by Peter Tonkin
Artemidorus rolled over and pushed himself painfully into a sitting position. Over the distant hubbub of the busy household, he could hear his own breathing and the thunder of his heartbeat. The only other sounds were those being made by Cyanea. Everything about them familiar to the lover’s ears. Except the circumstances, the pain and the fear. There were no other noises in the room. They were alone. In spite of his orders, Priscus had decided not to stay with them after all. A situation that seemed in equal measures promising and unlikely to last long.
Priscus was probably just looking for a lamp so he could actually keep his eye on the prisoners as directed. He did not strike the spy as a man who thought for himself very much. He would probably take Syrus’ orders literally. Artemidorus had met many such men in the legions. They were useful soldiers, though they tended not to last very long. There could just be a chance, though, that Priscus might allow himself to be entertained until the aristocratic guests were gone and Lord Cassius’ servants returned as planned. The treacherous senator’s household seemed well disposed to the gladiators. If not to ex-cooks and their companions. There might even be some fresh-baked bread to tempt him unless the guests had eaten it all.
Artemidorus had no intention of waiting for either eventuality. He folded his supple body until his knees were all but touching his nose. Then, supporting his shoulders against the door itself, he passed his bound wrists beneath his buttocks. He sat once more and used the play in his loosening bonds to pull his tied wrists past his feet. His hands were now in front of him instead of behind. They were still tied. But, like Priscus’ absence, this was a situation likely to change soon.
The supple spy’s decisive action was not the only step forward. During the time it had taken to assess the situation and part-free himself, his eyes had adjusted to the dark. There might be no window in the storeroom, but there was at least an ill-fitting door. A blade of light cut through the darkness past him at floor level. Another much higher, showing some barrels about the same size as a man’s head piled against the far wall. One or two beams came in past the jamb and around the handle. The lowest beam of brightness showed Cyanea’s body moving on the floor as she writhed against her bonds. All curves and shadows in almost liquid motion. The other shards of light began to give Artemidorus a clearer idea of the room they were imprisoned in.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked quietly, easing himself to his feet.
‘Bruised and battered,’ she answered breathlessly. ‘That nothus…’
‘Not bleeding? Nothing broken?’
‘No. How did you get up so quickly? I’m finding it difficult.’
By way of answer he crossed to her, stooped and took hold of her shoulder. Pulled her gently to her feet. Swiftly, he guided her forward, turning her sideways-on to the beam of vertical light coming past the door jamb. When her tightly bound wrists were clearly illuminated, he stopped her and started to untie the knots. As he did so, they shared a short, whispered conversation.
‘Did you recognise those servants? They seemed to know you.’
‘The one who let us in and did the talking was that nothus Balbus. He’s the janitor’s assistant. He tripped me up! I don’t know the names of the other two.’
‘They seemed to recognise you.’
‘I’ve seen them around. They serve Lord Cassius. Working in the kitchen meant Telos and I had more to do with Lady Junia.’
‘Are any of her slaves likely to help us if need be?’
‘Not help, no. Lord Cassius is not as brutal as Basilus but he is severe. He’s been a soldier after all.’
‘Yes. A good leader. Strict disciplinarian…’
‘And so is she. Strict. The slightest suspicion that anyone was helping us would mean a whipping at the very least. One or two might look the other way, though. And whoever’s in the kitchen baking the bread you can smell probably wouldn’t know me anyway – they must be new.’
‘Unless the original cooks have recovered from their food poisoning and returned.’
‘I suppose… But they wouldn’t recognise me either.’
‘Right,’ he said, still worrying at the knots binding her arms. ‘If we get out of here, is there anywhere we can hide? Preferably somewhere we can watch the guests from?’
‘Yes. Telos and I used some of our time here to get up into the rafters and make a spyhole so you can see down into the atrium quite clearly. We had quite a bit of freedom to move around before Lord Cassius became suspicious of us. If we get out of here we should be able to get up there.’
‘Good,’ said Artemidorus. Then he fell silent for a moment. His fingers continued to work on Syrus’ knots. Nimble and powerful in spite of the fact that his own wrists were still bound. Even so, the knots so viciously tightened by the frustrated gladiator required all his attention.
Which is why he missed the warning he would otherwise have received when the light coming from beneath the door was blocked by approaching feet. It was not until the knots vanished for an instant, blinked into darkness by a body immediately outside the door, that he realised what was about to happen. He danced away from Cyanea on silent feet, raising his bound hands high above his head. Guided by the beams of brightness that defined not only the portal but the wall on which it stood. His shoulders hit invisible solidity immediately beside the door at the moment the outer bolt was shot and the door began to swing wide.
Priscus came in with his attention focused on the flickering flame of the lamp he was carrying in his left hand. His right hand was curved into a protective barrier around it. He was clearly more worried at the prospect of darkness than he was about a couple of battered, securely bound prisoners. Whose fate was, as far as he knew, sealed. Whose spirit was clearly as broken as Telos’ ribs.
He had taken three steps into the little room before Artemidorus’ bound hands whipped down over his head. The rope he himself had tightened cut across his throat. Closed off all hope of shouting. Or breathing. Automatically, he reached for the makeshift garrotte with both hands. The lamp fell like a tiny meteor and shattered on the flags. Miraculously, instead of dying, the wick ignited the little pool of oil it had contained. The room was lit at once with weirdly flickering brightness and looming shadows. Artemidorus swung the surprised gladiator round until he could see that the corridor behind him was empty. Priscus hadn’t brought a servant to bolt the door behind him. Nobody had suggested it. The gladiator hadn’t thought for himself. Really and truly not the sharpest blade on the battlefield.
‘The door!’ spat Artemidorus.
Cyanea danced between the silently wrestling men and the little puddle of fire on the floor, swinging the door closed and leaning back on it, ruthlessly scraping the skin off her wrists as she fought to free her hands from the knots her companion had loosened.
Priscus reared backwards, seeking to smack his skull into Artemidorus’ face but the spy saw the blow coming and hurled himself back with all his strength. Avoiding the blow and bringing his adversary even closer to death. Immediately, the desperate gladiator charged forward. But Artemidorus was ready for this as well. His right knee rose into the small of his enemy’s back and his left foot left the floor. For an instant the only thing holding him erect was the rope cutting ruthlessly into Priscus’ throat. The spy’s left foot swung out and in, tripping the desperate man up. He went face first into a pile of sacks with the spy’s full weight concentrated on that one sharp knee in the middle of his spine. There came a muffled roar as the agony managed to force a cry of pain past the garrotte, with the last of the gladiator’s breath. Artemidorus hissed in pain as well. He had closed his hands into fists as Priscus tumbled forward so he didn’t break any fingers. But the rough sacking scraped the skin off his knuckles.
Only now, when it was almost too late, did the slow-witted Priscus remember that he was carrying a sword at his belt. He began to buck and wriggle as he tried to get at the weapon’s grip. The desperate spy threw himself back with all his force. Wrists complaining. Shoulders tearin
g. Fists beginning to go numb. Grinding the fulcrum of his knee into the dying gladiator’s back. Desperate to kill his enemy before the clawing fingers could free the gladius from its sheath. Something the gladiator would find hard to do, for there was no room for him to pull the blade right out of its metal-bound leather scabbard. Or so the spy calculated.
Artemidorus was concentrating so fiercely that it came as a disorientating shock when one of the barrels, the size of a good big melon, smashed onto the back of the skull beneath him. Such was the force of the blow that it was a miracle the barrel did not burst. And another helpful intervention from his protector Achilleus, he thought. A trickle of garum fish sauce oozed out to mingle with the blood seeping from the back of the gladiator’s skull. If the barrel had burst, it would have covered both of them with the stinking stuff. Making it all too easy to smell out the spy across the length of the fish market – and probably of the Basilica Aemelia as well. Let alone across the length of the atrium and into the rafters where Cyanea and he would be hiding as they completed their final tally of senators likely to be in Cassius’ and Brutus’ conspiracy. If they got out of here and completed this part of their assignment.
Artemidorus wrestled his bound hands from beneath Priscus’ lolling head and stood up, opening and closing his smarting fingers. In the flickering light of the dying puddle, Cyanea reached for the knots with hands she had freed from her own bonds. And even though they had tightened again during the last few brutal moments, she was able to free him before the last of the oil burned out.
Artemidorus used the final few moments of brightness to return to Priscus. The fallen gladiator looked dead but it was impossible to be certain, even when the spy rolled the body over. He undid the belt and pulled it off with the sword. His first thought was simply to slide the sword’s blade into the Priscus’ breast and make sure matters were ended. But while he deliberated, Cyanea made his mind up for him by rolling their victim over once again and securing his arms as he had secured Artemidorus’. But with Syrus’ rope and knots. ‘Better to be certain,’ she said. She glanced at the frowning spy. ‘He was the only one of Syrus’ men who refused to hurt Telos,’ she explained shortly. ‘If we haven’t killed him, then whichever god he worships has intervened on his behalf. We should give him a chance.’
‘Right,’ growled Artemidorus. ‘Let’s go!’
Cyanea came out of the storeroom first, carrying a basket of early beans, onions, leeks and greens. Looking hurried but confident, as though she belonged. As though, like all the other house slaves and servants, she had a mission to complete on this most important of days. Artemidorus came out on her signal that all was clear. He was carrying one of the sacks on his shoulder to hide his face but he saw at once that he needn’t have bothered; this part of the villa was effectively deserted. He would have put the burden down except for the fact that it was also hiding Priscus’ sword. Which was trapped between the bulging sack-side and the spy’s left cheek. Its cross guard reaching down behind his shoulder. Its grip secured against the flap of the leather cap he retrieved from beneath the trussed body among the other sacks in the storeroom. As soon as he was out, she turned and reached up to slide the bolt firmly home.
Together they began to move forward. The slaves’ quarters were empty. There was far too much going on to allow anyone to rest or linger there. Everyone in Cassius’ house would have a job to do today. And there would be a severe penalty for being in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing. Or doing the right thing at the wrong time. The entire household’s feverish preoccupation was the fugitives’ best hope.
Those few still in the kitchen baking a last batch of bread were too preoccupied to pay them much attention. Everyone else was crowded into the atrium or straining to see what was going on from the areas closest to it. Men at the front. Women at the back. Except for the boy’s mother, Lady Junia Tercia, of course. The first part of the ceremony had reached its climax.
Artemidorus was tall enough to see an incredibly youthful boy, with a proud, almost tearful, Cassius immediately behind him, hanging his bulla child’s amulet in the family shrine. Which, noted the keen-eyed spy, had a dagger standing in it beside the household lares or gods. Behind the pair of them, a couple of favoured slaves carried a selection of toys the youngster was now too grown up to play with. Which would also be offered to the gods as proof of his maturity. They were the usual lot. A wooden soldier. A horse with wheels instead of legs so it could be pulled along. An impressive looking chariot pulled by a pair of terracotta horses.
Beside the pater familias’ chair in the open tablinum study area, the family’s tonsor stood expectantly with his bowl of water, oil and razor. Waiting to shave the peach-down from the young celebrant’s cheeks. Which looked at first glance, almost as soft as Cyanea’s.
The spy paused, his mind racing. He knew how the ritual would proceed. Gaius Cassius junior would be shaved. A process unlikely to take long. He would then put on the toga virilis, the dress of a man. Then his proud father, with the guests in tow, would take him to the Forum and parade him there. So that Rome would be made aware that another virile man had survived all the dangers of childhood to join the ranks of the patricians. In the immediate future, therefore, several things would happen in rapid succession. The shaving. The robing. Then Gaius Cassius, father and son, would leave. The guests would follow. The women of the household, irrespective of rank, would remain. Even so, the villa would become relatively empty. As he started moving once more, following Cyanea towards the secret observation post she and Telos had made, Artemidorus coldly calculated exactly how much time they would have to spy things out.
And there was not a lot of it before the slaves and servants would be released from their current duties. The nothus bastard Balbus who let them in at the posticum and his burly cohorts would continue to follow the orders of their master and Minucius Basilus. The storeroom would be opened and Priscus would be discovered. As would the absence of his prisoners.
Logic appeared to dictate that the escapees should get as far away from here as fast as possible. Cassius’ house was the most dangerous place in the city as far as they were concerned. Except for Basilus’ villa. That was what the slaves would be likely to think at any rate. But, the spy speculated, was there any benefit in staying once the men had left? On the one hand, that would be unexpected. On the other, it might allow them to discover further details about what precisely was planned. Gaius Cassius junior would return. His father might well stay out. After all, he had an important Senate meeting to attend, in the curia of Pompey’s Theatre.
‘Here,’ said Cyanea, turning away from the atrium into another cubicula being used as a storeroom, leaving the door ajar so they could see what they were doing. But this room was also lit by a couple of windows high beneath the eaves. This one was full of amphorae ranging from ones almost as tall as Artemidorus to tiny ones hardly big enough to hold Lady Junia’s perfume. They were arranged on shelves and in racks that stretched from floor to ceiling. The ceiling was dressed in squares of white stucco between black beams. Cyanea put her basket down, hitched up her tunic and used the end of one set of racks as a ladder. In half a dozen heartbeats she was up at the top, pushing an apparently solid section upward to reveal a rectangle of darkness above. She reached up unto the gloom. Kicked her feet free of the makeshift ladder. Wriggled like an eel and vanished. A moment later her face appeared at the hole. ‘Coming?’ she demanded teasingly. And was gone.
Artemidorus put down the sack which had sat on his shoulder while he watched this performance. He swung Priscus’ belt round his waist so the gladius hung at his right hip and followed his companion upwards. The wood of the rack creaked beneath his weight. One or two of the amphorae rocked dangerously, but when he reached above his head and grasped the cunningly placed handholds that allowed him to pull himself up, all was still solidly in place. And a last glance round assured him that everything seemed just as it should be in the little storeroom. Except for a basket of sprin
g vegetables and a sack of wheat.
As soon as Artemidorus was up beside her, Cyanea eased the square of ceiling back in place. Artemidorus expected to be plunged into darkness even more impenetrable than that in their erstwhile prison. But no. Cyanea and Telos had been busy lifting and loosening the tiles so the first bright sunlight of the new day, shining at last down over the Esquiline and onto the villa’s roof, illuminated their way as though half a dozen slaves lined the tiny passageway with torches all ablaze.
Artemidorus paused at the first bright beam, twisting his neck to see out. And was rewarded by a dazzling glimpse of sunlight. The sight of the sun made him freeze in place. His mind raced and his heartbeat doubled. Like the beat of the drummer keeping the oarsman on a trireme pulling together suddenly going up to ramming speed.
On Tiber Island the VIIth would be stirring, the long night watches over. He could almost hear the tubae trumpets summoning the legionnaires from their beds, to their breakfast and their duties.
The timekeepers in the Senate would be setting their water clocks to measure the hours. And to measure the time allowed for speeches. Soon they would be checking their sundials. Because with the rising of the sun the new day had arrived. It was now officially the first hour of the fifteenth day of the month of Mars.
The Ides had begun.
VI
