salvation. He slowed, desperately willing his limbs to stay sturdy. But within a step or two they turned from reliable tree trunks. Strong – if gnarled and knotty nowadays. To unsteady candle flames. Burning – wavering – guttering helplessly as he stumbled. Unable to bear his weight for one more heartbeat. One more step.
ii
He felt himself toppling forward. As though he had been cut off at the knees. He put out his hands and was just able to break his fall. So that his face at least was saved from striking the cobble stones. Even so, he was winded. And lay, gasping helplessly, as he waited for his strength to return. Something that did not promise to happen at all quickly. In the meantime, he rolled over and levered himself into a sitting position. Only to observe that the flames filling the southern roadway belonged to torches carried by a mob of men and women. Who were rushing towards him in a manner he could only compare to wolves in the wild. Or ferocious animals in the arena.
Because he was shocked and disorientated, they appeared to approach and surround him with superhuman speed. His ears were ringing so he found it hard to understand what they were saying at first. They seemed simply to be howling and roaring. The yellow brightness shone in their wild eyes. Gleamed on their spittle, their drool. And their teeth. Turned their horrific, inhuman expressions into an array of terrible masks. It was disturbingly like being trapped in the middle of one of Sophocles’ most appalling dramatic tragedies. Orpheus surrounded by Thracian Bacchantes ready to tear him apart.