by Peter Tonkin
Quintus Tullius Minor looked askance at his father, something – a childhood memory perhaps – nagging at the back of his mind. He loved his parent, particularly as his mother was long since divorced and had left the household. And, as was proper, obeyed him in all things. But he was not convinced that his father was being altogether open with him about his friendship with Basilus. However, he certainly did believe what his father said about Basilus’ massive fortune and his ability to help the Cicero family in their hour of need. So he settled back, tried to disregard the discomfort of his numb buttocks, as he silently addressed a prayer to the gods that protected his household and family. Watching his father across the shadowy interior of the leather-walled coach from beneath lowered eyelids. Wondering at the strange expression the old man was wearing, and whether it was anything to do with Lucius Minucius Basilus and the proposed visit.
‘No, no, you should be quite safe here,’ said Philologus as he welcomed Cicero’s brother and nephew back to the villa in Formia. ‘There were some soldiers here earlier but they went rushing off down to Puteoli. I pray to the gods that the master managed to set sail for Athens before they got there. But I do not expect they will think to come back here. Certainly not today! You may rest while we clean off the carriage and stable the horse for you. A short respite, some food and you may continue your journey if you wish.’
Quintus Tullius Minor listened to the steward’s effusive welcome with half an ear, still too nervous to be reassured by his all-too hopeful analysis of the situation. Still concerned about his father’s proposed visit to Basilus’ villa. Suddenly remembering how his Mother had disliked Uncle Marcus’ steward. What had she called him? Lubricus – slimy.
It was early afternoon. A good time for a visit to the baths in town while Philologus oversaw the preparation of cena. And being cooped up in a leather-walled wagon for eighteen hours with only a few stops to allow for necessary ablutions was certainly conducive to bathing. ‘Shall we go to the baths, pater?’ he asked artlessly. ‘I’m sure I smell like a well-used saddle: part horse-sweat, part old leather and part culus.’
‘I think not, boy. One or two pairs of spying eyes may have noted our arrival here, but a visit to the baths would alert the whole town. Start rumours that would spread far and wide. Dangerously so. I tell you what, though, there are private baths at Basilus’ villa. Come on! Let’s go up and see if he’ll let us use them while we debate how much he will lend us and at what rate...’
‘If he’s there.’
‘Well, someone is! Did you not see the lights burning in the windows up there as we came along the via just now?’
So, while the oily Philologus bustled about bossing the cook into preparing a meal fit for the family, the two men toiled up the hill in the blustery afternoon. Because of the position of Basilus’ villa on the upper slope, there was no room for a grand, sweeping entrance road, such as he had in his villa in Pompeii. The olive groves and lemon trees clothed the hillside above the residence, allowing more immediate access to the front. Quintus Tullius Senior beat on the door with what seemed to his son to be ill-concealed excitement. After a moment, the summons was answered. A janitor edged the door fractionally open. Even through the crack, his face looked terrified. But he clearly recognised the father. Which was the only reason, thought the young son, that he did not slam the door in their faces. Deeper in the house behind him, there was mayhem – by the sound of things.
‘What do you want citizens?’ asked the janitor nervously.
ii
‘Well, if it isn’t my old friend Quintus Tullius,’ said Lucius Minucius Basilus. ‘And this must be your boy Quintus Tullius Minor.’ There was an unsettling snarl of rage in Basilus’ voice. Fortunately not aimed at his visitors. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
The three of them were in the atrium of the villa, seated comfortably on chairs beside the huge impluvium pool that was full of golden carp. Basilus’ steward was overseeing a crowd of cowed and terrified slaves as they brought refreshments to the visitors and their sinister, skeletal host.
Never one to beat about the bush, Quintus Tullius Senior came directly to the point. ‘Baths and gold,’ he said. ‘We are on our way to Rome to raise enough money to get Marcus Tullius and ourselves to Athens and safety. Away from Antony and his death-squads. But we have been on the road for nearly one full day and could really do with a bath. We are travelling as secretly as we can so the baths in Formia are closed to us.’
‘Baths and gold,’ mused Basilus. His hooded eyes burned with some unexplained outrage, thought young Quintus Tullius. The only living things in that pale, skull-like face. The lips that looked more like a red-edged scar than a mouth moved. ‘Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on both counts. I have only recently and unexpectedly arrived so none of the villa’s facilities are ready. Furthermore,’ the anger was spilling out now, like molten lead boiling over in a crucible. ‘I return to find that the store of gold and coin I have been keeping here has been stolen!’
‘Stolen?’ gasped Quintus Tullius Senior. ‘Do you know who by?’
‘Oh! I know. That canicula bitch Cyanea who used to be my mistress before she ran away with Gaius Trebonius! She showed up here a few days ago with a gang of bullies she apparently recruited in Rome. In league with that thug they call The Gaul, apparently. Cleaned the house out and vanished! And none of the spineless scum I own here dared to stand up to her. Not one! First I’m going to make them pay and then I’m going to hunt her down and take a very long time to give her an unimaginably painful death. Something that will make even poena cullei seem like a mild inconvenience...’
Quintus Tullius Minor stopped listening to Basilus’ bitter ranting. The phrase poena cullei hit him like an unexpected blow. He was carried back to childhood when his father had been governor of Syria. Before he and mother divorced. A brother and sister were convicted of murdering their father. As governor, Quintus Tullius had condemned them to the ancient punishment in spite of the fact that it was hardly ever done – especially not to females. He had overseen the whole process – and his son had watched as much as he could stand. The stripping of the condemned. The way they were secured so that whips could reach every part of their naked bodies. The process of scourging them until their blood was running on the ground. The huge leather bags. The maddened animals... The look on his father’s face as he watched the process. The lustful enjoyment...
He slammed back to reality, shocked and sickened.
‘So I will start with these two,’ Basilus was saying. He clapped his hands and his steward led in a group of burly slaves half-carrying a young man and a young woman, both securely bound. Both pale with terror, fighting fruitlessly against their bonds and the strong hands holding them. ‘They have asked permission to marry,’ said Basilus, a tone in his voice that made the young visitor’s hair stir. ‘But if they do, they will likely want to breed more gutless cowards like themselves. I feel I have a right and duty to prevent this.’
He stood. ‘Remove his loincloth. Bring me a knife and a hot iron.’ He turned to his guests. ‘We may not have had time to heat the bath water, but we have not been entirely idle...’
As the steward tore the struggling youth’s loincloth away, Basilus reached beneath his tunic. The young woman screamed. The young man ground his teeth, his eyes closed in helpless humiliation. ‘There’s a surprise,’ cooed Basilus. ‘He has balls after all. Well if he’d used them to stand up against the bitch and her gang as they robbed me, then he might have been able to keep them.’
He turned to the woman. Pulled the top of her clothing wide, exposing her breasts. She gasped as though the action winded her. The man shouted inarticulately. Basilus paid no attention to either of them. ‘If her gelding husband can’t give her children to suckle,’ he said, stroking the pale, soft orbs, ‘she won’t need these, will she? So I think we’ll start with the nipples, and then...’ he laughed. An utterly insane sound. ‘And we’ll feed the tit-bits
to each of them. She can eat his colei while he is munching on her mammae...’
The young Quintus Tullius turned away, shuddering. He looked at his father and there, on the ex-governor’s face was the same look. He was enjoying this! The prospect of seeing these people humiliated, tortured and mutilated aroused him. Just as the sight of the brother and sister being whipped excited him all those years ago. No wonder mother had divorced him! The young man felt his gorge rise. He stood, trembling; his cheeks almost as pale as Basilus victims’ faces. ‘Father!’ he said decisively. ‘Father, we must leave. There is nothing for us here. Not in the villa. Not in Formia! Come on! Let’s go!’
His father looked at him as though he was a stranger. But then his vision cleared. The expression of lust that he shared with the monstrous Basilus became one of sickness and shame. ‘Yes,’ he said, also rising. ‘Yes, you’re right. Please excuse us, Lucius Minucius. We must go now.’
Basilus gave an absent-minded nod as though father and son were already gone. His hand trembled slightly as he stroked the struggling woman’s breasts again.
Father and son hurried out of the villa. The door slammed shut behind them. Somehow the moderating breeze outside smelt clean and wholesome after the horrific atmosphere inside the villa. Silently, side by side they stumbled down the hill towards Marcus’ villa.
They had just reached the roadside when the screaming started.
It was still going on some time later when the carriage with its leather roof and walls went creaking down the road that, like all the others, led to Rome.
iii
Artemidorus led them back up the Via Appia from Puteoli to Formia. Their horses were strong and willing, but they held them back to an easy canter and walked them at regular intervals so that they covered a little more than ten military miles in an hour. Six hours later, therefore, they were beating on the door of Cicero’s Formian villa once again. Philologus answered, as nervous as ever. His whole demeanour one of guilt and fear. ‘Is Marcus Tullius Cicero here?’ demanded Artemidorus as the others clustered threateningly behind him.
‘Not Marcus my master, no...’
‘Then who?’
‘No-one. There’s no-one here now except the household slaves...’
Tiring of the game, Artemidorus took the steward by the throat. ‘Who has been here, then, and when?’
‘The master’s brother and his son,’ babbled Philologus. ‘They arrived in the master’s leather-roofed coach, said they would stay but then went up to General Lucius Minusius Basilus’ villa. Came back almost straight away. Too sick to eat, so they said. But they took bread, cheese and wine with them when they ordered the wagon and left. That was early afternoon. If you hurry you should catch them before dark. They’re going straight up the Via Appia to Rome...’
‘Basilus’ villa?’ interrupted Artemidorus. ‘What did they want there?’
Philologus blinked in surprise. ‘I think they were hoping to borrow money. Perhaps you should check there before you go. There was terrible screaming some time ago. We all know he likes to torture his slaves. But this was louder and longer than usual.’
Artemidorus went cold. ‘The screams. A man’s or woman’s?’
‘I couldn’t tell. Either. Perhaps both...’
Artemidorus released the oily steward and turned, looking up the hill. ‘It’s all quiet now,’ he said. ‘But you’re right. I think we should check it out.’
His gaze met Quintus’. The old soldier shrugged. Nodded. ‘Let’s do it then.’
They left the horses with Cicero’s house slaves to guard them, crossed the via and began to creep up the hill. As they did so, they automatically fell into the wedge formation they used when going into battle. Artemidorus in the lead with the cavalry spada he was carrying instead of his usual sword. The longer, heavier, sharp-edged weapon better for beheadings should it come to that. Quintus at his right shoulder, gladius in his right hand, Puella at his left, gladius in her left. Ferrata, Furius and Mercury behind, and the giant Hercules in the rear, towering over all of them.
The door to the villa stood very slightly ajar. Artemidorus pushed it with his shoulder, ears straining for the slightest sound beyond it. There was silence. Until the first gentle scraping of their hob-nailed caligae on the marble flooring. Still in the arrow-head formation, as though entering enemy territory, they crept forward. The shadowy vestibulum gave on to the atrium, lit by the opening above the impluvium pool. Here they found the first blood. Pools of it on the floor. Spots of it on the smashed and scattered furniture and knife-scratched columns. Skeins of it in the water, disturbed by the restless carp. Smears of it on walls and mosaics leading through towards the tablinum.
The table in the tablinum was awash with it. As were the tiles beneath. Ferrata broke the silence. ‘There’s been butchery done here,’ he said. ‘May the gods help whichever poor bastard all this blood belongs to.’ He touched the fascinus good-luck charms he wore at his belt. The others did the same. Except for Puella who refused to wear the winged phallus charms. And for Artemidorus who preferred to rely on the good offices of his personal demigod – Achilleus, hero of Troy.
Eyes narrow, all senses battlefield alert, he led them past the blood-boltered table and out into the peristyle. The plants, shrubs and trees of the inner garden were still in leaf and many in late flower. The storms of the last few days had done little damage here, but the rain had brought all the plant-life to a peak of perfection. In the early afternoon, it was a wonderland of colours and scents. Except for the reek of blood and offal on the still air. Except for the sight that claimed their gaze.
Just as he had done in his ruined Roman villa, Basilus had replaced the fountain that traditionally stood at the centre of the garden with a whipping post. Judging by the state of the thing, it had seen good use, thought Artemidorus as he walked towards it as though walking towards a Ghost Warrior from the darkest forests of wild Germania. The wooden post was dark with blood and the sweat of agony. The fetters hanging from it were bright with constant use.
At the foot of the post there was piled what appeared to be a badly butchered pig. Pale pink flesh, with stubs of bone. Odds and ends of offal lay piled around it. Only as Artemidorus came right up beside it did he realise that it was the body of a man. ‘Circulus,’ he ordered. The wedge became a ring. Facing out as though this was long-haired Gaul or the wild islands of Britannia. He knelt and reached for the top of the most substantial piece of meat. He rolled it over and breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared it might be Cyanea. He believed it would probably be some nameless slave. It was actually Lucius Minuicius Basilus. This particular piece was his torso, head and shoulders. The offal scattered all around quickly resolved itself into fingers, toes, hands, feet, forearms and shins. The genitals obviously missing from the point of the belly were drooling out of his gaping mouth.
‘They’re going to crucify us, aren’t they?’
The voice belonged to a young man standing in the doorway of the slaves’ quarters. ‘That’s the punishment for killing your master.’
A young woman stepped forward to stand at the speaker’s shoulder. ‘He was going to take my man’s testicles and my breasts. Just because when his mistress Cyanea came with her band of thugs, we couldn’t stop her stealing some of his gold and vanishing with it. He was going to start with us then punish some of the others. As if any of us could ever have stopped Cyanea! Or a dozen thugs who were with her. It was too much. A kind of madness overtook us. The others... The others mostly ran away after we had finished. They’re hiding in the woods. But it seemed fairer if we stayed. As it was all about Cyanea and us in the end.’
‘They’ll crucify us, won’t they?’ repeated the young man in a dead voice. As though he was already condemned and hanging from a cross.
Artemidorus straightened. ‘These are strange days,’ he said. The slaves frowned in confusion.
‘This woman, Cyanea, she vanished, you say?’
‘With the master’s gold...’
‘I see.’ Artemidorus stood silently for a moment, then he asked, ‘Have either of you ever been to Rome?’
The question did nothing to allay their confusion but the man answered. ‘Yes. We were part of the household in his Roman villa before it was burned down during the riots after Divus Julius’ death. We know Rome well.’
Artemidorus brought the spada down with all his strength. Basilus’ head rolled free and settled at the base of a basil bush. Artemidorus reached down and caught it by its sparse hair. Lifted it. ‘This man helped murder Divus Julius and actually took pleasure in doing so,’ he said to the young couple in the doorway. ‘His name stands near the top of the proscription lists that have no doubt been nailed to the door of the Senate House by now. If you take this to the Triumvirs Antony or Caesar, they will give you your freedom and ten thousand Attic drachmae with which to begin a new life.’
iv
‘That was generous,’ Ferrata observed tartly as they rode northwards in the early evening, hoping to catch Cicero’s brother and nephew before nightfall, now that Cyanea, having passed so close, was once again beyond his reach.
‘Don’t worry,’ Artemidorus soothed him. ‘There will be plenty more heads before this is all played out. Not to mention more wars, more rewards like young Caesar’s promised fortunes to the men of the Martia and the Fourth; and more legionaries such as us settled on huge farms and bustling towns as a ‘gratias’ ‘thank-you’ for our services.’
‘If we survive...’ added Mercury, who had come closer to death than the rest of them. As attested by the scarred ruin of his face.
‘It’s our job to make sure we do. We just need to take care. Of ourselves and of each-other.’
As Artemidorus and Ferrata shared this conversation with the others, the crypteia was riding north along the Appian Way. The afternoon was closing into early evening as the storm settled – for the time-being at least. Artemidorus was beginning to feel the pressure, though. With the incident at Basilus’ villa and the pursuit of Cicero’s brother and nephew, they were running behind schedule. Because he was absolutely convinced that, even with the wind moderating from the south-east, the only place Cicero himself would find landfall was back in Formia.
