by Peter Tonkin
The posticum was like much else about the villa. Larger than usual but no more modern. It towered nearly twice as high as Quintus and looked almost as imposing as the main entrance. But its lock was an elderly Greek variant of an ancient Egyptian design. Modernised only by the introduction of a Roman metal movement. The mechanism was devised to allow an iron key to be inserted from the outside of the door. Then turned in such a way that it lifted a latch on the inside. Praying that there were no bolts also involved in the villa’s old-fashioned security system, the two spies began to try the keys they had purchased in Pompeii. The third one opened the lock.
As he heard the latch lift, Artemidorus pushed the door gently. And it swung silently inwards. He grabbed the edge of it instantly and held it ajar, listening for sounds and looking for lights. In the absence of both, he opened the door a little further and slid in. His nostrils instantly filled with the smell of cooking. But the air that carried the odours was cold. Cena had been served long since. And it seemed that the cooks had vanished about some other business. The two men eased themselves into the corridor.
Artemidorus slid the dark lamp from his belt and set it on the floor. Crouched. Took the top off. Reached into his pouch for his flint, steel and oiled wool kindling. Then he struck the flint, using the brightness of the sparks to focus on the wool and the wick like someone using lightning to see by. The wool caught and he held it to the wick. Nothing happened. He held the wool in place until his fingertips burned. Then dropped it. In the waning light as it died, he pulled the lamp wick higher. Then he took more wool from his purse and tried again.
On the third attempt the wick lit and he shook the wool until the flame there died. Then he put the cover on the lantern and eased the sliding door until a vertical beam of light as thin as a blade lit the way ahead. He moved it from side to side. Defining the width and the depth of the corridor they were following. The odour of cena was replaced by those of burning hair and oil. The stillness in the villa was emphasised by the dying bluster of the gale outside. Quintus eased the posticum door closed. They pulled themselves to their feet and crept forward, silently, side by side.
iv
On their right was the wall of the culina kitchen. On their left, a series of doors opening, no doubt, into storerooms. Ahead, another door that would probably open into the huge tablinum office area or the massive peristyle garden. Above them, a ceiling that was effectively the floor of the upper storey. ‘Did you notice where the scalae stairs were?’ breathed Artemidorus.
‘Somewhere close by I think,’ Quintus answered.
And so it proved. A set of stairs led away to their right, rising from a little vestibule inside the second door. He pressed his ear against the wood but could make out nothing that made any sense. So, rather than risk opening it, he turned and allowed the sliver of brightness from the lamp to guide Quintus and him up the stairs to the balustraded gallery which, it seemed, looked down on all the central areas of the lower storey. If Basilus and Trebonius were in the triclinium dining room, they would be out of sight. But if they were in the atrium, tablinum or the peristyle, they would be easy enough to spy on.
Artemidorus closed the lamp as they emerged onto the gallery. There was enough light up here to see, for several of the areas below were brightly illuminated. Almost invisible in the upcast shadows, the two spies snaked across the cool, white flooring until they could peer between the marble columns. Their position gave them an excellent view down into the tablinum. And the great mosaic decorating the floor, which Artemidorus recognised at once. It showed his personal demigod Achilleus dressed as a woman surrounded by the princesses of Skyros in a scene from The Iliad. The princesses were even more scantily attired than the slave girls attending the villa’s owner and his friend. No wonder Odysseus was looking almost awestruck as he observed the scene, thought the spy with a wry smile. The red-headed sailor spying on the hero. Just as Artemidorus and Quintus were spying on the less-than-heroic Basilus and Trebonius. But no sooner had Artemidorus recognised the picture on the floor, than the quiet that had dominated the cavernous villa so far was broken. ‘There’s no room in here!’ boomed Trebonius’ voice, seeming to echo up from Hades itself. ‘Basilus, get your people to move these couches!’
‘MORS!’ Basilus’ whispery voice was raised as close to a shout as it could come. The brutish steward hurried across the atrium, answering his master’s call. Vanishing into the triclinium immediately below.
‘Get these couches out into the tablinum, and be quick about it!’ boomed Trebonius.
A moment later, with a juddering scream of wood on tile, the first couch was dragged out of the dining room and into the spacious office area. Pulled by Mors and two strong-looking slave boys. Some moments later, the second couch joined it, pulled by three more young thugs. Then Mors the steward moved the massive paterfamilias’ chair, clearing a sizeable area between the couches, while the boys brought out small tables laden with jugs of wine and green glass goblets decorated with gold designs.
Basilus and Trebonius strolled out of the dining room. Both wearing light, loose robes which caught the light like silk. Each man was attended by two young women, familiar from earlier. Whose clothing was short, scanty and all but transparent. Whose faces wore knowing and accommodating smiles. But whose eyes, thought Artemidorus, seemed to be brimming with terror. Or perhaps it was his imagination. He hoped so, but he doubted it. First Trebonius and then Basilus took his ease on a couch. And the girls attending them lay down beside them, one in front and one behind. Hands busy at once.
‘Not yet!’ snapped Basilus. He pushed the girl behind him so viciously that she fell off the couch entirely, crashing onto the tiles of the massive mosaic with a cry of pain. The nearest slave boy just stopped the table from tipping and the wine from spilling. His face pale with shock. His nearest companion smirked at him; leered down at the girl on the floor. Whose kicking legs revealed that she was naked beneath the scanty chiton tunic. Basilus sat up and swung round to face the fallen girl. ‘Get up, cunnus,’ he spat. She pulled herself to her feet. ‘Come here, canicula!’ As she obeyed, he punched her in the lower belly, just above the pubis. And, as she folded forward, winded, he slapped her round the face so hard she fell down again. ‘Get up and get back,’ he snarled. ‘One more mistake like that and I’ll make you draw lots to see which bit of you gets chopped off first!’
‘You two pay close attention to your master,’ boomed Trebonius, easing himself back and forth between his body-slaves. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what intimate little bits and pieces of a girl are included on those lots. It isn’t all fingers and toes, ears and nose I can tell you!’ He gave a great booming laugh as though he had cracked the best joke ever told.
‘Mors!’ hissed Basilus again as the echoes of Trebonius’ cruel amusement died. Raising his voice as close to a shout as it came. ‘Let’s get on with it! Where are they?’
‘Coming Lord Basilus,’ answered the steward. And he led a troupe of three women out of the triclinium and into the spacious brightness between the couches. The first one was tall, fair-haired, dressed in a robe like Basilus’. But the material was so fine as to be completely transparent. As with many fashionable Roman ladies, her body had been depilated from the neck down. Her upper lips, nipples and lower lips were rouged. She wore an indumentum oris mask across her eyes. And she carried a flagrum whip.
Artemidorus gave her only the most cursory of inspections, for his attention was immediately captured by her two companions. Both were naked. Their bodies full, rounded, and as pale as the plump lily petals in the impluvium. They had clearly been matched as a pair. Both had large, slightly pendant breasts with full, dark nipples. Both had broad hips, full buttocks and thighs that tended towards heaviness. Slightly bulging bellies, darkly forested. Unlike the girls on the couches, who came from a range of ethnic backgrounds, these had skin of almost alabaster whiteness.
But it was not just their nakedness that claimed his attention. It was what t
hey were wearing on their heads. Each girl had a centurion’s helmet laced tightly under her chin. Immediately beneath the eye-ridge, there was also a blindfold. And the effectiveness of these was made clear by the hesitancy of the girls’ stumbling steps. Their eyeless clumsiness was compounded by two further factors. First, that each girl carried in her right fist a sizeable vinestock. The springy, whippy club that was a centurion’s badge of authority. And secondly that the girls’ left hands were tied together by a cord about two cubits long secured from one wrist to the other.
An air of sick excitement seemed to ooze out of the two men, strong enough to be palpable up here. Artemidorus’ mouth went dry. His stomach twisted, suddenly full of acid. His nostrils flared. But, he thought grimly, this was what he had come here to witness. Worse than this, in fact. For the first glance at the two blindfolded girls had told him what was to come. The masked woman pushed them to the centre of the area between the couches. Prodding them with her whip, she positioned them, left arms stretched, cord tight, one facing Basilus, the other facing Trebonius. Looking blindly towards each other. The scene froze for an instant. Then, ‘Now!’ hissed Basilus, ‘Begin!’
The whip snapped against the nearest naked back. At once the two girls began to strike out at each other with the vinestock clubs. Missing at first as they whirled and beat the air helplessly. Keeping the cord taut. Staying at arms’ length. But the masked woman drove them on with her whip. Aiming the cutting blows more carefully at backs, buttocks, breasts and bellies. Lashing her agonised victims closer and closer together as they whimpered, danced and beat the vacancy between them. Until first one and then the other landed a blow. The blunt, brutal end of a vinestock slapped into a breast. Almost immediately another smacked low onto a hip, whipping round onto the side of a dimpled buttock. Pale skin blushed red at once, bruises blossoming. Darkening. One after another. Explaining all too clearly why these women above all the others had been chosen for this particular perverse entertainment.
‘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.’
&
nbsp; ‘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?’