His man smirked. Karus, the “special agent,” was thought far from special by all of the regular cohort. “His stupid troops had brought the love letters out of the office. They lolled on some seats and were reading out details, laughing their heads off. The ship sheds were mentioned, there was stuff about assignations, the lovers used ‘visits to her brother’ as a code. It was heartfelt—there was even poetry.” The Asturians must have done this where I had sat myself, talking to the gardeners. “Karus came along after extracting his confession from Quietus.”
Ursus humphed.
“Karus snatched a letter, read out some of it, then came to the end with the woman’s loving signature.”
“He never said her name?”
“He did. This is Karus. ‘Your darling Alina, pining for you, sweet Berytus,’ he read. Then, for the poor sod of a husband, that was it. He works in the gardens. He was listening in.”
“If he is a gardener,” I asked, trying again to identify him, “what is he called?”
“Blandus.”
“Oh, shit!” said Ursus. Mentally I echoed him.
The next part was ghastly. Not only had Blandus learned his wife was cheating, the revelation had been in public, at his place of work. The Seventh had one of his team in custody and the apprentice helping with enquiries, but Rullius was there. Blandus must have been mortified. And there was worse. Alina’s lover was the man in charge, his chief: the gardens superintendent.
At first no one noticed how badly Blandus reacted. He said nothing; he seemed stunned. Then even his colleagues, who might have been in the know all along, were too late to hold on to him as he went for the superintendent. Unsuspecting, Berytus was felled. While he lay helpless on the ground, the maddened husband put the blade of a spade on him. He rammed his foot down hard as if he was splitting apart perennials, through the man’s neck.
Before anyone else could react to this horrific act, he had fled. Covered with blood, Blandus had hared off across the gardens to the Naumachia, where the errant wife, who liked “seeing her brother,” was waiting for her lover.
“What about him? Berytus?”
“Dead. Head half off. Catastrophic blood loss. No chance.”
* * *
We reached the far end of the basin. A pier ran out over the water, where ships could moor so combatants in shows could be marched on board. A lopsided old trireme could be seen some way offshore, going around in wayward circles. We were told it was rowed by sailors, after Blandus threatened to kill his woman in front of them unless they took him out. Another, significantly low in the water, was very slowly following them. This, we were told, contained Karus and the Asturians.
“I hope he drowns!” groaned Ursus. A third boat, much smaller, was being prepared for us. Brilliant.
I took stock. Naumachiae were created for all sorts of water spectacles. You could show sea gods cavorting with their weed-draped wives, or trained animals plunging about in spray, but the best shows were mock sea battles. Then the water would be packed with triremes, so many big ships that they could barely manoeuvre on the lake. The point was not to watch them in motion, but to see them crunch and ram each other, then know men on board were dying. Augustus boasted in the Res Gestae, his summary of his reign, that his show hosted thirty full-size vessels. Three thousand men had been afloat, in addition to the rowers.
When Titus inaugurated the amphitheatre, he had presented another event here, then so had Domitian, even though he hated to follow Titus. Ancient maritime battles were restaged, with participants dressed in exotic clothes and armour. These were tremendous occasions: uproar from the banks of seats, the clash of oars, the ringing of trumpets. Then the screams. Screams because all the participants were criminals, taking part as punishment. They drowned. That was the intention. People loved it.
* * *
Our boat was ready.
I felt deeply conscious that this entertainment space and all its equipment were being decommissioned. Domitian was digging out his own naumachia basin farther north on the right bank, and this big beast had begun dying around us. The surrounding district was being built upon. The naumachia structure had been left to crumble; any ships that could operate properly had been carried off elsewhere. The sheds where the lovers had met still existed, but the few last craft were ramshackle. Someone kept them afloat: if there is water, with boats, there will always be men offering to take the public out. Historians never mention this. In fact, news only spreads by word of mouth, because who wants the Palace getting wind? Bureaucrats will stop it, or at least regulate fares and impose stupid safety rules.
No rules applied at the Naumachia of Augustus when I had to go on it in a four-oared bumboat that lurched so badly it took on water while still moored. A British coracle would have been more secure. I did not bother asking if this interesting skiff was clinker-built. Them telling me it was not a skiff but a wherry would have wasted time we did not have. It was to be rowed by vigiles, though a sailor helped me on.
“Watch those hands, barnacle!” ordered Ursus. “She’s a married lady.” We had come so far in our relationship that he had turned jovial. Too jovial for me. “You are our mascot, Flavia, our little flying goddess Fortune.”
“Albia.”
“Never. You will always be Flavia to us.”
He clambered aboard after me, nearly capsizing the boat. I was given a bailing ladle: always a bad omen.
Next thing, we were out on the water. As a pleasure trip, this was low on relaxation. The boat was so leaky it could barely make progress. The vigiles were ill-coordinated rowers, Ursus a disoriented cox.
Our task was to come near to the ship that contained the hostage, without being sunk by the other, manned by Karus and his team. These leftover vessels were not stage replicas but genuine triremes, if not full size, then close. My brother, the fact-lover, would have told me how many oars, how many extra men they could carry, what speed, what weight, how the toothed jaws on the prow worked in battle, et cetera. I did not care. The two ships were huge. Rowed well, they could dart across the lake as smoothly as gadflies; steered with skill, they could turn full length with a supple slide, like water snakes. They were built to destroy other craft. We were a fragile craft dithering in their way. The triremes on the lake today were neither rowed nor ruddered competently. Our position was extremely dangerous.
“Oh, shit!” repeated Ursus. Rubbing one sticky-out ear, he added that he hoped I could swim because he could not, so he needed me to rescue him if he fell in. Keeping him in suspense, I went on bailing.
The vigiles proved to be adequate scullers. We decided not to reinforce Karus but head directly for the ship with Blandus. We managed to reach it. This one had not decayed too badly so rode high, though unevenly. I had enough battleship lore (from my brother) to know triremes are made of light woods that absorb a lot of water, so they need to be beached every night to dry off. Someone must have been taking care of this one, possibly hauling it into one of those ship sheds where our lovers liked to meet. Some of its oars were out of commission. On our side, near one of the steering rudders on the stern, we found a gap where our small boat could creep right up to the peeling hull. At least we did not have to face the crazy painted eyes at the front or risk the water-level bronze-clad jaws swiping us into oblivion.
For some reason, those aboard had stopped rowing. The great ship had slowed gracefully, so now it slopped on the lake, as close to motionless as it would ever be without dropping anchor. We were aware that if Blandus told the sailors to continue, the trireme could move off again at any moment. Our bumboat would probably capsize.
Nobody spoke. One of the vigiles signalled silently to a rope ladder that hung down the side. As the great ship rocked, this device swung uninvitingly. The vigiles are experts with ladders, which are part of their firefighting kit. They use wooden ones with good fixed rungs. None wanted to tackle this.
Ursus should have led the way. Sadly, he was a green-featured unfortunate who found himself str
icken with queasiness even on an inland lake with unruffled waves. He gripped the side, his attention on one thing only. Any moment now, Ursus would throw up.
I sighed.
A girl has to do what a girl has to do. I stood upright, carefully so the wallowing bumboat did not roll so much that it sank. I grasped the ropes with both hands, waited for the moment when we rocked in towards the trireme, stepped up, then somehow began climbing.
LI
Perhaps I should have mentioned: my first husband was an ex-marine. Marry twice. Marry often. It widens your range of learned skills.
* * *
I won’t say it was easy. The worst thing, as I set off on this madcap task, was knowing there were five shocked but fascinated men below, all looking up my skirt. I heard a male voice exclaim, “Shit, Flavia! Come back. You can’t do that!”
I am not daft. I knew I could.
My heart was beating from terror, as much as from the exertion needed. Still, my brain kept hearing Lentullus, laughing and gently chiding: “That’s it! Keep going, chick. You’d better not stop or you’ll be stuck.” I now thought that was probably correct. If I stopped, I was done for. My strength would fail. I would fall off. “Come on!” his lovely ghost told me. “You can do it.” I could still picture us, acting like idiots in the old courtyard at Fountain Court, when it was still a laundry, so the proprietor was yelling at us not to dirty the wet linen. Him on the balcony telling me how, me climbing. We were in love. We were young. We could do anything.
To him, teaching me how to shin up a rope ladder had been huge fun. To me as I struggled upwards now, what had seemed feasible at eighteen was much more difficult ten years later. In another decade, I would never even try it. By about halfway, I wished I had not started. Three-quarters, and I realised I had a problem. To accommodate the two top rows of oars, the ship flared out. Looking up, with my arms and legs giving way on me, I knew I had no chance of climbing past that overhang. I was aware of people shouting. It might even have been encouragement. All I could think now was that I would never get aboard from this ladder. I could not even reach the top.
LII
Sailors pulled me in. Of course. Sailors have keen antennae for approaching women. They want to ogle mermaids, ignore sirens, worship mothers, or sidle up with invitations if it is anything else in a skirt.
Reaching hands grasped the rope ladder. They pulled the entire thing higher, grabbed onto me, then hauled me in over the rail. When I fell down, they picked me up again. When I stumbled, they stood me more firmly on the worm-eaten planks that passed for a deck. There were smiles in all directions. Why had so many people been speaking of the Transtiberina nautical presence as a nuisance? These were kindly, public-spirited, almost polite men. They straightened my clothing for me so I hardly felt assaulted at all.
They must have thrown the rope ladder back down. Activity resumed behind me, as the vigiles began coming up from the bumboat. Without waiting, I went to address the problem we had come for.
Blandus had retreated to a small cabin at the back (stern, thank you, Postumus) that must be intended for a trierarch. He had blocked the opening with a spar, but it made a feeble barricade. Although someone had said originally that Blandus was shouting while his wife screamed, by now it was the other way around; she was doing the shouting—wincingly personal abuse—while he screamed in uncoordinated anguish. He was very heavily bloodstained from the waist down. Since there were no obvious wounds on the couple, the gore must all have pumped from Berytus as he died.
I saw no hope of a good end to this. Even if I calmed their hysteria, I would be unable to make any promises. Blandus was doomed and knew it. He might claim that killing his wife’s lover in the heat of discovery was his male right. That was enough for Rome to exonerate an emperor who stabbed a rival under some crackpot delusion, but a gardener would be granted less grace. For a start, he had not found the lovers entwined in bed, which was the traditional criterion for a reprieve. Besides, the victim was a senior official, who had worked directly for Domitian. Blandus had dealt his own supervisor a horrendous death.
To top it all, his crime besmirched a sacred grove, one dedicated to members of the imperial family. Sacrilege. Double sacrilege. Under Domitian, no mercy for either. Tyrants always make much of honouring the gods and respecting the past. They will belong to the past themselves one day—and Domitian had convinced himself he was already godlike.
My only hope was to rescue the woman, if I could. That Blandus had not yet killed her, despite a lengthy stand-off, suggested his heart might not be in this. I had hoped the weapon had been exaggerated too. When the public say a lunatic has a large knife, it often turns up smaller. Not here. After leaving a spade stuck in Berytus, Blandus had snatched up the tool the gardeners used to saw through sturdy tree branches. You could see they kept it very sharp. He no longer pressed its ugly edge to his wife’s throat, but he was still gripping the device intently. I would not want him waving it too near anyone, especially me.
I went as close as I dared, then started to talk. Tiring, the two parties at least stopped their shouts and screams.
Alina was squatting on her heels, elbows on her knees, tangled dark head in her hands, lost in despair at today’s events, as if simply waiting for whatever happened next. She expected nothing good. She was about my age, barefoot, bare-armed, wearing only a ginger-coloured long tunic, with little jewellery; if she had had a stole, she must have dropped it in the tussle at the ship shed. She presumably knew it was her lover’s blood all over her husband, and that Berytus had to have died.
Mentally, I was scrambling together what I knew about Blandus: disparaging to women, always said Berytus was an idiot, despised the vigiles, sneered at authority in general, had already been sleeping out because of marital problems, had a damning suggestion of impotence … If they had children, no one had mentioned them. For their sake, I hoped not.
His wife, though as normal as a sack of greens, was younger. That made her significantly younger than her lover. Was Berytus a father figure? Did he buy gifts? Or could he use advanced love-making techniques? I had only seen him shocked and dithering after Satia was found, but to others he had had more depth of character. He had been too hidebound for the innovative imperial court, yet the apprentice Gaius had admired his knowledge of plants. On the verge of retirement, yes, but not decrepit. To Alina, he would have been a man of authority, more important than her husband, much more interesting. She sent him poetry. He kept her letters. Perhaps theirs was not an affair of sly couplings in the back of a ship shed, but true love.
In which case, no wonder her husband had run amok when he found out.
Help me, gods, all you grand, dispassionate, pantheon gods of Rome and you rough-cloaked little divinities of Britain. I can do this only if Blandus persuades himself he wants me to end the hostage-taking. I need Alina to keep quiet, I need Blandus to listen, I need to be in control. I must find words, the right words even for a man towards whom I feel no sympathy, words to convince him that if I tell him to surrender, he can agree to it …
I started to talk. It felt as if I was there arguing with them for a long time. That may have been an illusion. I became aware that the sailors and vigiles settled quietly, letting me try whatever I could. I thought one or two were watching Blandus closely, in case he lashed out. If he had done, none were near enough to help me.
I do believe I was succeeding. The distraught man was listening. Sometimes he even growled a response. At least he now placed the pruning saw on the deck. It lay there, too close to him and too far from me for retrieval. He looked ready to grab it again at any moment. I did not bother asking him to hand it over.
Blandus was down on his heels behind the weapon, in the same attitude as his wife. Elbows on bloody knees. Head in his hands. Side by side, they looked very much like people who had shared a life, who were still linked in their damaged way. Only that terrible blood, staining his legs and boots, soaking his tunic, said their marriage was over.
He was agreeing; he would free his wife. Even though I had done my best, it came as a surprise. In these situations, you say what you must. You try to sound honest, but I am not sure I myself believed my own calming words.
“All right. Let’s be sensible and put an end to this.” I still spoke in a level voice, actively supportive. I had even stepped forward, offering a hand. I was going to help Blandus to his feet, lead him away from Alina, let someone else snatch the weapon, hope there would be no nonsense. I knew he would be arrested, though we had not said so.
Everyone on board began to prepare for the moment. The sailors were even quietly moving to their rowing stations. We reckoned without Karus.
* * *
The second trireme must have been circling closer, with its occupants straining to work out what was happening on board ours. It had crept right up, while all our attention was on the captor and hostage. Thwarted by lack of information, Karus grew impatient.
I heard a shout. Everyone heard. Karus gave a loud yell; he named Blandus, bawling that he was coming to get him.
More happened. Our ship shuddered as if bucking in a whirlpool. With a loud, groaning scrape, the other trireme passed by, right up against us. Planking screeched. A series of hard blows jarred us. People staggered. This trireme was shoved awkwardly sideways, its high prow swinging outwards. As the second ship collided, I heard oars snap. Sailors yelled. Our trireme continued moving on, badly nudged but righting itself and still afloat.
Had Karus thought Blandus was getting away? Had he tried to disable us to stop him? He would never admit a mistake; he would call it an accident. Whatever it was, he bungled the manoeuvre.
My brother, the couch tactician, would say that once you decide against ramming head on, which does carry risks, you can take another trireme by approaching at the stern, their vulnerable end; then you pull in your own oars and rake past, smashing all their blades to leave them helpless. You bend your own undamaged oars again, to tread up alongside them. Before their rowers can move, your hoplites scramble over for a bloodbath.
The Grove of the Caesars Page 25