by Peter Tonkin
As Trebonius observed the moment he looked up from the scroll. ‘So. Antony sends a pair of battle-hardened soldiers with his messages. Hardly unexpected, I suppose. But you said something about spoken messages as well as these…’ he waved the papyrus in Basilus’ skull-face, ‘I assume you know what he’s suggesting in here…’
‘Yes, General,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘That you accept the post of Proconsul of Asia Province as Caesar proposed you should. And as the Senate has formally requested.’
‘Tempting, certainly. Asia is a rich province. But a province policed by surprisingly few legions. By no legions at all, in fact…’
‘Legionary detachments and auxiliary cohorts,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘That is all.’
‘Therefore suddenly less tempting…’ said Trebonius. ‘What do you think, Basilus?’
‘Antony wants you powerless,’ hissed Basilus. His cavernous eyes focusing on Artemidorus as though daring him to challenge the whispered assertion.
‘Not quite,’ said the spy. ‘There is money to be had in Asia. And money is power. If you find no legions there, you can still buy some. When you have collected the taxes. Or borrowed against them. There will be many moneylenders and businessmen willing to advance considerable sums to the Proconsul of Asia. Or you might even get funds from friends willing to trust and support you. Close friends.’ The final observation was by no means innocent. For Trebonius was a proud man. Prouder, perhaps, than Antony. The suggestion – as thinly veiled as the slave girls – was bound to drive a wedge between the friend and host who was twice as rich as Croesus and the guest too proud to beg or borrow from him.
The secret agent let the proposition hang in the air for a moment, poisoning the atmosphere. Watching with quiet satisfaction as Basilus eased himself away from Trebonius. Like a man confronted with a tiger who knows it is death to run. Then he added, ‘And Lord Antony suggests that, as the post is a newly created one, you might like to take up your proconsulship at once instead of waiting for Januarius. That would mean several extra months of taxes. Enough to buy a legion at least, I’d say…’
The bribe was so obvious it was distracting. As it was meant to be. Artemidorus wanted Trebonius focused on it. Caught between admiration of its dazzling prospects and suspicion that it was too good to be true. He did not want him thinking beyond it. Asking questions as Cassius had done. Making observations, like Brutus. About how desperate Antony was to leave Rome and settle the restless legionaries before they tore the city apart. But how mistrustful he was of Trebonius’ friend Decimus Albinus, Senate appointed Governor of Cisalpine Gaul. With three full legions under his imperium command. Less than a week’s march away from the defenceless city, once the Rubicon was crossed. Likely to be welcomed, in any case, by a Senate swayed by the Libertores’ spokesman, Marcus Tullius Cicero. And how completely Antony – and all of them so far – had underestimated Caesar Octavius. And the legions he was buying, bribing and building. He did not want Trebonius swallowing his pride and asking Basilus how many legions he thought his millions might purchase after all.
‘What may I say to Lord Antony is your answer, Proconsul?’ he asked after a few moments.
‘Tell him I’ll think about it. That he will hear from me. Yes. Tell him I am considering his offer and that he will hear my answer in due course. That is all. You can go. And you do not need to return.’
He waved a hand in dismissal. The two soldiers turned and marched away. Oh but we will return thought Artemidorus. And sooner than you think.
iii
Artemidorus and Quintus sheltered amongst the twisted trunks and low-hanging, overspreading branches in the olive grove at the end of the torch-lined roadway. Well back from the main road through the latifundium estate, in a space big enough to tether their horses safely and secretly. By a grassy patch where they could feed. The rain eased, as the overcast began to thin. The wind blew restlessly from the south, gusting towards gale force less frequently. But still making the olive trees sway and whisper all around them. The afternoon darkened relentlessly towards evening, shadows gathering and dancing.
Amongst the other things purchased in Pompeii was a satisfactory cena of cold chicken, boiled eggs and figs. Augmented by the tart green olives they plucked from the branches around them. Made more substantial by a loaf of soft white Greek bread worthy of legendary baker Thearion himself. Except for the olives, the food had been by no means cheap – Pompeii was an expensive town – but it was bought with Antony’s gold. Along with everything else they were carrying in preparation for tonight’s mission. Which, to Artemidorus at least, seemed fair.
Sufficiently full, warm and dry, wrapped in their cloaks beneath the thick covering of the olive trees, the soldiers settled down to wait. As though they were on sentry duty in the dark forests of the north. But, while there was still light enough to see by, they went through those other purchases made by Antony’s gold that were not edible. And began to make their plans.
‘Though,’ said Quintus, ‘you know what’s the first thing guaranteed to fail in battle, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ answered Artemidorus. ‘The plan.’
Just before the sun set somewhere beyond the overcast, a wagon came down from Basilus’ villa, pulled by a slow but sturdy carthorse. And its occupants climbed up to light the flambeaus lining the white marble roadway.
‘That’s convenient,’ observed Quintus. ‘Now we don’t have to stumble around in the dark.’
‘Or use up the oil in our own dark lantern before we actually get there,’ agreed Artemidorus. ‘But the main question has to be – is this just a daily ritual? Or is Basilus expecting guests?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Quintus. ‘And in the meantime, I’m off to water and fertilise the olive groves – make sure there is nothing in my bowels or bladder to distract me later.’
‘Good idea,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ll follow on in a moment. If you haven’t brought a spongia, better use grass to wipe up – if the horses have finished with it. Olive leaves are prickly. And watch out for nettles.’
After waiting until the evening had gathered to full dark, the secret agents decided that Basilus was not expecting guests. As quietly as possible, they led their horses to the olive trees nearest the bright-lit path and tethered them there. Then, under the flickering light of the first flambeau, they began to employ some of the non-edible purchases they had made earlier. Like the Ghost Warriors of the north, they blacked their faces, arms and legs. Pulled black penulae poncho-cloaks over their heads, letting the cloth hang front and back, to make them almost invisible in shadow. Eased their pugio daggers in their balteus sword-belts. Quintus also eased his gladius in its sheath. Artemidorus clipped their dark lantern in the space where his sword should have hung. Making sure the reservoir was still full of oil and the wick was standing proud. Taking care to check in his pouch for the flint and steel that would light it. Making certain he would not confuse it with the other, smaller, pouch that contained the Balearic sling he habitually carried now as though it was another of his fascina good luck charms. Then, side by side, they flitted like dark moths up the shadows along the outer edges of the bright-lit approach road.
While Artemidorus had been focused on the fish in the impluvium pool, the slave girls and the two men he was talking to, Quintus’ eyes had been busy in other areas. Although he had not felt the shiver of suspicion that he was being secretly spied on, he had worked out the basic design of the huge villa. Its layout like its architecture was massive rather than original. His keen nostrils had sensed the location of the culina kitchen. And the likely position of the posticum back door, therefore. The door through which supplies would be delivered, crisp and fresh to the coqui cooks. So it was no great challenge for him to work out where the back door was located from the outside.
The posticum was like much else about the villa. Larger than usual but no more modern. It towered nearly twice as high as Quintus and looked almost as imposing as the main entrance.
But its lock was an elderly Greek variant of an ancient Egyptian design. Modernised only by the introduction of a Roman metal movement. The mechanism was devised to allow an iron key to be inserted from the outside of the door. Then turned in such a way that it lifted a latch on the inside. Praying that there were no bolts also involved in the villa’s old-fashioned security system, the two spies began to try the keys they had purchased in Pompeii. The third one opened the lock.
As he heard the latch lift, Artemidorus pushed the door gently. And it swung silently inwards. He grabbed the edge of it instantly and held it ajar, listening for sounds and looking for lights. In the absence of both, he opened the door a little further and slid in. His nostrils instantly filled with the smell of cooking. But the air that carried the odours was cold. Cena had been served long since. And it seemed that the cooks had vanished about some other business. The two men eased themselves into the corridor.
Artemidorus slid the dark lamp from his belt and set it on the floor. Crouched. Took the top off. Reached into his pouch for his flint, steel and oiled wool kindling. Then he struck the flint, using the brightness of the sparks to focus on the wool and the wick like someone using lightning to see by. The wool caught and he held it to the wick. Nothing happened. He held the wool in place until his fingertips burned. Then dropped it. In the waning light as it died, he pulled the lamp wick higher. Then he took more wool from his purse and tried again.
On the third attempt the wick lit and he shook the wool until the flame there died. Then he put the cover on the lantern and eased the sliding door until a vertical beam of light as thin as a blade lit the way ahead. He moved it from side to side. Defining the width and the depth of the corridor they were following. The odour of cena was replaced by those of burning hair and oil. The stillness in the villa was emphasised by the dying bluster of the gale outside. Quintus eased the posticum door closed. They pulled themselves to their feet and crept forward, silently, side by side.
iv
On their right was the wall of the culina kitchen. On their left, a series of doors opening, no doubt, into storerooms. Ahead, another door that would probably open into the huge tablinum office area or the massive peristyle garden. Above them, a ceiling that was effectively the floor of the upper storey. ‘Did you notice where the scalae stairs were?’ breathed Artemidorus.
‘Somewhere close by I think,’ Quintus answered.
And so it proved. A set of stairs led away to their right, rising from a little vestibule inside the second door. He pressed his ear against the wood but could make out nothing that made any sense. So, rather than risk opening it, he turned and allowed the sliver of brightness from the lamp to guide Quintus and him up the stairs to the balustraded gallery which, it seemed, looked down on all the central areas of the lower storey. If Basilus and Trebonius were in the triclinium dining room, they would be out of sight. But if they were in the atrium, tablinum or the peristyle, they would be easy enough to spy on.
Artemidorus closed the lamp as they emerged onto the gallery. There was enough light up here to see, for several of the areas below were brightly illuminated. Almost invisible in the upcast shadows, the two spies snaked across the cool, white flooring until they could peer between the marble columns. Their position gave them an excellent view down into the tablinum. And the great mosaic decorating the floor, which Artemidorus recognised at once. It showed his personal demigod Achilleus dressed as a woman surrounded by the princesses of Skyros in a scene from The Iliad. The princesses were even more scantily attired than the slave girls attending the villa’s owner and his friend. No wonder Odysseus was looking almost awestruck as he observed the scene, thought the spy with a wry smile. The red-headed sailor spying on the hero. Just as Artemidorus and Quintus were spying on the less-than-heroic Basilus and Trebonius. But no sooner had Artemidorus recognised the picture on the floor, than the quiet that had dominated the cavernous villa so far was broken. ‘There’s no room in here!’ boomed Trebonius’ voice, seeming to echo up from Hades itself. ‘Basilus, get your people to move these couches!’
‘MORS!’ Basilus’ whispery voice was raised as close to a shout as it could come. The brutish steward hurried across the atrium, answering his master’s call. Vanishing into the triclinium immediately below.
‘Get these couches out into the tablinum, and be quick about it!’ boomed Trebonius.
A moment later, with a juddering scream of wood on tile, the first couch was dragged out of the dining room and into the spacious office area. Pulled by Mors and two strong-looking slave boys. Some moments later, the second couch joined it, pulled by three more young thugs. Then Mors the steward moved the massive paterfamilias’ chair, clearing a sizeable area between the couches, while the boys brought out small tables laden with jugs of wine and green glass goblets decorated with gold designs.
Basilus and Trebonius strolled out of the dining room. Both wearing light, loose robes which caught the light like silk. Each man was attended by two young women, familiar from earlier. Whose clothing was short, scanty and all but transparent. Whose faces wore knowing and accommodating smiles. But whose eyes, thought Artemidorus, seemed to be brimming with terror. Or perhaps it was his imagination. He hoped so, but he doubted it. First Trebonius and then Basilus took his ease on a couch. And the girls attending them lay down beside them, one in front and one behind. Hands busy at once.
‘Not yet!’ snapped Basilus. He pushed the girl behind him so viciously that she fell off the couch entirely, crashing onto the tiles of the massive mosaic with a cry of pain. The nearest slave boy just stopped the table from tipping and the wine from spilling. His face pale with shock. His nearest companion smirked at him; leered down at the girl on the floor. Whose kicking legs revealed that she was naked beneath the scanty chiton tunic. Basilus sat up and swung round to face the fallen girl. ‘Get up, cunnus,’ he spat. She pulled herself to her feet. ‘Come here, canicula!’ As she obeyed, he punched her in the lower belly, just above the pubis. And, as she folded forward, winded, he slapped her round the face so hard she fell down again. ‘Get up and get back,’ he snarled. ‘One more mistake like that and I’ll make you draw lots to see which bit of you gets chopped off first!’
‘You two pay close attention to your master,’ boomed Trebonius, easing himself back and forth between his body-slaves. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what intimate little bits and pieces of a girl are included on those lots. It isn’t all fingers and toes, ears and nose I can tell you!’ He gave a great booming laugh as though he had cracked the best joke ever told.
‘Mors!’ hissed Basilus again as the echoes of Trebonius’ cruel amusement died. Raising his voice as close to a shout as it came. ‘Let’s get on with it! Where are they?’
‘Coming Lord Basilus,’ answered the steward. And he led a troupe of three women out of the triclinium and into the spacious brightness between the couches. The first one was tall, fair-haired, dressed in a robe like Basilus’. But the material was so fine as to be completely transparent. As with many fashionable Roman ladies, her body had been depilated from the neck down. Her upper lips, nipples and lower lips were rouged. She wore an indumentum oris mask across her eyes. And she carried a flagrum whip.
Artemidorus gave her only the most cursory of inspections, for his attention was immediately captured by her two companions. Both were naked. Their bodies full, rounded, and as pale as the plump lily petals in the impluvium. They had clearly been matched as a pair. Both had large, slightly pendant breasts with full, dark nipples. Both had broad hips, full buttocks and thighs that tended towards heaviness. Slightly bulging bellies, darkly forested. Unlike the girls on the couches, who came from a range of ethnic backgrounds, these had skin of almost alabaster whiteness.
But it was not just their nakedness that claimed his attention. It was what they were wearing on their heads. Each girl had a centurion’s helmet laced tightly under her chin. Immediately beneath the eye-ridge, there was also a blindfold. And the effectiveness of these was mad
e clear by the hesitancy of the girls’ stumbling steps. Their eyeless clumsiness was compounded by two further factors. First, that each girl carried in her right fist a sizeable vinestock. The springy, whippy club that was a centurion’s badge of authority. And secondly that the girls’ left hands were tied together by a cord about two cubits long secured from one wrist to the other.
An air of sick excitement seemed to ooze out of the two men, strong enough to be palpable up here. Artemidorus’ mouth went dry. His stomach twisted, suddenly full of acid. His nostrils flared. But, he thought grimly, this was what he had come here to witness. Worse than this, in fact. For the first glance at the two blindfolded girls had told him what was to come. The masked woman pushed them to the centre of the area between the couches. Prodding them with her whip, she positioned them, left arms stretched, cord tight, one facing Basilus, the other facing Trebonius. Looking blindly towards each other. The scene froze for an instant. Then, ‘Now!’ hissed Basilus, ‘Begin!’
The whip snapped against the nearest naked back. At once the two girls began to strike out at each other with the vinestock clubs. Missing at first as they whirled and beat the air helplessly. Keeping the cord taut. Staying at arms’ length. But the masked woman drove them on with her whip. Aiming the cutting blows more carefully at backs, buttocks, breasts and bellies. Lashing her agonised victims closer and closer together as they whimpered, danced and beat the vacancy between them. Until first one and then the other landed a blow. The blunt, brutal end of a vinestock slapped into a breast. Almost immediately another smacked low onto a hip, whipping round onto the side of a dimpled buttock. Pale skin blushed red at once, bruises blossoming. Darkening. One after another. Explaining all too clearly why these women above all the others had been chosen for this particular perverse entertainment.
