by Peter Tonkin
He was hurrying forward when he heard his name being called, and turned to see Cessy, the new Head Vigile, with a couple of his watchkeepers running after him. ‘Centurion,’ gasped the vigile, ‘you must come! Quickly!’
Artemidorus stopped, torn. ‘Can it wait Cessy?’
‘No, Centurion.’ The little man shuddered. ‘You must come now!’
‘Which of these is more reliable, Cessy?’
‘Lollius here,’ Cessy pointed at a tubby, balding man with quick brown eyes.
‘Lollius. This is very important. I want you to go to the trireme Galene. Find Centurion Gaius Licinius and tell him I, Centurion Artemidorus, said he must send some men to bring Messala and Lucius aboard at once and double the deck guards. Do you understand?’
Lollius repeated his orders accurately and hurried off to fulfil them.
Artemidorus pursed his lips in mild frustration at being forced to delegate something so important. Then turned. ‘What is it, Cessy?’
‘Come…’ the vigile said more but was hurrying away so swiftly that his words were lost. Artemidorus strode after him. His frown deepening and his heart sinking as he saw where they were heading.
Had the villa of praefectus Sospes seemed deserted and ravaged on his earlier visits, it was even worse now. The main door stood ajar. There was no sign of the janitor. Artemidorus slid his gladius out of its sheath and pushed the door wider. Likewise, as Artemidorus followed the two vigiles through the atrium, the officious atriensus was notable by his absence. Artemidorus slid out his dagger, noting with mild surprise that the hairs on his forearms were all erect as though suddenly swept by an icy breeze. The house was eerily silent, except for the occasional whimper of wind and the echoes of their footsteps. Artemidorus knew what had happened even before he caught the first faint whiff of iron on the unquiet air. Long before Cessy silently pushed open the door to the tablinum.
Sospes was seated at his desk. His hands lay on the wooden top amid a jumble of papyrus scrolls, nailed in place by short iron spikes. His fingers were spread, and it was clear that most of them had been broken. Behind his shoulders at head-level was a square vacancy that Artemidorus vaguely recalled as having contained one of the few pieces remaining in the room, a box of some kind. It was gone. And he could see quite clearly that it was gone because the prefect’s head, which should have obscured it, was gone too.
Experienced in such matters one way and another, Artemidorus understood that the supercilious patrician – no doubt in considerable discomfort judging from the state of his hands, had been alive when his head was removed. With one expert lateral stroke, delivered side to side rather than back to front, almost certainly with a well-sharpened cavalry spada long sword rather than a gladius and probably in the instant after he admitted that the fortune he was planning to use for his escape was contained in the missing box. There was surprisingly little blood on the wall or the shelves. But a huge puddle of it soiled the ceiling immediately above the corpse, and was still dripping sluggishly onto the spotted toga, the broken hands and the ruined papyri. And a trail across the floor marked where the severed head had bounced almost as far as the door. ‘I shouldn’t have trusted young Severus to act as swiftly as I needed,’ he said. ‘He seems to have let me down.’
‘No, Centurion. That’s not fair,’ said Cessy. ‘Centurion Severus came himself. I was here. He told the praefectus you suggested he would be safer in the cabin they were preparing for him aboard Aegeon. But the prefect refused to go. He said he would take no advice from a mud-covered soldier who stank of horses, even if he did speak with Antony’s authority and have a century of cavalry at his command.’
‘That was his last mistake, then,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Have him moved to the Temple of Hercules and put him beside the other two.’
‘Then what, Centurion?’
‘Then I’ll have to work out a way to deal with this. One that does not end up with Octavianus adding my name to his proscription lists.’
*
Artemidorus, Publius, Felix and Cessy climbed the stairs towards the door of Laenas’ hospitium room in single file. Artemidorus arrived at it first and knocked as the others assembled on the landing behind him. Using his left hand, as his right hand contained a roll of papyrus.
‘Immea! Enter!’
The curt imperative was still echoing as Artemidorus pushed the door wide. The room was unexpectedly large and well-furnished. There was a sizeable bed, a desk by the window whose shutters stood ajar, giving a good view of the via below. Beside the table were two chairs – both occupied. On the table was the box missing from Sospes’ study. Hanging from the back of one chair was a rough sack that contained something the size and weight of a cabbage. The bottom of the sack was sopping with blood which was dripping into a small puddle on the floor. Leaning against it was a long cavalry spada with a blood-smeared blade and a wickedly sharp-looking edge.
‘You’re slowing down, Septem. I expected you some time ago,’ sneered Laenas.
‘I had some errands to run on my way here,’ Artemidorus answered.
‘Collecting your little factio gang together,’ nodded Laenas. ‘Associating with The Gaul is having an unfortunate effect on you. Didn’t you dare meet me face to face?’
‘Doing you a favour, as a matter of fact. Saving you some trouble.’
‘How thoughtful. In what way?’
Artemidorus held up the scroll. ‘Collecting young Caesar’s pardons from Messala Corvinus and Lucius Bibulus,’ he said. ‘These are clearly no protection now, and will be no use to them when they get out of Italy in any case. So you’re welcome to them. The men to whom they are addressed are under guard and out of your reach.’ Artemidorus lobbed the pardons at Laenas, who watched as they landed on the box, bounced onto the table and then fell onto the floor, rolling until the puddle of blood snared them like lime on a twig snaring a bird.
‘Generous,’ said Laenas. ‘But unnecessary. I could have got them myself even more easily than I got this,’ he gestured at the box.
‘Take them and go, Laenas. There’s nothing more for you in Brundisium. No more money. No more heads.’
‘You hear that, Herrenius?’ Laenas pulled himself to his feet and faced Artemidorus – though he continued speaking to his companion. ‘This jumped-up Greek nonentity thinks he can order me about. Thinks because he’s one of Antony’s bum-boys that he outranks Caesar Octavianus’ agents. That, because he’s a centurion with a cohor gaggle of soldiers at his beck and call, he can give orders to a tribune. That just because…’ As he spat the last few words he thrust his face even closer to Artemidorus’, spraying the rock-like centurion with spittle and outrage.
Artemidorus punched him on the chin, as hard as he could. The blow started below his waist on the right side beside his gladius, and rose with incredible speed and with every ounce of the soldier’s strength behind it. It connected with a crisp crunch! Artemidorus thought for a moment he had broken his knuckles. But even if he had, it was worth it.
Laenas had never been punched before. He had seen men in the arena fighting with cestii spiked gloves and knuckle dusters. He had seen legionaries sparring as part of their training but had never taken part himself. As a boy and young man, the closest he had come was an occasional bout of wrestling. Even in battle he had never been punched like that, his helmet’s cheek-flaps protecting much of his face.
There was a look of incredulous outrage in his expression for less than a heartbeat. Then his eyes rolled up and he crashed backwards onto the floor. Herrenius leapt up, but Felix kicked his chair so that he stumbled over it and fell. Then Felix kicked him in the head and he too lay still.
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘That went well. Cessy, take them to Sospes’ prison cell and lock them in. Publius, mount a guard on the door. Allow them the usual amenities but watch them closely. Felix, I plan to let them out just before we sail, when everyone else is safely aboard. But I’m relying on you to do that if I don’t get the chance. And let�
�s hope that whoever told me the weather might not moderate ‘til May was mistaken.’
VI: Cache
i
As soon as Artemidorus stepped out of the hospitium after jentaculum next morning, he sensed a change. The wind was fitful and slightly warmer. The overcast was showing signs of breaking up and the moderation of weather meant that the sea was a little calmer. The rollers coming in from the strait between Brundisium and Dyrrhachium were smaller and slower. Certainly, the onerariae transport vessels anchored in the harbour were less restless and the two triremes tethered to the quayside were no longer heaving against their screaming straw-bail fenders.
Artemidorus pulled his cloak a little tighter, wondering whether he should have strapped on his gladius and pugio. Even with Laenas and Herrenius locked away, he could not shake off the feeling there was more trouble brewing. He stared at the two triremes, glad he had still insisted Messala and Lucius sleep aboard. Messala was in the luxurious accommodation aboard Aegeon that Sospes no longer needed, and Lucius was safely under Gaius Licinius’ wing aboard Galene.
‘Things are looking up,’ growled Quintus, arriving at his shoulder. He took a bite from the emer bread that formed his breakfast.
Artemidorus nodded. ‘Better get ready to move and pray the gods aren’t just teasing us,’ he said.
Artemidorus had spent a busy afternoon after seeing Laenas and Herrenius locked safely away. He had emptied their room and checked through everything he found there. Which included a lot of money and several documents, the most important of which were commissions from Octavian’s spymaster Maecenas, which did not contain any direct orders – merely a general demand, not too dissimilar from the commission he himself held from Antony. He also found Octavianus’ pardons to Messala and Lucius – carefully retrieved from the floor and wiped clean of Sospes’ blood. He had nowhere safer to store everything, so he left it all where it was, warned the innkeeper and left an armed guard on the door.
Then he reunited Sospes’ head with the rest of his body and made arrangements for the dead praefectus to be returned to Rome and whatever family he had there. For cremation and interment in the family vault according to custom. He thought of sending for the household gods and any other effects Sospes had been keeping in the accommodations aboard Aegeon. But more urgent matters distracted him – and so he sent no-one. A couple of decisions he would come to regret.
The entire contubernium then discussed their position and plans all afternoon, evening and far into the night. Felix and his men had been – courteously but firmly – excluded from everything except the meals. The Gaul’s men Castus and Bibulus and centurion Publius had been admitted to some of the deliberations as well as to prandium and cena – but by no means all of them. Not, to be fair, that there was anything much that needed to be kept secret from any of them. The food in the hospitium was excellent. So excellent, that Artemidorus almost regretted sending it to Laenas and Herrenius in the late praefectus’ prison. At least this morning’s breakfast – dispatched to the prison with two of Publius’ legionaries – was traditional hard bread and watered vinegar wine, for he saw more than enough trouble with Octavianus and Maecenas looming without allowing their murderous agents to starve.
The Gaul’s two gang-members joined them. The massive Bibulus and the slighter, more intelligent Castus standing at their shoulders, also looking out across the harbour. ‘Boats,’ said Castus. ‘I fucking hate them.’
‘All good Romans do,’ agreed Quintus feelingly.
‘Lucky you’re not coming with us then,’ said Artemidorus to the gang-members. Quintus had no choice. Nor did Ferrata, Puella, Furius and Kyros who also joined them. Ferrata and Furius like Quintus still chewing on the remains of their breakfast.
‘Right,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Lead on, Castus.’
*
Some time later, the little group stopped as Castus gestured at the doorway leading into a modest villa conveniently placed to communicate with both the docks and the town. ‘This is a funny time to be visiting a lupinaria,’ said Ferrata, a world of experience underlying the observation.
‘A brothel’s a funny place to come looking for an acervus cache of stolen weapons in any case,’ added Puella.
‘A clever place to hide them, then,’ suggested Kyros. Castus and Bibulus nodded their agreement.
‘Well, I for one am happy to check the quality of everything inside,’ offered Furius. ‘Weapons and she-wolves alike.’
‘I’d be happy to help,’ added Ferrata.
Kyros, still young enough to be sensitive and half in love with Notus in any case, blushed.
Puella grunted, unamused.
Quintus did not dignify the byplay with any comment. Instead, he stepped forward and hammered on the door.
ii
The brothel’s janitor was clearly an ex-gladiator. He was huge, liberally scarred and armed with a club that would have flattered Hercules. Castus pushed to the front as Artemidorus and his men took the measure of their potential opponent. ‘The Gaul sent us, Gaipor. He told us where to come, who to contact and what to say. He said to tell you Bellona’s guarding them.’
Gaipor the door-keeper hesitated for a moment, accepting the coded phrase but still checking out the soldiers expecting to pass because of it. A calculating gaze swept over them, measuring the situation; the request; the best way forward. ‘No-one told me there’d be a bleeding cohort of you,’ he rumbled.
‘Let all of us into the atrium,’ suggested Castus. ‘Then we can decide who goes to look at the cache and who stays. Looking for a little early entertainment, perhaps,’ he added as Gaipor still hesitated. ‘This lot aren’t short of a sestertius or two.’
‘It’s been a long night – the latest of many,’ added Furius. ‘We’re up early in all sorts of ways.’ He winked.
‘This one’ll have to pay extra,’ warned Gaipor, gesturing at Ferrata. ‘On account of his face and such.’
‘Happy to pay extra up front,’ answered the Spaniard. ‘The lucky girl’ll probably pay it back after we’ve finished. Satisfaction guaranteed.’ He winked his one good eye as well. The effect was horrific.
The massive janitor chuckled. ‘Can’t argue with a confident man,’ he decided. ‘Come in. I’ll send a slave to rouse Suadela the domina and we’ll see what’s what.’
*
The lupinaria’s atrium was unusually spacious and well-appointed. Brothels in Artemidorus’ experience – which was, admittedly much slighter than Ferrata’s – tended to be poky establishments – little more than a couple of rooms with single beds and girls who were more desperate than seductive, whose specialties and qualities were advertised in the graffiti scrawled on the walls outside; one up from sleeping in the deliquia gutter. But that was not true of this one, which was clearly in a profitable line of business. Not too surprisingly, with so many legions camped so close inland and a modest navy caught at anchor in the port. But, like the janitor, and the strapping slave he sent to fetch the madam – like the madam herself, no doubt, named Suadela after the Goddess of persuasion and seduction – this was an unusual establishment. There was a strikingly graphic mosaic on the floor depicting Europa being ravished by Jupiter in the shape of a particularly well-endowed bull. ‘I like that bull,’ whispered Ferrata. ‘It reminds me of me.’
‘In your dreams,’ said Puella.
‘You wouldn’t believe what goes on in my dreams,’ answered Ferrata cheerfully. ‘This lot for a start.’ He gestured at the walls where there were illustrations exemplifying all the possible – and some frankly impossible – sexual positions.
As they were assessing their surroundings, the curtain over an inner doorway parted and a statuesque woman entered. As Artemidorus suspected, given the quality of the house she was running, she was clean, carefully made-up, and fashionably coiffed, even this early in the day. Although she was approaching middle age, her dress was expensively stylish and her demeanour as decisive as that of any Roman matron. The air of command she exu
ded worthy of Fulvia or Servilia, her eyes almost worthy of Cleopatra. ‘Domina,’ said Gaipor. ‘These are the ones The Gaul told us to expect.’
‘There’s quite a few of them,’ she said uneasily. ‘More than I thought there would be.’
Why would a woman such as this seem to be unnerved by half a dozen men, two of whom must be familiar to her by reputation if by nothing else? wondered Artemidorus. But then he understood. Sospes and at least some of his vigiles would have been her guarantors of protection – at a price. But now both Sospes and chief vigile Gistin were as dead as The Gaul’s first two emissaries, things must look disturbingly uncertain to her. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he assured her. ‘We have come simply to inspect what you have been guarding.’ He opened his cloak. ‘We’re unarmed,’
‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed. ‘But only until you get your hands on what I have hidden in the cellarium.’
iii
Artemidorus, Quintus, Puella and Castus followed Suadela through a doorway leading down a staircase into the brothel’s cellar. She was flanked by two slaves carrying oil lamps. And that’s not all they were carrying. They were both armed to the teeth. Probably with samples of the weaponry they were here to inspect. There were three rooms opening off a short corridor. One on either side at the foot of the stairs. Both behind half-open doors which stood in mute evidence of the honesty of the occupants. Or of their fear of Suadela, Gaipor the janitor and the dangerous-looking slaves, he thought. Each room filled with the kinds of stores required by a busy establishment that housed, clothed, tended, and fed a range of occupants. And – on regular occasions at least he supposed – several guests. It was a decidedly elevated lupinarium – not quite a hospitium – but close enough.