The Road To War Read online

  ‘Yes?’ snapped The Gaul who did not relish being presented with crises in front of clients.

  ‘The two items we were moving…’ The messenger’s gaze flicked over to Artemidorus. Then back to his boss.

  ‘Yes?’ snarled The Gaul again.

  ‘The men watching them have been found with their throats cut. The men they were guarding have vanished. Can’t find them anywhere, living or dead.’

  v

  One of the things Divus Julius had done in preparation for the Parthian campaign, which he had never undertaken, was to create a fast-communication service between Rome and Brundisium. There were special manned waypoints every ten military miles with horses for messengers to exchange as they rode south with vital news or orders. The Italian system had almost fallen into disuse since Divus Julius’ death, but Antony occasionally used it last year to send orders to the legions that had been massed at Brundisium, called back from Macedonia but not yet put into the field against Decimus Albinus in Mutina. So it was still manned by bored soldiers and stable-hands with little to do but feed and groom the restless horses and stare hopefully into the distance. But once in a while, commercium traffic on the Via Appia would be thrust aside by a squad of Antony’s praetorians thundering south or north along the road with their distinctive uniforms, mounts and pouches.

  Next morning, just after dawn, one such squad left the Porta Capena Gate in the Servian Wall and vanished southwards. There were seven messengers – a larger number than usual but by no means unheard-of. They were led by a tall centurion who rode with a monster at one shoulder – a massive man missing one eye and one ear. And a tall praetorian at the other shoulder of obvious Nubian descent. None of the trio looked particularly happy with their gleaming uniforms or their perfectly-polished weaponry. Behind them came a giant, large enough to dwarf even the one-eyed monster, and a soldier whose face seemed fixed in a permanent furious scowl. Behind the five of them came two more men – ordinary legionaries in the standard uniform and trappings of Legio VII. Unlike the smart and shiny praetorians, their armour was well-used and ill-fitting – too large on one and too small on the other. Probably legionary slaves – though they looked more like gang-members than soldiers.

  Except for the one-eyed monster who wore a gladiator’s headpiece and facemask, the praetorians wore the distinctive helmets of their cohort and carried the round shields at their saddle-bows with symbols of Venus Victrix, thunderbolts and scorpions. Leather saddle-bags marked with the symbol of Mercury, god of messengers as well as of physicians. They rode fully armed – sword pommels and dagger hilts all glittering brightly, even in the dull daylight. Hardly a head turned as the little squad charged by, cloaks bunched high on shoulders to cover the lower parts of their faces, protecting mouths and noses from the icy wind of their passage. Folded nearly high enough to meet their distinctive headgear; almost as though they were travelling in disguise.

  Changing horses every ten military miles and following the road at a steady gallop, they had completed more than one-third of their 344-mile journey when they reined in that evening, utterly exhausted. Their leader chose a welcoming hospitium rather than the next Spartan military shelter Divus Julius had set up. He and his companions were not practised messengers, used to riding day in and day out. They were all stiff and sore. A bath, a meal and a good night’s sleep were needed now. At that moment, these seemed more important than following Antony’s orders. Not that they were in a good mood with the massive gang-leader – half convinced he had chosen the praetorian disguises as a joke at their expense.

  But they would have to wait in the port-city in any case. Because, at a more reasonable hour this morning, Senator Quintus Tarpeus with his retinue and slaves had departed the city, also heading south but at a slightly more sedate pace – in a covered chariot pulled by four horses with attendants seated on another, less stylish, wagon full no doubt with the necessities a Senator required on the road. And even the slaves rode astride. All in all, not counting the bodyguards The Gaul had added to their undercover progress, the two groups consisted of Septem’s entire ten-person contubernium of code-breakers, physicians, guides and weapons experts; men and women who knew the terrain they were about to cross; several others who had been to Alexandria – with Divus Julius in 706 and 707 AUC since the founding of the city, a group that included Artemidorus himself. And they were all due to be in Brundisium in five days’ time. Though the squad disguised as praetorian messengers might conceivably make it by mid-morning the day after tomorrow. Which would give them a couple of days to find out who had killed The Gaul’s men and why. Not to mention to discover what had happened to Lucius and Messala.

  *

  Artemidorus paused at the hospitium’s threshold, looking up at the great winged phallus lamp which hung above the door as the bustle in the stables behind him died. The massive good-luck charm gave off light while warding off evil. Unconsciously, he felt the golden fascinum charm hidden in the pouch that hung at his belt. Not because he believed in the efficacy of such things, like Ferrata, Furius and most legionaries. But because Puella had found the thing on the ground immediately after the crypteia, hurrying to execute Cicero, had been ambushed. Ferrata seriously wounded and their guide, the messenger codenamed Mercury, had been killed.

  Artemidorus himself was certain the charm belonged to the tribune Popilius Laenas, who had finally taken Cicero’s head and hands to Antony in Rome, claiming all the glory and the reward until the record had been put straight. A man who had tried to rob and kill them before and who nursed a murderous grudge against Septem and his entire command. But who worked for Octavianus now, albeit under the direct command of the young Caesar’s ruthless chief of intelligence Gaius Clinius Maecenas. Enobarbus, however, had told him that Centurion Lucius Flavius Felix had lost one identical to this. Felix, who also worked for Octavian, but under Agrippa’s command, a very different kettle of fish to the brutal, murderous Laenas. A man who was approachable – or so it seemed on the surface at least.

  Dismissing such thoughts, Artemidorus pushed the door open and, with a nod to the janitor and a gesture to the portrait of Janus on the wall beside him, entered the vestibulum, passing swiftly into the atrium as the others followed – except for Furius who was making sure the horses were stabled. It was a dull evening towards the latter end of Februarius. Unsurprisingly, the place was quiet. The landlord bustled forward to greet such a promising group of guests in person and, within a few minutes, Artemidorus had negotiated bed and board – and discovered that the establishment boasted a proper bathhouse large enough to accommodate them all. And, indeed, the other guests, currently availing themselves of it.

  The landlord’s daughter guided them to their rooms. She was a plump blonde girl with a dimple at the corner of her smile and a little rash of freckles across the bridge of her turned-up nose. Her wide brown eyes lingered on Artemidorus until she met Puella’s icy gaze. Then her interest seemed to settle on Ferrata instead, overlooking the ruin of his face to focus on the virile strength of the rest of him. The weary travellers put their kit in their assigned rooms and trooped down to the bathhouse on stiff legs, as the aroma of a pig roasting on the spit by the fire in the atrium followed them. As the others went into the disrobing room adjacent to the icy frigidarium, Artemidorus glanced into the caldarium to see how many masseurs there were – for he had a suspicion that all his command would need their ministrations. He looked into the steam-room and froze.

  For there on the bench of the nearest masseur lay the familiar figure of his opposite number in Octavianus’ spy network; Agrippa’s most trusted agent – Centurion Lucius Flavius Felix.

  IV: Brundisium

  i

  ‘No,’ repeated Lucius Flavius Felix, ‘it wasn’t a coincidence. Or some trick of the Goddess Fortuna. We’ve been waiting for you. Well, if not you then someone like you. Look. It doesn’t take Aristotle or Socrates to work it out. With young Octavianus forced to focus on Sicily, it was obvious Antony was going
to try for Macedonia behind his back. Steal his thunder. Win back the affection of the legions that he decimated and who went over to Octavianus in consequence. And if he’s planning on making a big show sending his legions across from Brundisium to Dyrrhachium, then he’ll want to send a scouting party first. To make sure his grand gesture doesn’t turn into a comic accident like a play by Plautus. Agrippa has teams of men waiting at all the likely stopping points between Rome and Brundisium. We’ve been here for a couple of days. It just took longer for you to show up than we thought it would.’

  Artemidorus, his four companions, Felix and his three all sat around a table in the middle of the hospitium’s atrium. Their slaves shared a table with the men The Gaul had added to the cryptaeia’s number; a hulking brute called Bibulus and a slighter, more intelligent ruffian called Casticus. Both tables were piled with crisp-skinned roast pork, sausages, chicken and bread. There were amphorae of wine – but they remained untouched. There was an air of tension and no-one wanted to reduce their focus if negotiations were about to start – or their reaction-times if violence erupted instead. The landlord stood behind his serving table, keeping watch over things. His daughter, who had overseen the slaves bringing the food, hovered behind his shoulder, eyes wide.

  Although they had removed their armour, the weary travellers had yet to change out of their travelling clothes or bathe. Felix and his men were relaxed in clean tunics, fragrant with scented oils, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air. But they all had their weapons at their belts. Artemidorus stroked the winged phallus fascinum in the pouch beside the sword on his right hip. Even if Felix was playing a double-game, he thought, it was better than being confronted by the brutal tribune Popilius Laenas. A man he had seen torture people to death at Octavianus’ prompting. Who had destroyed entire villages in the Alps while scavenging for Decimus Albinus. Spitting babies on pilae spears, crucifying priests against the walls of their burning temples and using village elders and their wives for target practice with slings and arrows. Laenas, who harboured more than one grudge against Septem, now for stealing his thunder over the execution of Cicero.

  But for the moment, Artemidorus held his peace. The spy was calculating not only how best to discover the truth about the fascinum and the ambush but also how much information he might be willing to share with Felix about the current missions. He slid out his dagger, leaned forward and stabbed a piece of pork, signalling to the others that they too could start to eat.

  ‘And you happen to have chosen this particular place because…?’ he queried, round a mouthful of melting meat.

  ‘For the same reason as you did!’ Felix leaned forward and copied his motions. His men also fell-to with a will. The food was extremely good. ‘It’s by far the best and most comfortable hospitium for miles – and the only one with a bath.’

  ‘Very well.’ Artemidorus nodded. ‘And your orders are…?’

  ‘If we come across you, to join you – as far as Brundisium at least,’ answered Felix, apparently without a second thought. ‘Send a man back to inform Agrippa and Octavianus what’s going on which I will do when we have finished this delightful meal. Wave a fond farewell from the dockside, then ride back to Rome as fast as I can and report to Agrippa and Octavianus myself.’

  ‘And that’s all there is to it?’

  ‘That’s all there was…’ Felix drew the word out. Silence settled once more, broken only by the sounds of meat being torn apart and eaten.

  *

  ‘But now?’ probed Artemidorus, snapping a piece of crackling as though it was a dry twig.

  ‘But now,’ answered Felix, ‘although I see many familiar faces smiling in such an amicable manner around the table and drooling pork-fat down their chins, there are several others I expected to see who are notable by their absence. Particularly Quintus. You never go anywhere without Quintus.’

  Artemidorus said nothing, as he tried to read the truth behind the apparently unguarded assertions.

  Felix continued, waving a chicken-drumstick. ‘Therefore, I can only assume that Quintus and the others will be coming along later. At a more sedate pace. Also in disguise to cover their activities until they are well clear of Rome at least. Hopefully a disguise they find less embarrassing and more effective than yours. Praetorians! A joke, surely!’ He chuckled companionably, almost conspiratorially. ‘However, they are disguised, they are probably bringing all sorts of interesting equipment, funds and further orders. Even if you’ve come this far without Quintus, you won’t set sail without him, so I can just continue as ordered – but send two men back to Agrippa, perhaps.’ He bit off most of the flesh from the drumstick and chewed. ‘One to report your whereabouts and the other to look for Quintus and his company along the way. I’d better send one of my more intelligent men in case their cover is more convincing than yours.’ He paused. Chewed some more; swallowed. Continued, ‘Though it does exercise my mind a little to work out why you are in such a hurry to get to Brundisium when you will only have to wait there until Quintus shows up. Is there something else going on that I haven’t quite worked out yet?’

  Still Artemidorus said nothing.

  Felix proceeded with his speculations as he reached for more chicken. ‘The only other element I had not anticipated was the involvement of your interesting-looking legionaries over there. I might be tempted to add these two unexpected elements together and speculate that those awfully disguised soldiers are working for the people who helped with your disguises. The Gaul, let us say for argument’s sake. Who has, I believe, helped you come and go undercover before. And that there is, in fact, something going on in Brundisium. Something to do with him and his gang which needs looking into as soon as possible – while you are waiting there, perhaps.’

  Still Artemidorus stayed silent. He reached for more pork, his gaze never leaving Felix’s.

  ‘It is fortunate, then, that my team are not the only unit sent out from Octavianus’ camp. For when we arrive in Brundisium, I believe we will find tribune Popilius Laenas and his centurion Herrenius also waiting there.’

  ii

  ‘It’s not natural,’ said Ferrata. ‘Eating and then bathing. It’s the wrong way around. Like putting your back-plate over your belly as you strap your armour on.’

  ‘Not that you’ve ever been able to afford anything other than a coat of mail in any case,’ observed Furius.

  ‘And you only have that because it’s army issue,’ added Hercules.

  ‘Mind you, now you’re a praetorian and take it up the culus like the rest of them, you can get some really pretty plate armour next time you’re in Rome with your boyfriends,’ added Furius, overlooking the fact that he was also disguised as a praetorian. ‘If you can get a plate big enough to go over that great belly…’

  ‘The thing to do,’ advised Puella, before things got ugly, ‘is to go and grab another meal as soon as you get out of here. Then everything will be in the natural order again.’

  ‘Now that’s a good idea!’ said all three of them like the chorus in one of Plautus’ comedies.

  Artemidorus and his crypteia were in sole possession of the caldarium except for the slaves by the massage benches. He dismissed them with a gesture so the four of them could speak more freely. But, they would still have to be careful. For it was as though these walls had ears, he thought.

  They had all worked together in such close proximity for so long that none of them gave Puella a second glance as she eased her naked body into the scalding water. ‘You think he’s telling the truth?’ asked the statuesque Nubian, as she slid down to sit beside Artemidorus.

  ‘Part of it, probably,’ he answered.

  ‘The best lies start with a grain of truth,’ she nodded.

  ‘True. But the only other element which he and Laenas might be involved in is our attempt to get Lucius and Messala safely out of Italy. And quite frankly if there are people lying around in Brundisium with their throats cut, then it’s no great surprise to find that Laenas and Herre
nius are there.’

  Ferrata, who was also convinced the state of his face was Laenas’ fault, joined in the conversation. As with Puella’s nudity, they were getting used to him with his eyepatch off. ‘So you think Octavianus may have sent his carnefaces executioners after Messala and the boy?’

  ‘Porcia’s death has changed everything. Her name is on everyone’s lips,’ shrugged Artemidorus. ‘She is the tragic heroine of the great drama resulting from Divus Julius’ murder. Did she kill herself through guilt at her husband’s part in it? Did she hear a rumour that Brutus himself was dead? Brutus and she were closer even than normal husband and wife, remember – they were also first cousins. Had his mother Servilia got something to do with it? She disapproved of the match most strongly and has a dangerous reputation. The entire city and a growing portion of the Republic is all a-buzz with rumour and speculation.’ He readjusted his position in the steaming water, hoping to ease the muscles up the insides of his thighs. But that only made his saddle-sore backside more uncomfortable.

  ‘The last thing Octavianus wants,’ he continued, ‘is for people to start saying that Porcia ate hot coals out of guilt because she’d gone to him with Calpurnia expecting to get futabat screwed to save her children! You know the reputation he’s getting for dipping his wick in whatever vessel comes by. Especially as there isn’t a lot of evidence to prove that he didn’t screw her. While the papers removing Lucius and Messala from the proscription lists seeming to be strong evidence that he did!’

  ‘Maybe that’s it,’ rumbled Hercules. ‘Maybe he just wants those papers back.’

  There was a silence as they considered this, their expressions slowly moving from consideration to disbelief. ‘I can’t see him stopping at that,’ decided Artemidorus at last. ‘Not if he’s sent Laenas and Herrenius after them. Papers retrieved, and throats cut. Much more likely! Make doubly sure.’