by Peter Tonkin
vi
The lupinaria brothel was a cut above the common run, thought Artemidorus. Though his experience of such places was limited. He had hardly ever found himself in a position where he needed to pay. But, as now, he occasionally accompanied friends and colleagues. To the reception area if rarely beyond. Satisfied with watching others make selection amongst the working she-wolves who sat or stood provocatively all around the walls. Offering an apparent infinity of colour, size, strength, specialisation and experience. Promising an eternity – albeit a short, expensive one – of unmatched ecstasy. Rarely, if ever, feeling the desire to indulge himself. But once or twice he had used the she-wolf inmates as a source of information rather than of satisfaction. As was the case tonight. Though he was the only man other than Quintus there – except for a couple of employees. A wiry male slave who fetched and carried for the girls. And a brawny giant of an ex-gladiator who looked vaguely familiar to Artemidorus. Who was clearly that most vital member of staff: the bouncer.
‘This is Restituta,’ said Quintus as he led her out. ‘The woman Otho suggested I ask for.’
Restituta was a woman approaching middle years from a youth that had clearly been blessed with great beauty. Much of which remained. Unusually, given her profession. The wear and tear of her profession had not, apparently, touched her. Nor had the dread hand of disease. Her appearance now seemed enhanced rather than undermined by the silver in her raven black hair. The laugh lines around her generous mouth and intelligent, quizzical eyes. And if her figure was tending towards the matronly, that only added to her consequence. It was clear she was in charge here – rather than being on offer. She was much as Artemidorus imagined Cleopatra might look like in twenty years or so. So, treating her much as he would have treated Cleopatra, Artemidorus bowed in formal greeting. The girls round the walls gasped and giggled. Restituta’s ready smile widened. ‘Let’s go into my room,’ she said. ‘My girls can see me vanishing with two handsome soldiers. Which will do my reputation no end of good.’ She leaned towards him, lowering her voice. ‘Stagger a little on your way out as though you are utterly exhausted. Both of you!’ She gave a throaty chuckle which reminded Artemidorus painfully of Cyanea.
But the room to which she led them was an office not a bedroom. And once inside, she grew more serious. ‘Quintus says that you are looking for the villa belonging to Minucius Basilus,’ she said. ‘What is your business with him?’
‘I am a messenger. My business is not with Minucius Basilus but with Gaius Trebonius, who is his guest, I understand. What is this to you?’
The last of the laughter drained from her face. ‘It is an evil place,’ she said simply. ‘They do things there…’
‘To your girls?’ asked Artemidorus.
‘Not to my girls. No. But sometimes to the young, inexperienced or desperate ones. And to the slaves he sometimes brings down here with him.’
‘Is there no one local you can turn to? To stop him?’ asked Quintus.
‘Have you any idea how rich he is? He inherited millions. Millions. Together with the name and all the property. He owns the local aedile magistrate. Everyone of any power or authority south of Herculaneum. All in the power of his purse together. The watchkeepers never go near him. Or his villa. No one does. It’s as though the place has been cursed by strigae witches. Or by the gods themselves. The villa is remote. At the top of a cliff; not high but steep and rocky. Near a gully that is deep, dark, and flooded at each full tide. Which empties into the bay as the tide falls. Sometimes bodies wash ashore and we all suspect they came from there. But even if they are linked to Basilus in some way, there is always an explanation. For the ones that count – the ones that aren’t slaves. Slaves just get burned or buried and forgotten of course. As to the others, it’s always the same. She fell down the cliff. Or into the gully. The fish got her. A vessel caught her in the harbour with its ram.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Though there have been no bodies recently. So maybe he’s found another way of disposing of them.’
‘Or,’ hazarded Quintus, ‘perhaps he’s growing more controlled. More moderate…’ Though he didn’t really sound convinced.
‘How is it that the household do not rise against him?’ asked Artemidorus. ‘Even slaves cannot be so cowed and beaten down that they would not wish to stop something so evil…’
‘He keeps hardly any staff down here. And those are all carefully selected. Just enough to run the household and the kitchen. Keep him fed up to the standard he is used to. Cater for his parties and amusements.’
Artemidorus sat in silent thought for a moment. ‘So, it is unlikely that either he or Gaius Trebonius has slaves or servants here who have come from their villas in Rome?’
‘Highly unlikely. Why do you ask?’
‘Trebonius’ housekeeper, slaves and servants might well recognise me. I have delivered messages there in the past.’
‘And that would matter? If someone recognised you?’
‘It might.’
She took that in her stride with a shrug. ‘As far as I know, all the people in the household now are locals. Carefully selected as I say. Who are happy at least to look the other way whatever is happening.’
‘What do you want us to do about this?’ he asked.
‘Kill him,’ she answered coolly. ‘There is no other way to stop him.’
‘Not without Antony’s direct order.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘I would do so happily for I have scores to settle with him myself. But I cannot kill him without an order.’
‘You have scores…’ her face was blank with astonishment now. Her gaze swung to Quintus’ stony face and back. That he was known to Trebonius’ household was one thing. Even that he might wish to conceal the fact from the man himself. But this was something else again.
‘He took one of my friends who was working undercover in the Roman villa belonging to a friend and associate. Had him beaten half to death by a gladiator wearing cestus gloves covered with metal spikes,’ said Artemidorus, leaning forward to fix her with his most intense gaze. ‘Then, before he died, Basilus ordered that his eyes be gouged and his tongue cut out. Then he was crucified against scaffolding in the street as a message. Finally his throat was cut. And he was left hanging there. Until I found him and took him down.’
‘And Basilus did this?’ She was white with horror.
‘Basilus ordered it. Watched it done. Made the dead man’s partner, who was my lover, watch it. So that she would tell him our plans and betray us. Which she did.’
‘Then I was wasting my time trying to warn you about him. You know what must be done to stop him.’
‘Perhaps. But I still cannot kill him without the general’s order.’
She gave one decisive nod. Her gaze as intense as Artemidorus’. ‘At least I am sure that the pair of you know what danger you may be going into when you step across his threshold.’
VI
i
‘We have to treat the place like enemy territory,’ said Quintus next morning. ‘We go in as though we were going into a forest in Germania north of Gaul. A forest full of Harii Ghost Warriors.’
‘I agree,’ said Artemidorus. ‘But that’s only the start. Sometime during our visit today I want to work out how to go back and break in tonight. To find out what it is that actually goes on there. If I know that, I might be able to think of some way to stop it. Short of killing him. Until Antony orders it done.’
‘Wise enough, given the general’s current attitude towards you. You really do not want to get any further into his bad books. Or you will find yourself in some dismal outpost in Germania, surrounded by Ghost Warriors. But remember, you haven’t been too successful so far in settling the score for Telos’ crucifixion. Or Cyanea’s betrayal.’
‘No I haven’t. Not yet…’ Artemidorus looked down at the lean, hard legionary. ‘But then, I haven’t stopped trying.’
‘Never will, if I know you.’
‘Not ’til it’s settled.’ He concluded g
rimly.
They spent a good deal of the morning searching through Pompeii for things that might assist them in their intentions for the evening. Making Restituta a willing part of their plans. Which allowed them access to her wide circle of acquaintance amongst the lower elements of the town. And so they were able to gather a surprisingly complete gallery of tools and techniques. But as the time for prandium passed, they had to return to the primary purpose of their mission. They stabled the mounts that had carried them here, hired a couple of fresh horses and followed the directions Restituta had given them. Riding out into the early part of a stormy afternoon.
The villa Minucius Basilus had inherited from his uncle – together with his immense fortune – was huge. It clearly allowed the ex-soldier to retire in almost majestic magnificence. Angry though he was that Caesar had given him money instead of a province to govern after his term as praetor ran out. The two messengers rode through vineyards, orchards and olive groves as they crossed the huge latifundium estate that surrounded the white marble villa itself. Which sat like a summer’s cloud on top of a coastal hill to the south of Pompeii. Glowing with snowy brightness, even in the overcast day. Cresting a rocky promontory that looked north across the bay, past Herculaneum towards Neapolis. The horses cantered easily out of the cultivated groves and onto a marble roadway leading to the villa itself. The broad roadway was lined with tall poles topped with woven metal flambeaus. ‘I hope they light those tonight,’ said Quintus. ‘That would be a great help if this weather doesn’t clear up.’
‘I take your point.’ Artemidorus glanced around. Clouds still hung low above the magnificent view. The bay was grey and lined with welts of white foam as though the water had been scourged. The land, gathering up dull and damp on their right, crested in the flat tabletop of Vesuvio. The bay, Artemidorus noted, was empty. It looked like Aurora was staying safely moored in Neapolis for the time being. For some unfathomable reason, that made the secret agent feel more exposed. As though Lucius Silus, Otho and the crew were backup. Insurance. Support. Which had suddenly been removed.
As they pulled their mounts to a standstill at the foot of an extravagant set of steps, the doors above them opened. A shiftless-looking ostiarius hesitated half in the shadow of the vestibulum. There was a marble balustrade running up each side of the steps so, in the absence of slaves or a welcome, they hitched their horses to the lowest upright. Then they swaggered up the steps to confront the hesitant slave.
‘My master doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said the doorkeeper before Artemidorus had a chance to speak.
‘Then don’t disturb him!’ snapped the officious messenger. ‘My business is with Gaius Trebonius. Tell him I am here bearing messages from Consul and General Mark Antony.’
A hesitant hand was pushed out into the gloom of the overcast afternoon. It had three fingers and a stump. The thumb was short of its top knuckle. ‘Give the messages to me and I will…’
‘The messages I carry, morologus idiot are to be handed to General Trebonius in person. And there is more to be discussed with him than what is written in them.’
‘Well, my master…’
‘What is it, nothus bastard?’ came a voice from the cavernous shadows behind the trembling doorkeeper. Not Basilus’ hissing whisper, nor Trebonius’ booming nasal. A rough, plebeian, bullying tone.
The doorkeeper turned, flinching. ‘Men with messages from Rome, atriensis steward,’ he said. ‘For Lord Trebonius…’
‘Well let them in, spurius bastard,’ came the reply. ‘I will go in search of Lord Trebonius.’
The doorkeeper cringed back into the shadows, pulling the door wide as he did so. Artemidorus strode in. Quintus followed close behind him, right hand on the pommel of his gladius. The pair of them marched into the vestibulum and stopped. The entrance hall was almost as big as Antony’s atrium. And the atrium beyond it could almost have contained the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus in Rome. Even on an overcast and threatening afternoon, it was seemingly full of light. What little brightness streamed down through the opening above the impluvium pool was magnified by the white marble of the walls and columns. By the brilliance of the mosaics on the floor. And, noticed Artemidorus as he moved forward, the impluvium pool itself was stocked with silver and golden carp, the largest and fattest he had ever seen, whose scales also seemed to catch the light. Its surface brightened further with lily flowers whose plump petals were as white as the skin of vestals. As he studied the succulent leaves, he suddenly felt a shiver run up his spine. He began to check surreptitiously around.
Certain that he was being watched.
*
But his attention was immediately distracted by the arrival of three men. Two of them attended by a crowd of six or so obsequious, cowed-looking slave women. The first of the three, ushering the two behind him forward, was clearly the atriensis steward. Though he looked like the leader of a street gang. A Clodius or a Milo – not the sort of servant a respectable senator would employ.
And his employer came immediately behind him. Looking more like one of the desiccated mummies from Cleopatra’s Egypt than a living man. Pale, parchment-skinned. With blade-sharp cheekbones, hollow cheeks, an arrogant beak of a nose, cavernous eyes and an unsettlingly full, red-lipped mouth. Only the richness of his purple, gold-embroidered tunic proved him to be a man of substance rather than a recently reanimated corpse. How Basilus had managed to establish himself as a successful general and an effective praetor, the spy simply could not guess. The last time Artemidorus had seen him was in his Roman villa as Basilus handed the captured secret agent over to the men who had tortured Telos. Together with the apparently terrified Cyanea. Both of them expecting to share Telos’ fate – at the very least. He hoped that, like Cassius, Basilus would not recognise him without the bushy red beard he wore during that undercover assignment.
Behind Basilus, strode Trebonius like a lesser Antony. His stature not quite so Herculean. His hair nowhere near so thick, dark or curling. His beard lacking the virile waves Antony’s achieved when he grew it. But a lesser Antony was still a considerable man. And Trebonius, unlike his host, carried about him an impressive air of power and command. He wore his simple cream linen tunic like a suit of armour. Carried himself as though he was always ready for battle. Stood out from his emaciated host and the thinly clad troupe of terrified girls around him like one of Caesar’s statues in the Forum.
It was this that had made him such an able general, reckoned Artemidorus. Such an effective legate at Caesar’s side in Gaul. Such a useful praetor pushing Caesar’s hugely unpopular debt reforms through a mutinous Senate. The man who laid successful siege to Massalia – commanding the land troops that broke down the walls while Decimus Albinus commanded the ships which blockaded the harbour. The harbour that, in these more peaceful times, was the furthest port to which Aurora sailed.
ii
‘Well?’ boomed Trebonius. ‘You have something for me, nuntius courier?’
‘I have messages from General Antony,’ said Artemidorus, refusing to be intimidated by the bullying tone. ‘Spoken as well as written.’
‘You!’ ordered Trebonius, defining which of his acolytes he was addressing by smacking her on her thinly covered nates bottom. ‘Get the letters. Cito! Quickly!’
Even as the whip crack of the blow was echoing in the cavernous space, she hurried forward, hand outstretched, eyes wide and brimming with tears. Artemidorus reached into the letter pouch and handed her the last of the parchment scrolls. She turned and scurried back. ‘Not velox fast enough,’ he said as he took the dispatch. ‘We will discuss that later.’ He looked down at the letter. At Antony’s seal. ‘Out!’ he snapped. ‘All of you.’
Everyone except Basilus vanished. Even the brutish steward.
‘You!’ Trebonius pointed at Artemidorus. ‘Come!’ He turned and marched through into the enormous tablinum study, which could almost have housed the Senate. Artemidorus was simply awed by the scale of the place. He f
elt for a moment that he was in one of the larger Ptolemaic palaces in Alexandria. The constant feeling that he was being watched fitted very well with his memories of Alexandria. The tablinum was walled with columns that supported a balcony. A match, he suddenly realised, to a similar structure that had lined the atrium. Which he had scarcely noticed at the edge of his vision while he was admiring the fish-filled impluvium. But that upper level might well conceal someone spying on what was going on below.
Looking beyond the tablinum, the spy saw that the rear of the villa opened into a peristyle garden, rather grown to seed – but also lined with columns and balconies. Where Cassius’ peristyle opened onto a balcony overlooking the sea, Basilus’ had a huge metal trelliswork grille in the middle. With what looked like a gate built into the structure. A trellis which also overlooked the restless Sinus Neapolis Bay of Neapolis. And, no doubt, given the scale of the place, all the balconies around the atrium, tablinum and peristyle were backed by doors into upper rooms. This palatial villa could house a huge family and an army of slaves to look after them. But now it only seemed to contain two men, the young women who were their potential victims and the fewest possible servants needed to cater for them. Servants, as Restituta said, whose silence could be assured, no matter what went on.
Basilus hurried into the tablinum at Trebonius’ side, bouncing up and down almost comically as he tried to see over his friend’s shoulder the moment he opened Antony’s scroll. In the middle of the tablinum there was the traditional paterfamilias’ chair which faced back towards the atrium. Trebonius sat in this as though it and the villa belonged to him. Basilus hovered beside him. The spy and his bodyguard came to a halt in front of them and stood at ease. Artemidorus had no helmet. He was wearing a heavy tunic and a rainproof cloak, hood thrown back. But there was no mistaking his soldier’s stance as he stood, feet as wide as his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back. Quintus was every inch a triarius. Under his travelling cloak he wore full armour; instead of a hood, his helmet, and caligae boots on his feet. Ready for battle rather than parade.