by Peter Tonkin
Ferrata gave a guffaw of laughter at this. And even Quintus suppressed a grin. But Artemidorus wasn’t so sure. It seemed to him that Spurinna had behaved like an over-indulgent parent. Letting the youngsters play their cruel games. But what was done was done. He would talk to Adonis while Kyros and any other servant Spurinna could spare went about business that was much more commonplace. Puella, however, would stay with him. To watch. To learn.
Spurinna welcomed them and set about supplying a light prandium lunch. Ferrata shoved his empty cloth into his belt and assumed the look of a man who hasn’t eaten in days. Kyros was given a list and sent out to summon those named on it. Artemidorus left Quintus and Ferrata considering a meal of cold meat, eggs, olives, bread and fruit. With Spurinna’s permission, he took Puella with him. Though, to be fair, she was as much his property as the soothsayer’s. He was the one who had stolen her from Brutus’ household in the first place. During the dark and stormy hours before the Ides dawned. Spurinna was simply giving her a place to hide. In the unlikely event that Brutus’ servants had time – or inclination – to look for her. After they closed up Brutus’ Roman villa and headed south after him. As Artemidorus gestured for her to follow him, the spy kept his face stern, and met her wide, melting gaze with his steeliest stare. Until she looked down, silently abashed. Aware that she had somehow displeased him. All without a word having been spoken. Then, still silently, the pair of them went to talk to Adonis.
As Kyros had said, the terrified and desperate young man was tied naked to a chair in a cold, dark storeroom. As Artemidorus opened the door, letting light flood in, the Senate secretary jumped and just suppressed a cry of alarm. Artemidorus breathed in and his nostrils told him that in spite of Puella’s refusal to let him use the latrine, he had managed to contain himself. What Kyros had not remarked upon was something Artemidorus had noted on first meeting the young man. His physical beauty. He was from the north. Of Germanian or Gaulish colouring. Like one of the forty thousand slaves taken after Caesar’s famous defeat of Vercingetorix and the tribes at Alesia.
Artemidorus remembered that Trebonius had spent some time as Caesar’s legate at war with the Eburone tribe in the north of Gaul nine years or so ago. Where this beautiful boy had been captured no doubt. As a ten or eleven-year-old. His hair was a helmet of tight blond curls. His eyes the blue of a summer’s sky. In the evening, after sunset. His nose almost Greek in its perfection and his lips like the bow of Cupid himself. In the middle of his perfect, square chin, there was a gelasinus dimple. Not a cleft, a fissura, as there was in the Tribune Enobarbus’ determined jaw. A dimple. No doubt his beauty was the reason his slave name was Adonis. ‘Release him,’ Artemidorus ordered. ‘Give him back his tunic and guide him to the latrine.’
As Puella hurried to obey, he continued talking – to Adonis. ‘You will use the facilities and return here. There are two other soldiers in the house and both are widely experienced veterans. If you make any attempt to escape they will kill you. If you come back here, there will be food and drink waiting for you. And you and I will talk. There will be no torture. I have served my time as carnifex, but I see no need to use my skills on you. If you tell me what I want to know. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Lord…’ Adonis stood stiffly. Massaged his wrists where his bonds had been tightest. Pulled the tunic Puella handed him over his golden curls.
‘You know I will keep my word, after our last conversation, when you told me about Caesar’s dying words as you overheard them…’
‘Yes, my Lord…’ Like his features, his Latin was perfect.
‘Good. Off you go. And hurry.’
ix
Adonis needed no further prompting and the chastened Puella hurried after him to guide him to the latrine. And return him as swiftly as possible. Artemidorus followed them out, his stern face softening towards a smile. Strode through to the kitchen and returned with bread, cheese and water. These were sitting on a table when Puella guided the boy back again. At a gesture from Artemidorus, the prisoner pulled the chair up to the table and fell-to hungrily. ‘Wait by the door,’ Artemidorus ordered and Puella obeyed. Standing half in the light, watching proceedings avidly. Hungry for knowledge. Not for food. Artemidorus perched apparently casually on the edge of the table. His position establishing both his superiority and the fact that he, too, was between the boy and the doorway. But not quite close enough to present a threat. The light was behind him, however. Shining over his shoulder into the boy’s face. So the interrogator could see clearly every shift of expression. In the perfect features. In the wide, limpid eyes.
‘You did well to remember Caesar’s dying words,’ Septem observed.
‘I remember everything,’ Adonis replied. The words coming less than clearly past a mouthful of bread and cheese. ‘That is the reason Lord Trebonius had me trained in the shorthand and positioned as a recorder in the Senate. I have always been able to remember every detail of what I hear and see. And, since I learned to read and write, everything that I have seen written down. By my hand or another’s.’
‘I know you heard what was said at the murder of Caesar. Can you tell me what you saw?’
‘I saw everything, Lord.’
‘Tell me what you saw, then.’
The dazzling eyes widened. Adonis was pale with terror. Artemidorus was presenting no threat – quite the opposite. Therefore, reasoned the spy, the boy’s fear came from the fact that he was preparing to disobey his order. Preparing to negotiate. To strike a bargain if he could. ‘What I saw could mean death. To me and my…’
‘Your… What? Family? Lover?’
‘Sister,’ he admitted reluctantly.
And Artemidorus understood something further about the boy’s name. ‘Your sister Venus…’
‘We are twins,’ the boy admitted. ‘And apart from our sex, it has always been nearly impossible to tell us apart. Lord Trebonius was amused to name us as he did. For our beauty, he said…’
‘And if I can guarantee that you and your sister will be safe, will you tell me what you saw when Caesar was murdered?’
‘Yes, my Lord. If you can do that.’ Something more stirred in those wide, blue eyes. Desperation? Cunning? Calculation certainly. Perhaps hope.
‘What?’
‘My Lord Trebonius has enjoyed us both in many ways, but lately Venus has failed to please him. He had allowed members of the household access to her. As punishment. But now that he has been named among the Libertores and fled the city, there will be no one to control matters. While the household prepares to follow him to Ephesus as he takes up his post of Proconsul of Asia Province.’
Artemidorus sat silently for a moment. ‘And if I can rescue your sister and bring her here, everything in your astonishingly accurate memory will be mine?’
‘Yes Lord. Everything. As will we. Venus and I. Body and spirit.’
‘I seem to do little else these days but steal one slave after another. Very well. We have a bargain. I will take some men and bring your sister to you.’ He stood. Looked down at the young man. ‘And stop calling me my Lord. Call me Septem.’
As he went out through the door he said to Puella. ‘Guard him but do not frighten him any further. You are a gifted interrogator and, like Kyros, you will make a fine addition to my contubernium. But you need to know. Sometimes you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar!’
Artemidorus entered Spurinna’s triclinium dining room, to find that Kyros had returned already with some more members of the contubernium. Who were now taking advantage of the soothsayer’s hospitality. As this was a quick meal taken on the wing, rather than a full, formal cena dinner, they were perched on the edges of the dining couches. Crowding round three sides of the central table. Antistius the physician was dipping a piece of bread into a bowl of olive oil, his face, as ever, folded into a thoughtful frown. Beside him sat Hercules, who as yet had only the sketchiest idea of why he was here. He was gnawing on a chicken leg. Hopefully not from one of the soothsayer’s prop
hetic birds, thought the spy wryly. Hercules was tutor to the son of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, the commander of the Seventh Legion.
Hercules, like Adonis and his sister, was given a slave name from antiquity, following the current fashion. And as Adonis was beautiful – and his sister, no doubt, all but a goddess – so Hercules was huge. And enormously powerful. Even more so than Antony himself, who claimed Hercules as a direct ancestor. And, as tutor to Lepidus junior, he was an expert not only in logic, rhetoric, philosophy, morals and mathematics. But also in wrestling, horsemanship and the use of weapons. He also had a cool head. Obeyed orders without question. And was nobody’s fool. Furthermore, like Artemidorus himself, and Kyros, he was Greek. Albeit an Athenian rather than a Spartan. Best of all in Septem’s mind, Quintus seemed to like him. There were potential areas of conflict as the two men’s skills overlapped. But the older triarius seemed to take his huge associate cheerfully under his wing – and into his confidence.
x
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus, falling into full centurion mode as he crossed the dining room towards them. ‘Finish up. Antistius, Puella is guarding a very nervous boy in one of the storerooms. Check him over, please. I want to be sure he is hale and hearty. We will have a long session of question and answer when I return. He apparently has an astonishingly accurate memory and I propose to test it to its limits. The rest of you. We have a mission…’
*
Artemidorus led his little band out of Spurinna’s villa. As Kyros shut and locked the door behind them. His face a mask of disappointment at being left behind. Shoulder to shoulder, they followed the broad vicus north-east round the foot of the Viminal Hill. With the centurion in front, the legionary Quintus at his side. With Hercules and Ferrata close behind. Skirting the subura and marching towards the southern slopes of the Quirinial Hill. The subura particularly was heaving with activity. But the sight of two fully armed soldiers – accompanied by a muscular legionary and a giant – ensured everyone kept a respectful space around them. Though it attracted a good deal of attention. As nervous citizenry of all types and statuses gave the four of them a wide berth. But kept a watchful eye on them as they marched away. In this circle of nervous silence, the spy explained the mission they were on. And his simple plan to make it succeed.
When they reached Trebonius’ villa on the pine-fragrant slopes of the exclusive neighbourhood, Artemidorus knocked on the door. With the pommel of his gladius sword. He made sure his blows sounded businesslike. Slightly impatient. And loud. For there was a decided bustle of activity going on at the far side of the portal. Not too surprisingly. The wood of the solid entrance showed signs of damage by axes, spears, cleavers and fire. The mob out to avenge Caesar’s death had clearly come knocking recently. The ostiarius doorkeeper opened almost immediately. Peering out nervously. Only a little relieved to see the murderous mob replaced by an officious-looking squad of soldiers. The centurion with his bodyguard strode past. Reaching out to tap the tile on the doorpost bearing the face of Janus, god of entrances and exits.
Artemidorus stopped in the middle of the atrium. The others crashed to attention behind him. ‘I wish to see whoever is in charge,’ he snapped, getting more deeply into his character as the impatient soldier. On an important mission.
‘The mistress left this morning, following the master…’ the ostiarius explained nervously. ‘So there’s just…’
‘I am Colus the proconsul’s atriensis steward,’ announced a round-bodied, frog-faced, loose-lipped man with dark bags beneath greedy, gimlet eyes. And a suspiciously dark profusion of oily curls. Entering the atrium with all the pomp and dignity of the master here. ‘How may the house of Trebonius be of service, Centurion?’
‘I come from Co-consul and General Mark Antony. I speak with his authority.’ Artemidorus’ tone matched that of the pompous steward. With a telling edge of military impatience. ‘As you are no doubt aware, the proconsul’s slave Adonis is in the co-consul’s custody as a witness to the murder of Dictator for Life, Pontifex Maximus, General, Pater Patriae, the Divine Gaius Julius Caesar.’
‘Ah…’ huffed Colus, clearly unaware of anything of the sort. ‘I see…’
‘The co-consul has sent us with express orders to find and bring his sister Venus, who, we understand, may have further information. And in any case will be of use to our carnefaxes.’
‘Venus has not left the house since the Kalends. Fifteen days before the Ides! She can know nothing…’ Colus wrung his hands, clearly unhappy at the thought of losing control of the young woman.
‘You obviously do not understand the methods used by carnifexes in sessions of close questioning,’ snapped Centurion Artemidorus, a thunderous frown gathering. That the personal emissary of Rome’s current ruler should have to explain things to a mere steward… ‘There comes a time when even the acutest discomfort fades. And a subject will only answer further questions in order to protect a loved one. A sister, let us say. From suffering even greater agonies in his place…’
The pudgy face flushed unhealthily. Spittle gathered at the corner of those slack lips. The gimlet eyes lost focus for a moment. Turned inward rather than outward. The steward’s mind was suddenly filled with pictures of what soldiers such as these might do to Venus. To loosen Adonis’ tongue.
‘Will you send for her? Or must we tear this place apart?’ snapped the angry, impatient centurion. ‘Make your mind up. Our time is short.’ His fists rested on the hilt of his gladius and the pommel of his pugio.
‘I will send! I will send!’ Colus assured him. His voice reaching the upper ranges normally only attained by Queen Cleopatra’s eunuchs. ‘You there! Ostiarius! Make yourself useful. Go and get the girl.’
As the doorkeeper hurried to obey, the steward suddenly had a second thought. ‘Oh! And make sure she is suitably dressed to accompany the centurion and his men!’
And, as a further afterthought: ‘You may need to get one of the women to wash her…’
The doorkeeper vanished at last.
An icy silence descended. Under which stirred the bustle of a household preparing for departure. With only a skeleton staff likely to remain until the master and all his family and servants returned to Rome again. Sometime, thought Artemidorus, far in the future. If the treacherous Trebonius ever returned. A homecoming which it was now in his remit to stop. By perimere slaughtering the man in question whenever an opportunity arose.
Artemidorus’ lips narrowed as time passed and his thoughts returned to the present. Adonis’ fears for his sister were obviously well founded. Trebonius’ punishment was still being lustily re-enacted. Venus was probably tied to a bed somewhere. Readily available. The spy began to wonder whether Trebonius shared his friend and co-conspirator Minucius Basilus’ predilection for enjoying the pain and humiliation of others.
But then the doorkeeper returned. Followed by a young woman who had obviously just been washed. Her golden ringlets jewelled with drops of water. Her tall, slim body dressed in a tunic that was far too large for her. Which nevertheless contrived to cling to the outlines of her still-damp body. Her dark blue eyes wide. With speculation rather than fear. The three men behind Septem gave a concerted sigh. Mixed of every emotion between spiritual wonder and naked lust. For in spite of the signs of trepidation and discomfort in her expression, her face was simply the loveliest Artemidorus had ever seen. ‘Venus,’ he said, fighting to keep his voice harsh. ‘We have come to take you to your brother. Have you any personal possessions you might need to bring?’
‘No, my Lord,’ she answered, in a low, musical voice. Her tone bitter. Her perfectly dimpled chin square. Her spirit clearly unbroken by whatever had been happening to her recently. ‘As you see, I cannot even call my clothes my own.’
‘Very well,’ he grated, his cold eyes sweeping over Colus and his cohorts. ‘Let’s go.’
As they stepped out of the doorway and into the street, the four men fell in around Venus as though they were her bodyguard. Trebonius’ ostiarius li
ngered with the door half open, watching the woman departing with a wistful expression. Clearly, thought Artemidorus, glancing back, the doorkeeper had missed out on his chance to bed her like the rest.
xi
As the spy turned, something flew past his shoulder with a fierce buzzing sound. There was a strange sensation of air stirring against his ear and the section of his cheek not protected by the side-piece of his helmet. The solid slap of some kind of impact. The doorkeeper, so close behind him, staggered back. All of a sudden he had something sticking out of his shoulder. Something short, black, brutal. The man screamed, half-turned and slammed the door shut. Artemidorus blinked. Turned to Quintus. Another projectile buzzed viciously by. And a dart slightly shorter than his forearm slammed into the wood of the already damaged door. Where his head had been an instant before he turned. His mind was suddenly filled with pictures of exploding melons. But this was a bow of some kind, not a sling. Firing powerful metal-tipped darts, not leaden bullets.
‘RUN!’ he yelled.
The five of them took off in a tight unit, keeping low. Artemidorus had little idea of where they could run to. Trebonius’ villa was clearly closed to them, and he knew no one living close by. But at least the Quirinial Hill was covered with pines as well as with ancient and excusive villas. And no matter how accurate they were, bows were of limited effectiveness in woods. Especially when they were being fired from some distance. As this one must be. For there was no sign of an archer as yet. Simply the telltale whirr of his incoming darts.
Artemidorus let Quintus take the lead. Then he gathered the others in front of himself, bringing up the rear. He was the largest of them protected by armour. Even if he was the target, he stood a better chance than any of the others should he be hit. His equipment wasn’t up with Quintus’ but it should be proof against arrows fired from any great distance. With Quintus in the lead, Ferrata and Hercules on either side of Venus and Artemidorus protecting their rear, they charged into the nearest stand of pines. No sooner had they done so than the next arrow whizzed over Artemidorus’ head, sped past the three ahead of him and lodged in a tree just in front of Quintus. Without pausing, the legionary reached up to tear it free and then plunged on decisively. As though he knew where he was going, thought Artemidorus. With a feeling somewhere between surprise and shock. For he had never seen Quintus outside the camp lines of the Seventh Legion. So how in Jupiter’s name did he know his way along the forest paths between the ancient villas of the Quirinial Hill?