in these places is enough to turn a decent man’s stomach. We don’t want to create the wrong impression, do we?’ He squealed as my hand closed around his throat. ‘Master!’
‘What have you been up to, you worm?’
‘Nothing, master, I swear it.’ He coughed as I released him, one hand rubbing his scrawny neck. He wasn’t hurt and I knew it, but it pleased him to act as if he was. ‘I bear a message, that’s all.’
‘From a man?’
‘From a woman, master.’ He leered. ‘An admirer, shall we say? One of your amatores. She waits for you in the domus of Cossus Bassius.’
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a large house situated to the north of town and set back some distance from the paved, straight line of the Appian Way. The walls were featureless, plain areas unbroken by windows, marked only by the outlines of a door to either side of which burned torches set in bronze cressets.
I arrived at the end of the first watch as the message had bidden, a delay which had given me time to learn a little about Cossus Bassius. He was a wealthy merchant dealing with the east and importing silk, spices, perfumes, and expensive glassware. A rich man and a cautious one. In the bushes surrounding the house I caught a glimpse of movement and heard the rustle of leaves. Darkness shrouded the area, the pools of light thrown by the torches doing little to relieve the gloom. Framed by them, I was a good target for any bowman, an easy mark for a thrown spear, but who, in this place, would want to take my life?
Even so, I was relieved when the door opened to my knock and a slave ushered me into the atrium where a woman came forward to meet me.
‘Atilus!’ Her hands reached out to touch my own. ‘Welcome to this house. It was gracious of you to accept my invitation.’
I recognised Racilia Rubinia, Bassius’ wife, from the description I had been given. She was in her early thirties, a woman of medium height, her figure somewhat full beneath her embroidered stola. Her hair, neatly arranged in a series of tight ringlets, framed her face with auburn curls. Her lips were full, the lower pouting with betraying sensuosity. Her eyes, deep-set, were a sparkling blue. About her hung the aroma of roses.
‘Domina.’ I bowed as courtesy demanded. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘Such directness!’ Her laughter tinkled as if it were water cascading from a fountain. ‘Here I am, a bored and restless woman who has asked you to spend a few hours in her company for the sake of harmless conversation, and immediately you demand to know what I want.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Put it into as many words, that is true,’ she interrupted. ‘But the thought was there, as you must admit.’
‘How can I deny it?’ Smiling, I looked into her eyes as she stood before me, face uplifted. ‘And yet, Domina, it would be an honour to serve you in any capacity.’
‘A courtier,’ she mused. ‘I am pleasantly surprised. And a good-looking one at that. Is it true that you come from Britain?’
‘Yes.’
‘A barbarian and yet you don’t look like one.’ And then, without a change of tone, she said, ‘And were you once a slave owned by Publius Varus Severus?’
I said, tightly, ‘You seem to know a great deal about me.’
‘More than you think, Atilus. Now, shall we join the others?’
They reclined on couches in the open, inner courtyard, massed lamps casting a soft, yellow illumination over the table, which was heaped with a variety of dishes containing fruit, nuts, small cakes dusted with saffron and coated with honey. As I sat and washed my hands in the bowl proffered by a slave, others came forward carrying salvers piled with succulent dainties: portions of meat and fish, small birds boned and wreathed in pastry, tiny sausages, confections of dried and pounded fruits—a feast to tempt a jaded appetite.
The party was small, two men and a girl aside from Racilia and myself. She introduced me to the others, then sat beside the girl, Emillia. As we ate, slaves kept our goblets filled; they were lithe young men with luminous eyes dusted with kohl, Egyptians probably, and their presence told me much about the master of the house.
Aurelius Licinius gestured one aside as the boy went to pour him wine.
‘Welcome, Atilius,’ he said casually. ‘We saw you fight. That was a neat trick you pulled at the end.’
He was a middle-aged man with a thin, downturned mouth, the creases on his cheeks sharply defined between nose and lips. His toga was of the finest wool and the bracelets on his wrists were of thick gold. His hands, backed by dark, curling hair, were broad, the fingers stubby and bearing several rings, among them that of the equestrian order.
‘Leacus was a fool to have permitted it,’ said his companion, a younger man, scented, his hair dressed in the Grecian style. ‘A fighter should at all times be aware of his vulnerable points. He should be on constant guard against any attack no matter from which quarter it might come. Am I correct, Atilus?’
‘That is the theory,’ I admitted dryly. ‘Sometimes, in practice, it isn’t always possible.’
‘And yet, surely, if a man could remain calm and detached at all times, it would not be too difficult?’ Cadius Publius helped himself to a sliver of fish and ate with the fastidious delicacy of a cat. ‘I have an interest in the arena as you may have gathered. It seems to me that, given a particular type of training, it would be possible to turn out a stream of champions. I would appreciate your comments.’
‘On what?’
‘On the type of training which would produce the result I have described.’
‘Cadius, for goodness sake let him eat!’ The girl spoke before I could answer. ‘He wasn’t invited here just to answer your boring questions.’
She had a small, round, almost chinless face which, together with the cosmetics she wore, gave her the appearance of a doll. Like her face, her voice was empty, and I gained the impression that she was an expensive toy, spoiled, cosseted, the daughter of some rich family designed for an advantageous marriage.
Compared to her thin voice, Racilia’s tones were the deep, rich notes of a bell.
‘You are right, Emillia. Atilus must be starving. Try some of these quails,’ she invited, turning towards me. ‘They are the speciality of my cook and a favourite of my husband.’
‘May I ask where he is, Domina?’
‘Away on business—as usual.’ Her voice held a casual indifference. ‘Some more wine?’
I sipped it slowly as the conversation flowed around the table. Cossos Brassius, I knew, was much older than my hostess, which meant that either he had married late or that she was his second wife. The latter, I guessed, and it had probably been a marriage of convenience. A man in his position would find it profitable to be connected to one of the ancient families, and the woman would have welcomed the merchant’s wealth.
A political and commercial union, and it explained the Egyptian slaves. Cossos Bassius must find little pleasure in the patrician he had wed, and she would not care about his association with boys.
I began to wonder why I had been summoned.
At first I thought it had simply been a matter of a frustrated woman wanting a little amusement. There had been many such before, matrons and others who had become sexually stimulated at the sight of blood and who were eager to offer themselves to a successful gladiator. Now, studying Racilia, I felt my first impression had been wrong. Her guests told against it. No matter how corrupt and degenerate Roman society had become, certain rituals were observed. Adultery was not openly flaunted. Lovers, whether slave or free, were rarely publicly acknowledged. A façade, of course, but a pretence which helped to maintain the dignity of those involved. Gossip carried the truth, but custom dictated that such scandal be ignored unless it grew beyond acceptable