The Road To War Read online

  ‘That the man who sprung the ambush was Popilius Laenas,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘So, it was,’ said a third voice. Cold and supercilious. ‘And proof that I can snare the pair of you whenever it takes my fancy!’

  Artemidorus and Felix swung round to find Popilius Laenas and Herrenius standing in the doorway. Both armed and drenched with drying blood.

  Artemidorus looked at Octavianus’ three spies. His passion to know where Felix really stood outweighed his frustration at being caught in one of Laenas’ traps. Again. But this time, at least he himself was the only one at risk.

  ‘What’s the plan, Laenas?’ Felix was demanding as Laenas wrestled the golden phallus out of his fist and slid it into his blood-soaked pouch. The point of his dagger at Felix’ throat.

  ‘Simple,’ grated Artemidorus, rage beginning to mount still further. ‘They can’t risk being seen anywhere as they are. Look at them. And yet they have things to do and places to go – let alone laying their hands on some transport to help them run from here to Rome with as many of their ill-gotten gains as they can carry. They need hostages to keep them safe while they collect as much as they can. And get horses – and maybe a wagon. And as hostages go, we’re about the best they can hope for.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Laenas. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t see all this earlier, Septem! Perhaps Antony shouldn’t be placing quite as much trust in you as he does, eh?’

  *

  The four of them walked out of the praefectus’ villa with Artemidorus and Felix in front, Laenas and Herrenius behind, blades at their throats. ‘To the taberna first,’ ordered Laenas. ‘I hope for your sake you left everything there where you found it.’

  ‘Everything except Sospes’ head,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘That’s with his body on the way back to Rome.’

  ‘Pity. But with luck we can overtake it and reclaim our property. But our passes signed by Gaius Cilnius Maecenas are there still? Our gold? The pardons for Messala and Lucius signed by young Caesar?’

  ‘Yes. All of it.’

  ‘Excellent! Then all we’ll need is for you to carry it to the stables for us, load it onto a couple of fast horses and pray that we leave in a good mood.’

  ‘What?’ said Felix. ‘No bath? No change of clothing? No quick farewell visit to the brothels?’

  No further attempts to take Messala’s and Lucius’ heads? thought Artemidorus. But he said nothing.

  Cessy and a couple of his vigiles were the first men to come across the four soldiers. ‘Keep back,’ warned Laenas, moving his pugio just enough to bring a drop of blood to Artemidorus’ throat. The new chief vigile obeyed, but stayed keeping guard as they all walked slowly down the slope of the via towards the dockside and the taberna. But at his silent gesture, one of his men scurried away. ‘We’ll have more company soon,’ said Artemidorus.

  ‘Better pray they behave sensibly. For the sake of your throat if nothing else…’ sneered Laenas.

  ‘Kill us and you die a heartbeat later,’ warned Artemidorus.

  ‘Unless his crypteia get really angry,’ added Felix. ‘In which case you won’t die for a good long time, no matter how much you beg for it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Laenas, ‘let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But rest assured, if anyone comes within a sword’s-length, We’ll cut your throats from ear to ear.’

  Publius and a squad of his legionaries arrived then. Publius assessed the situation in an instant and gestured his men to stand back with the vigiles.

  ‘Keep them coming, though,’ said Laenas. ‘We need some strong arms to move our stuff, especially our gold.’

  Looking past the soldiers, Artemidorus saw a flicker of movement in the distance. Puella.

  vi

  They were nearing the harbour and Artemidorus was being distracted by something he could not quite put a finger on – even in this critical situation – when the next group showed up. Messala, Lucius, Severus, and Gaius Licinius with some of their blue-clad marines came crowding up from the dockside. They blocked the road leading down past the cross-roads to the harbour. Everyone stopped moving. Artemidorus refocused on the situation. He could feel Laenas straining to get on – beyond the crossroads, just up from the harbour, perhaps a hundred paces away, was the side-road leading up to the taberna, his documents and his gold.

  ‘Move!’ snarled Laenas. He pulled his blade harder against Artemidorus’ throat. The marines obligingly fell back, led by their centurions and the two fugitive aristocrats. Laenas and Herrenius were able to move forward once again. More slowly, their pace dictated by the men in front of them.

  But the stand-off remained. Messala clearly in charge, calling their bluff, Maecenas’ deadly agents all too aware that Felix had spoken the truth – if either hostage died, then their bargaining position was destroyed. Laenas and Herrenius would face a fate far worse than anything they had inflicted upon their own victims in the past.

  ‘Take us,’ said Messala as he walked backwards into the opening of the cross-roads. ‘It’s us you want. Take us instead.’

  Lucius nodded mute agreement, his face folded into a stoical frown, worthy of his maternal grandfather Cato.

  ‘Tempting,’ jeered Laenas, his eyes glued to the young patrician. ‘And suicidally heroic. Except for one thing. You know very well we’d lose control during the exchange. You’d have us spitted like pigs for roasting.’

  ‘We might do just that in any case,’ said a new voice.

  At the sound of it, Maecenas and his marines stood aside. Moving in a planned maneuver, like a squad on a battlefield. And there, in the middle of the cross-roads side by side stood Quintus and Furius. Both armed with reticulated bows in the Parthian design. Arrows nocked and bowstrings taut. Behind them stood Kyros and the towering Hercules, both equally well-armed, ready to fire. Four steel points aimed unwaveringly over the captives’ shoulders at Laenas’ and Herrenius’ faces, gleaming wickedly in the watery sunshine. They stopped moving forward, hesitated there at the heart of the cross-roads, automatically ducking behind their hostages, using them as shields against this unexpected threat. Everything froze for an instant.

  Then out of the roads on either side, came a whip-crack and a hissing whisper. Laenas’ head slammed left just as Herrenius’ slammed right to clash together with brutal force and the pair of them fell backwards onto the roadway, their daggers dropping from senseless fingers. Artemidorus and Felix stepped forward, free as Puella and Ferrata walked watchfully out from the side-roads and onto the main thoroughfare, each of them winding a sling around their fingers.

  ‘An excellent stratagem,’ said Felix. ‘Though a little too reliant on the accuracy of your slingers.’ He shivered slightly, looking at one-eyed Ferrata whose slingshot had whispered so close behind his own skull. ‘Still, all’s well.’ He shrugged, turned. ‘Have you killed them?’ He asked, his tone betraying the fact that he didn’t much care either way. He stooped, felt in Laenas’ pouch and retrieved the golden fascinum as Artemidorus kicked the daggers away.

  And as Quintus answered, ‘I hope not!’ He eased his bow and removed the arrow. ‘Killing them wasn’t part of the plan.’

  *

  By noon, Crinas had established that neither man had died, would die in the immediate future – would suffer more than a massive headache when they woke, even though the slingshots had hit them on their temples, where their skulls were thinnest. The unconscious men had been bound and secured in a strong cart together with their papers and personal possessions at Artemidorus’ insistence – and in the face of some forceful arguments for their immediate execution. But he agreed that their weapons and the gold they had extorted from Sospes and the rest should remain behind. In Cessy’s safe-keeping until Antony’s new praefectus arrived and decided what should be done with it. Except for the bag Laenas had cut from the dead Gistin’s belt. Artemidorus gave that to Castus and Bibulus with orders that they should also get a cart and take the corpses of his murdered colleagues back to The Gaul in
Rome. There was enough gold there to ensure a proper burial. Though he suspected that gang members, like gladiators, all paid into a fund that ensured proper burial if anything went fatally wrong. Unsurprisingly, The Gaul’s men happily took the gold and vanished in search of a cart.

  Publius detailed a squad to take the cart laden with Laenas, Herrenius and their effects as far as the VIIth legion’s camp and hand it over there to the tribune, who would make arrangements to return the lethal pair to their masters in Rome. It was up to him whether they went on in the cart and under guard or on horseback with their documents and their freedom. Artemidorus sent a letter strongly advising the former course. Felix warned him most earnestly, that sending them back in a cart would make Maecenas an implacable enemy as well, perhaps even more so than killing them would do. A matter of his dignitas – the humiliation of his agents would be bound to rebound on him, not to mention on his master Octavianus.

  ‘Maecenas’ enmity is a threat that will find a place low on my list of potential dangers,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Very low in fact, because by the time Maecenas finds out what happened here, my contubernium and I will be somewhere in Macedonia with much more immediate threats to worry about: Brutus and his seven legions, for instance.’

  ‘True enough,’ allowed Felix. ‘I, however, shall be going back to Rome and reporting to Agrippa later – keeping well clear of any trouble resulting from whatever manner in which Laenas and Herrenius are returned.’

  ‘I’d hang onto the golden fascinus, though,’ suggested Artemidorus. ‘You’re going to need all the luck you can get.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Felix. ‘I was thinking of giving it to you. For the same reason.’

  ‘For Hades’ sake just pass it over to me,’ said Ferrata. ‘I’ll try and keep the good luck going for everybody.’

  ‘Or to me,’ suggested Puella, not to be outdone. ‘After all I found it in the woods after the ambush.’

  ‘Oh right!’ said Ferrata. ‘That’s just what you need! The dearest dream of every woman I’ve ever known: a bloody great penis made of gold.’

  But Artemidorus straightened to his full height, looking around, understanding what had been nagging at his subconscious during the day so far. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Better give it to poor old Quintus. It looks to me like the weather’s broken and we’ll be taking him out onto the big rough Mare Nostrum in a day or so.’

  MACEDONIA

  VII: Trireme

  i

  “HEIA VIRI NOSTRUM REBOANS ECHO SONNET HEIA!”

  ‘Hey men! Echo resounding, send back our Hey!’ sang the oarsmen of the trireme Galene, throwing their weight and strength back as their oars bit deep into the water of Brundisium’s outer harbour. The song was tuneless, raucous, rhythmic. The oarsmen were chosen for their strength and stamina, not for their beautiful voices.

  Artemidorus sang along with them under his breath, not only because he had served his time as an oarsman in a galley, but because, like them, he was happy to be clear of Italy. To be escaping the simple boredom of being trapped in Brundisium by contrary winds for such a long time but also, in his case, to be heading for the next stage of his mission.

  He was standing on the stern of Galene beside the trierarchus captain and his gubernator navigator. Alone except for the gubernator’s men and some deck-crew. His contubernium, Gaius Licinius and his men were all either further along the deck or snugly below, except for Quintus who was right at the bow, trying to make sure that his regular fits of vomiting did not land directly on the rowers in their boxes sticking out of the sleek ship’s sides. The fascinum was clearly ineffective thought Artemidorus. Perhaps his involuntary gifts to Poseidon would prove more successful.

  Neither the captain nor the navigator were paying much attention to the singing centurion nor his seasick companion. The captain was dividing his time between the drumbeat of the pausarius time-keeper below. But he was equally concerned about the strain his ship’s movement was putting on the great hawser that joined the oar-powered vessel to the wind-driven cargo-ship it was towing out onto the restless sea.

  Both ships had their huge square sails deployed and, the navigator assured everyone, they would fill with a steady westerly the instant they came out of the wind-shadow of the land they were leaving. In the mean-time there was the gentlest zephyr of an evening breeze flowing down the hillsides, over the town and out towards the east. Just enough to make the sails flap occasionally; nowhere near the power they needed to make full sail towards Macedonia.

  Ironically, thought Artemidorus, they would move out of the wind-shadow at about the same time as the hills’ real shadow – thrown by the late-afternoon sun westering sedately astern – would start to sweep over them as though the westerly breeze was the darkness itself. The wind-shadow at least was something that the captain was clearly trying to take account of, for his sail would fill first as they came out of it and if he moved away too forcefully before the cargo vessel was also under way, there was no telling what harm might be done to his stern – or the other ship’s bows.

  *

  At this moment, the navigator’s whole being concentrated on ensuring they came out of the harbour entrance safely. He had two burly sailors controlling the great ansa handle of the steering oar, which plunged on the right of the incurving sternpost, immediately behind the outward reach of the rear-most rowing box, burying its huge blade into the foam at the beginning of the vessel’s wake. The navigator was lending a hand himself. Literally, varying the angle of the steering blade with a series of gentle pushes as he squinted along their course, calling warnings to the captain whenever he wanted one bank of oars or the other to vary their rhythm and help adjust the long hull’s heading. For, although the harbour mouth was wide, the sea beyond it inviting, it was guarded by an island that stabbed down from the north, like a dagger aimed at their left side: a dagger of land that continued invisibly beneath the surface in a reef of sharp-fanged rocks.

  Artemidorus turned, resting his hands on the warm wood of the ship’s rail, looking north. Beside them further to the left, approaching the wide harbour mouth in convoy, Aegeon was also using her oar-power to tug a second transport out into the wind. Her trierarchus and gubernator doubtless even more acutely aware of the island and the reef as she took the northward course, smashing through the modest swell, pitching just sufficiently to lift her streaming metal-sheathed ram out of the water, surging smoothly onward, none of her motions wild enough to disturb the steady rise and fall of her three banks of oars.

  Artemidorus filled his lungs to bursting with the fresh salt air. He fought to contain his excitement which had been building almost uncontrollably today during the ritual libations and sacrifices that preceded any venture out onto the deep and dangerous sea. Both Severus and Gaius Licinius had left some of their marines behind to make room for those legionaries who could not be fitted into the cargo vessels under tow behind them with their mounts, tack, equipment, legionary slaves, their carts and mules. But both centurions had insisted on coming, with as many marines as they could find room for. There might well be work for them to do in Dyrrhachium if Brutus had left any of his Libertore troops there to guard against an invasion – even such a modest one as this.

  ii

  Artemidorus found the opportunity to talk to Messala and Lucius while they were waiting to embark on Aegeon with Severus. Discussing how they proposed to get along the Via Egnatia and then to Brutus’ camp. Slowly, it seemed, for they had no papers or travel documents. But they were by no means the first proscribed men to escape eastwards. Others had made it through. So would they.

  What did they propose to tell Brutus about their escape from Rome, he asked, about their journey eastwards and their companions at the outset of their journey when they eventually reached Brutus’ camp? Their answers were evasive, as though the prospect of a safe escape from Italy had changed their attitude to Artemidorus and his contubernium. The patricians no longer relied on their equestrian and plebeian protectors.
Who, they now recognised all too clearly, would be their enemies as soon as they landed in Macedonia. They had yet to decide the details, they explained. There was nothing more to say. But Artemidorus feared the worst. The spy was still in two minds about how Brutus was likely to react to the information that legionaries under Antony’s command were able to cross to Dyrrhachium this early in the season.

  As he said to Quintus after the meeting – which seemed to have settled less than he’d hoped and simply added to his concerns, ‘The best outcome for us is that Brutus sends his fleet to blockade Brundisium immediately on hearing their news. Their presence alone will confirm that the sea-lanes are open. But Antony will still be preparing his legions to cross much later in the summer, so a blockade won’t inconvenience him too much, especially if Octavianus can defeat Sextus Pompey and bring his fleet round behind them. But if they do move the Libertore fleets, it will allow us to sail safely through waters the Libertores have left to come west. However, if Messala and Lucius put too much emphasis on our mission to Alexandria when they report, it might well mean that the Libertores will leave sea-patrols off Greece and Rhodes with orders to stop us getting through. They’ve clammed up and I know there are things they’re keeping from me – in spite of all that they owe us.’

  ‘You could always release Furius to do his worst with them,’ suggested Quintus. ‘Or just kill them outright if you’re worried they’ll damage our mission and if there’s nothing further to be got from them.’

  ‘No,’ decided Artemidorus. ‘Not after all we’ve been through together. We’ll just have to trust Fortuna smiles on us and try and find a captain in Thessaloniki or Neapolis who knows the waters of the Levant well enough to smuggle us through to Alexandria no matter what.’

  ‘In other words, a pirate,’ said Quintus. ‘I can see that going well...’