by Peter Tonkin
‘Euge! Bravo!’ bellowed Trebonius excitedly. ‘Iterum! Iterum! Again!’
The two blindfolded combatants found their aim. Time and time again the vinestocks whipped home. Landed with fearsome slaps. Artemidorus closed his eyes briefly. Slid back. Rolled over to look up at the red-painted ceiling. Tried vainly to clear the images from his head as blow after blow echoed through the cavernous tablinum. Blows soon augmented with the crack! of whip-strokes as the victims began to tire, needing further motivation to keep beating each other with the brutal clubs. And gasps of pain that soon became grunts, whimpers and cries – then screams of pain.
‘Enough!’ boomed Trebonius at last, his voice hoarse with lust. ‘Bring my cunnae to my chamber. To quote the poet Catullus, girls, “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo” I’m going to bugger your backside then fuck your face! So let’s get down to it!’
Artemidorus rolled over and looked down. Trebonius was gone. Basilus was striding excitedly towards the peristyle, where the twin staircase to this one led up to his bedchamber. His two female body-slaves were supporting the helmeted girl after him. Her body a mess of ridged red whip-welts and big blue-black bruises.
The woman in the transparent gown watched them as they went. She flung her whip onto Basilus’ couch and turned, reaching for her mask, shouting, ‘Mors!’
Seeing her now, alone, the centre of his attention, Artemidorus suddenly knew. Knew before the steward and his five burly slave boys appeared to clear the room in answer to her call.
Knew before she reached up and took the black mask off her face to reveal massive, green-blue eyes.
The woman with the whip was his treacherous lover Cyanea.
Artemidorus’ body was in motion before his mind caught up. His arms, shoulders and thighs tensed, ready to make him spring erect. His chest expanded as he gasped a breath to shout. The tiny movement seemed to catch Cyanea’s attention for she looked up at the balcony. It was as though their eyes met. For an agonising instant.
Then Quintus punched him on the corner of his jaw, immediately below his left ear. A short blow using as little telltale movement as possible. But a blow of immense power all the same. The spy hit the floor. Face down. Silent. Unconscious and still before his body actually did anything at all.
v
Artemidorus came awake like a flame touched to a cauldron of Greek Fire. Only the firm grip of a hand on his shoulder stopped him starting up. Only the rigid clasp of another across his mouth stopped him shouting out. His eyes sprang wide. And saw only impenetrable darkness.
‘This lantern is excrementum,’ came Quintus’ quiet voice. ‘The trouble I’ve had with it. I know what you’re going to say. Let’s take it back and complain. But did you see the size of the baro bloke who sold it to us?’
The secret agent relaxed, and Quintus’ tone changed. ‘All right now? No more jumping about and shouting? You know it will only get us killed.’
The hand lifted from Artemidorus’ mouth. ‘I didn’t…’ he wheezed. Vaguely surprised that his jaw was still working after the blow that knocked him out.
‘No, you didn’t do or say anything. But you were going to. And we’d have ended up facing that treacherous bitch Cyanea, that nasty-looking steward Mors and at least five well-built rectae thugs that work with him. Together with a couple of very strange but well-trained, fit-looking generals. Not to mention whoever runs the kitchen and takes care of the rest of the domestic arrangements in this madhouse.’
Artemidorus sat up. Eased his jaw. ‘Fair enough. But I’m in control of myself now.’
‘That’s what you say! Tell me what you plan to do next, then.’
‘Find Cyanea.’
‘Exactly what I thought, boy. All colei, no cerebrum. All balls no brain. And what were you going to do when you found her? Futuo or ferio? Kiss her or kill her?’
‘Get her out of here. Take her to Antony. Use her as a witness before the Senate to get Basilus and Trebonius impeached. Just like I tried to do with Puella the night before Caesar died.’
‘Good plan!’ Quintus sounded hugely impressed. ‘And look how well that worked. Not to mention the fact that Antony’s not talking to you. And the Senate won’t give a toss about a couple of slaves getting beaten to death – not that they were actually beaten to death in any case. Especially not given the current political situation the Senate is facing. That we’re trembling on the edge of yet another civil war. Unless Antony can hold everything together. In spite of Cicero and co. And that’s before we even start to consider Basilus’ millions – which will buy most of them twice over and then some.’
‘I’m still going to find her.’
‘Fine with me. I’ve lived long enough and made my will. Best go about it carefully and quietly, though.’
There was a moment of silence, then Artemidorus asked, ‘Did you say you’d got the lantern to work?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Right. Let’s go.’
Artemidorus sat up and thus discovered he had been lying on a marble floor. Quintus opened the shutter on the dark lantern a finger-width and so revealed that they were in one of the cubiculae bedrooms; presumably the nearest one behind the spot that they had chosen to spy on this evening’s perverse proceedings. Artemidorus knew Quintus possessed enormous wiry strength. But the legionary was unlikely to have carried – or dragged – his unconscious body any great distance.
The lamplight was just bright enough for the two of them to find the door. Then Quintus closed the cover as Artemidorus eased it open. Nothing outside but darkness and silence. The wind had dropped. The storm was easing, he thought. ‘Light,’ he whispered. The pair of them stepped out onto the balcony with just a shard of golden light to guide them. Artemidorus paused. Waited for half a dozen heartbeats, trying to sense whether the mysterious watcher was still observing them.
Particularly as it could well have been Cyanea.
‘Start with the slave quarters?’ breathed Quintus. ‘They’ll be at the back of the house.’
‘Safer to start there than go blundering in on Basilus or Trebonius,’ whispered Artemidorus. But he eased his pugio dagger in its sheath. Just in case.
They went back to the flight of stairs that led down to the kitchen corridor. Then opened the door at the end. It led out into the rear section of the tablinum and almost immediately out into the peristyle garden. Although the far end looked out through the metal trellis over the bay, there were rooms off the colonnade on the right-hand, northern side. Necessarily smaller than those at the front of the house. Confined by the nearness of the cliff. By the size of the garden. By the fact that the entire southern side of the peristyle was given over to the bathhouse. As revealed by the pictures on the doors, dully but clearly illuminated by the lantern’s beam. Brightened further, unexpectedly, by the moon as it broke through the rags of cloud at the edge of the departing storm. And, ultimately, by the fact that the rooms nearer the front were so majestic in size. These, therefore, were most likely to be the slave quarters. But which rooms would be occupied by the steward and his bullies? And which by the suffering women?
Artemidorus solved that conundrum in the simplest possible fashion. By creeping along the colonnade under the inconsistent brightness from the sky. Intensified as it was by the white marble all around him. Moving from dark door to dark door. Pressing his ear to each in turn. One after another seemed to reverberate to the sound of Stentorian snores. But then he came to others whose rough surfaces transmitted the sound of quiet, hopeless sobbing. ‘Here,’ he whispered. ‘This is where the slave girls are!’
‘Alone?’
‘I don’t hear any men in there with them if that’s what you mean.’
‘And Cyanea?’ wondered Quintus.
‘I don’t suppose she’s far away. And one of the girls will be able to direct us to where she sleeps.’ Even in his own ears, Artemidorus’ voice sounded icy.
‘You think all of the girls will be in here? All six?’
‘Probably�
�’
‘They won’t have kept any back to warm their beds?’
‘Doubt it. If you had done what they have done to those girls, would you want them lying close beside you while you slept?’
‘Probably not. Unless I had some kind of death wish. I’d boot them out when I’d finished with them and have at least one of those nasty-looking thugs guard my bedroom. In we go, then…’ said Quintus. And leaned against the door.
As soon as the door moved, there was utter silence in the room. Into which the two men stepped, framed momentarily by reflected moonlight, Quintus swinging the door closed behind him once again. But when the legionary opened the cover of the lantern and released a blade of light, there were gasps and whimpers of terror. Under Artemidorus’ narrow-eyed gaze, the edge of brightness played across a small room with six basic beds in it. On which lay the young women. Four relatively unhurt. The other two covered with whip-marks and bruises. All of them naked. Dishevelled. Obviously recently abused. Probably in the ways Trebonius had threatened when he quoted the pornographic poet Catullus.
‘Confuta! Be silent!’ hissed Quintus. And the fact that his was a completely new voice silenced the girls more effectively than the imperative.
‘We are here to help you,’ breathed Artemidorus into the shocked silence. ‘But first I must talk with Cyanea. Where is she?’
The women looked at each other, wide-eyed. It was impossible to tell whether they were too scared to reveal Cyanea’s whereabouts. Through fear of her or fear of what might happen to her. Or whether they had never heard the name Cyanea before.
But then events overtook their hesitation and confusion.
The door behind Quintus swung wide. Mercifully, he had stepped forward so the wooden edge did not hit him. Instead the door slammed back against the wall, fully open. With a crash that drowned the sounds of distress made by the women. And the steward Mors stepped in. He was naked. Erect. Holding a terracotta lamp with a big wick. Whose flame lit the room much more efficiently than Quintus’ dark lantern. Had he not been so drunk, he would have registered what was happening much more quickly than he did. But he was very drunk. So drunk he did not appear to notice the two black-clad, black-faced ghost warriors standing immobile in the shadows. Though to be fair, his focus – such as it was – was on the women. ‘Right, cunnae,’ he snarled. ‘Get ready for round two!’
Quintus reached for his pugio dagger.
The movement attracted the steward’s attention. His face seemed to lengthen as he realised what he was looking at. And his jaw dropped.
‘What…’ He staggered back, his broad torso blocking the door. Quintus’ dagger was out, but it was clearly too late to be of much use. The steward sucked in a breath. Obviously planning to shout at the top of his lungs and summon the rest of the household.
But the bellow never came. Instead, the lungful of air whispered out of his gaping mouth as his face folded into a look of utter astonishment. The lamp fell. Shattered on the floor and died. His erection wilted. His legs gave and he slid to the ground. Revealing as he did so, the figure of a woman behind him. A woman standing out on the moon-bright, white marble colonnade of the peristyle. A woman holding a long, thin-bladed pugio that caught the brightness. And gleamed with a red-silver glitter. Who looked down at Mors as he rolled onto his front and lay still. Revealing the black-blooded, fatal stab wound beneath his left shoulder blade.
Cyanea.
VII
i
The cart Basilus’ servants had used when lighting the flambeaus last evening creaked into the southern outskirts of Pompeii’s forum after moonset, in the darkness just before daybreak. There was no one up and out. Not even slaves going to the early markets. Which hadn’t actually opened yet. Though the weather was calmer and warmer. The breeze moderated but still from the south. It promised to be a fine spring day, when it dawned.
But had there been anyone on the night-dark streets, they would have stopped and stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the spectacle creaking past. Going from brightness to shadow and back again as it passed the lamp-lit doorways. With a black-skinned legionary in armour driving the single carthorse. An important-looking officer sitting beside him. Equally dark of colour. Two fine mounts tethered behind and trotting happily, unladen. Not so the cart, however. Carts full of farm produce the locals were used to. Carts full of fish up from the docks. Carts full of construction material destined for the latest building project.
But carts full of nearly naked women were a rarity, even in the fleshpots of Pompeii.
As they crossed the forum, Quintus pulled the right-hand rein and the patient carthorse swung his head eastwards. A few moments later, the vehicle creaked to a stop in the pool of brightness beneath the flambeau outside the lupanar. The two men climbed down off the driver’s seat. Quintus banged on the brothel door while Artemidorus began helping the bruised and battered women down. After a while, the door was opened by the wiry male slave, dishevelled and sleepy looking. ‘We need to see Restituta,’ snapped the legionary.
The slave looked at the soldier uncomprehendingly at first. With slowly dawning recognition. Then he looked over Quintus’ shoulder and out at the cart. His eyes widened. ‘Looks like you certainly do,’ he said. ‘We don’t often get them arriving by the cartload like rapa turnips.’
The slave vanished but he left the door ajar so Quintus and Artemidorus were able to help the girls inside. Wide-eyed and silent, but shaking with cold and fear. Especially when the big bouncer arrived and stood in the corner, silently eyeing them. All six were safely in the brothel’s dimly lit reception room by the time Restituta appeared. Adjusting her clothing and straightening her hair. Obviously aroused from slumber. Or something more active.
One glance was enough to tell her everything about the women. And probably about the soldiers’ dark disguises. ‘You’ll need to hide these poor women,’ she said. ‘Basilus will tear the town apart. Or rather his tame aedile and the excubiae watchmen will. I don’t suppose you took any paperwork along with them did you? Bills of ownership and so forth?’
‘There wasn’t really either time or opportunity,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Though I am apparently destined to become quite experienced at slave-stealing. I’ll bear it in mind next time.’
‘Our priorities were a little different,’ added Quintus. ‘Like getting rid of the body, for instance.’
Restituta’s eyes widened. ‘The body! Not Basilus…’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Artemidorus. ‘His steward, Mors. His will be the next carcass to wash out of the gully and into the bay. We dumped it down there on our way round to the stable.’
‘Well, we’ll have to act quickly even so. I can hide them for a while. Give them food and drink in the meantime. And some clothes. I have a tame medicus who can check them over, tend their hurts and then keep his mouth shut. But I’m not certain they can stay here with any degree of safety for any length of time. We’d be better getting them as far away as possible as quickly as we can.’
Otho the ships’ pilot appeared, straightening his tunic, just in time to hear the end of what Restituta was saying. ‘Quid novi?’ He asked sleepily. ‘What’s up?’
At the sight of the girls his eyes widened and he came instantly awake. And, as soon as the situation was explained, he said, ‘We’ll take them aboard Aurora and drop them anywhere they like between here and Massalia. No one will be able to track them that far.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ said Artemidorus. ‘As long it’s all right with the women and if Captain Lucius is agreeable. When do you sail?’
‘When the loading’s done,’ answered the pilot. ‘And Lucius will leap at the chance. He’s a good man. The women can have jentaculum here, get checked over by this medicus and be aboard by time for prandium. Then we’ll be off.’
The six women fell into a swift, whispered conference. Then a tall, Gaulish woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes spoke for all of them. ‘Massalia. We all want to go there.’
&nbs
p; That was all. No thanks. No further information. Fair enough, thought Artemidorus. The decision was all that was needed. Anything else would be superfluous.
‘Just need to get rid of the cart and the carthorse, then,’ said Quintus after a brief silence. ‘That’ll be too easy to track and too much of a giveaway unless we’re quick about it.’
‘Take the cart and one of our horses,’ ordered Artemidorus. ‘Get as far inland as you can then leave the cart and carthorse somewhere grassy and ride back here on the other mount. We’ll be off round about prandium time too.’
‘If you go inland for a mile or so, there’s a sidetrack running north,’ suggested Restituta. ‘That takes you up onto Vesuvio. You can leave the cart up there. Plenty of grazing for the carthorse. It’ll be a while before anyone finds it. And when they do, it will lead them in exactly the wrong direction. But the pair of you will have to clean up before you do anything else. There are no African cohorts in town so you stick out a bit. You’ll have to scrub off with cold water, though. None of the baths will be hot for hours yet.’
The lupinaria was wakened unusually early that morning, therefore, thought Artemidorus as he dried his face and hands on a rough woollen towel. Leaving black smears all over the pale cloth. By the time Quintus left with the cart, heading for Vesuvio’s lower slopes, everyone under Restituta’s roof was up and about. Fortunately no clients apart from Otho had elected to stay the night. So it was only Restituta’s she-wolves who knew about the extra six women. And there arose a kind of sisterly agreement between them as soon as the working girls understood what had happened to their visitors. Basilus’ tame aedile and his watchmen would hit a blank wall if they came here looking for information.