‘Nice!’ Magnus hissed.
‘Send him back to sleep, Magnus; he’s no good to us. He’s just a slave who’s got no idea what’s going on.’
Magnus pulled the dwarf’s head up and cracked it back down onto the pyramid, knocking him out cold, and then wiped the mucus from his hand on the miniature Priapus’ hair.
Vespasian moved on across another pathway to an area of lawn bordering the apricot orchard, strewn with statues of Gauls in defeat. Creeping by a wounded warrior, naked save for a neck torc, pierced in the chest and sitting on the ground clutching his bleeding thigh, Vespasian darted across the lawn and took cover behind a substantial pedestal. He looked up to see a statue of a Gaul standing proud, and looking over his shoulder whilst supporting the slumped body of his dying wife and plunging his sword vertically down past his collarbone and on into his heart. Vespasian could not help but contrast the honour of the Celtic warrior with the debauchery of the power that had defeated him. What would Caratacus make of Messalina’s behaviour? The answer was obvious.
The orgiastic uproar was close now; he edged his head around the pedestal and peered through the apricots towards the villa at the heart of the gardens.
Vespasian drew breath.
He had witnessed some of the worst of Caligula’s sexual excesses as the libidinous young Emperor had publicly displayed his sister, Drusilla, in obscene acts with multiple partners, but what he beheld now took wild abandonment a stage further. Knot after knot of entwined bodies in various states of undress, some in couples but most in groups, heaved and rubbed against each other; on couches and tables, balanced on or over the balustrade surrounding the terrace and spread up and down the steps to it as well as in large tubs filled with freshly harvested grapes that turned skin red. Men on women, boys or other men; women, draped in animal skins, with phalluses strapped to them using other women, men or youths; all both gave and took as fancy would have it as the sexual free-for-all raged. In amongst the writhing mass, drinkers tottered, raising their cups with wine sloshing over the rims, toasting Bacchus, Priapus, Venus or just the act of copulation itself as musicians strummed, blew and beat their instruments in an improvisation that pulsed with the rhythm of sex. A couple of dwarves dressed as satyrs sporting goat-like phalluses cavorted and danced to the sound, adding to it with shrill sequences from pan pipes.
Silent around the edge of the terrace, naked slaves, both male and female, stood holding torches to illuminate the carnality. With blank expressions they watched their masters, the élite of Rome, pay homage to the gods of excess; uncomplaining if bent over and taken against their will or forced to kneel and languish before one of their betters, they endured the decadence of the race that had conquered their peoples.
Naked at the centre of it all, astride a seated man, with her back towards him as she rode his lap as if galloping a stallion, Messalina howled with a pleasure so intense as to be just a fraction away from agony. Her hair had fallen loose and swung in great sweeps as she tossed her head back and forth, back and forth; then it arced back, spraying droplets of sweat glowing golden in the torchlight. Her spine arched and her face turned to the sky and she released a cry to the heavens so piercing that those around her paused in their exertions and turned to see Messalina juddering, her whole body in spasm; and then the cry broke and the muscles in her back released, sending her falling forward to slump exhausted on her partner’s knees and revealing Silius’ exultant face and the ivy crown set on his head.
‘Well, that would seem to make their intentions clear,’ Sabinus observed, as he and Magnus joined Vespasian behind the pedestal.
Magnus stared at the scene, his eye agog. ‘They certainly know how to enjoy themselves.’
The revellers burst into cheering as Silius rose to his feet with Messalina still hanging off him, her chest heaving as she sucked in huge gulps of air. Wearing only his ivy garland and a pair of high boots, he capered with one arm waving free whilst the other held Messalina in place, her fingers trailing the ground, as she swayed to and fro with his movements, like a rag doll.
Vespasian studied the faces that he could see and recognised many of them: senators, equestrians, actors and Praetorian Guardsmen along with rich matrons — mostly unaccompanied by their husbands — courtesans and, most scandalously, unmarried daughters of the élite. ‘Somehow we’ve got to get a couple of them away from here without anyone noticing.’
‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem,’ Magnus said, shaking his head in awe. ‘If I was in the middle of all that I reckon that you could slit my partner’s throat and I’d carry on tupping her without a care until she was cold, and probably after that too.’
‘Thank you for that image.’ Vespasian pressed closer to the pedestal as a young man staggered down the steps supported by a couple of equally tipsy women, all singing a paean to Bacchus and covered in the juice of red grapes. Behind them, Messalina eased herself off Silius and picked up a thyrsus, a staff of giant fennel, wound in ivy and topped with a bulbous pine cone. Brandishing this symbol of fertility in one hand and grasping Silius’ still erect penis with the other she looked about in triumph. ‘I am Gaia to his Gaius; with the gods’ help, tonight I have conceived and will bear the child of my new husband.’
Silius rolled his head, bellowing incoherently, and her guests roared their approval of this piece of news as the young man reached the first of the apricot trees and began to climb it, leaving his companions leaning against its trunk, giggling and rubbing the sticky juice of Bacchus’ fruit into each other’s bodies.
‘What do you see, Vettius?’ one of the women called, glancing up in the direction of the man’s buttocks.
‘I see all things, Cleopatra; but most clearly, to the southwest, I see a great storm coming to hit Ostia. The Emperor is in its path.’
‘Pray that it doesn’t pass over Ostia and come to strike us.’
‘We’ll have plenty of warning if-’ With a loud crack followed by the rustle of leaves accompanied by a brief yell, Vettius plummeted to the ground, landing on his shoulders and cracking his head on a tree root; he made a weak effort to rise before slumping back to lie motionless.
Cleopatra giggled at the sight before turning her attention back to her companion and, with feline intensity, began licking the sticky juice from her skin.
‘Come on.’ Vespasian moved forward. ‘These two will be perfect. Walk towards them as if we’ve an absolute right to be here.’ He ambled into the orchard, with a roll to his gait, as if he had been in lengthy commune with Bacchus; Magnus and Sabinus followed, imitating his manner.
Beyond the orchard on the terrace the revellers had returned their concentration to the pursuit of blind ecstasy, as Messalina took to a tub of pounded grapes accompanied by two youths whilst Silius strutted back and forth penetrating, briefly, any orifice pointing in his direction.
Passing the unconscious body of Vettius, Vespasian paused, swaying slightly, and focused on Cleopatra and her very good friend just ten paces away; both were entirely in the thrall of one another’s juice-stained breasts. Looking back at Magnus and Sabinus, he nodded and walked forward at a slow pace so as not to attract undue attention. With just three paces to his quarry he pounced forward and, throwing his arms around both of the women, hauled them to the ground as they squealed with a mixture of fright and delight.
‘Shut them up and drag them away,’ Vespasian hissed.
Magnus showed the women his knife; they went limp, sealed their lips and allowed themselves to be manhandled back to the lawn where Magnus’ brethren waited. It took just a few moments for Cassandros and Tigran to secure their wrists behind their backs whilst Caeso gagged them.