Some passing god had heard my prayer, after all. This night would be unending, and morning would never come.
XXII
I opened my eyes to a world that was neither dark nor light. Above me, in the gentle predawn breeze, branches creaked and groaned ��� or was it my own head cracking open?
I slowly pulled myself upright and sat against the trunk of a tree. My horse was nearby, casually nuzzling among the leaves in search of something to eat. My stomach growled; I groaned at the flashes of pain in my head. I reached up and touched dried blood - enough to make me queasy, but not enough to alarm me. ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ my father used to say when I was a boy and came home bleeding; he was neither Stoic nor stern, but knew how to put an injury in its place.
I stood shakily and took a deep breath, grateful, and not a little surprised, simply to be alive. I called Eco’s name, loud enough for the hills to call it back to me. Shouting sent a thunderclap of pain through my skull. Eco did not appear. The world began to grow lighter.
I could search the woods for him; I could return to the villa. I decided instead to press on to Cumae, without Eco, without the bloodstained cloak. The funeral games would begin in a matter of hours. There was still a slender hope that I might be able to squeeze the truth from those who knew it.
The forest seemed to dwindle and contract in the growing daylight. From where I stood I could see the precipice where the assassin had attacked me; in the opposite direction I could see beyond the trees into the rocky region that surrounded the Sibyl’s cave, and even glimpse a bit of the sea. And yet it had been so easy to lose my way the night before! Night and darkness rob men not just of their sight but of their senses. A blow to the head doesn’t help.
I found the path quickly enough. After a few minutes I left the woods for the rocky maze, darting uneasy glances left and right, more afraid now of finding Eco than of not finding him. Again and again I saw the stump of a tree or a grey clump of rock and imagined it was his body.
No one was yet stirring on the little road that ran through the village of Cumae, but plumes of smoke rose from the houses of the early risers. I came to Iaia’s house at the far edge of the village. No smoke rose from the ovens within; no sound or light issued from the windows. I tethered my horse and walked on.
I found the narrow path that led down to the sea, the same trail from which Olympias had emerged on the afternoon of our visit to the Sibyl. I followed the way downwards through the low brush. It switched back and forth along a steep slope, hemmed in by sheer stone walls. The path grew faint in places and disappeared altogether where it was interrupted by outcrops of weathered stone. A few times I slipped on loose rocks and had to struggle for balance. It was not a trail that anyone was likely to take purely for pleasure or by accident; it would have been more suitable for an adventurous goat than a man, or perhaps for a nimble young woman who had a good reason for taking it.
The trail came to an end amid a jumble of boulders at the water’s edge, closely hemmed in by the sheer stone walls that towered above. The waves pounded the rocks and receded, leaving only a narrow strip of black sand for a momentary beach. I looked about and saw no sign of a cave or fissure. The stain of saltwater and the strange creatures that clung to the stones indicated that the tide could rise considerably higher, swallowing the boulders and leaving no beach at all. If the water now was at only mid tide, then at low tide the waves might ebb enough to uncover a beach a man could properly walk on, at least for a little way beyond the boulders. As it was, I saw no indication of a hidden way into the sheer walls. I had come to a dead end.
And yet, I had seen Olympias come up from this trail carrying a basket that was empty except for a knife and some crusts of bread, and the hem of her riding stola had been wet. I had seen how she blanched when Dionysius insisted on telling the tale of Crassus’s weeks of hiding in the sea cave.
I steeled myself for the cold and stepped over the boulders onto the narrow beach. A moment later the waves came splashing at my feet and swallowed me to the knees, then withdrew, tugging at my ankles. I shivered at the cold and clutched at the stones behind me to keep my balance. The waves receded and then splashed again, higher this time, wetting me to the thighs. I hissed at the cold, forced my fingers to let go of the rock, and stepped forward onto the shifting sand.
I waded out until the water came to my waist. The ebb and flow of the waves pulled at me strongly, and the sand gave way beneath my feet as quickly as I could regain my balance. In such a narrow place, I thought, a man could easily be seized by an undertow and pulled out to deep water in the blink of an eye, disappearing beneath the surface, never to see daylight again.
What was I hoping to find? A miraculous cave that would open in the rock at my whim? There were no secrets here, nothing to see but stone and water. I took another step. The waves rose to my ribs. The water lapped against a slab of stone that peaked from the foam like a turtle’s head, then splashed into my face. Sputtering and clutching myself against the cold, I took another step. The water rose to my chest and then ebbed with a powerful force that threatened to suck me into the depths. I grabbed the stone for balance and felt my feet pulled from beneath me. I clung to the rock as a leaf clings to a branch in a strong wind. The cold took my breath away. For a moment I saw spots before my eyes.
Then the spots vanished and I saw the cave.
It was visible only when the waves receded, and then only for a moment. I saw a jagged black opening cut into the jagged black rock, like the gaping maw of a toothless beast. Foam eddied and poured from the lips, then the waves filled it up again.
Until the tide had ebbed substantially, it would be impossible to enter that hole. Any reasonable man could see as much. But a reasonable man would not be immersed to his neck in cold water, clinging to a slippery stone for dear life in the pale light of early morning.
I managed to release the rock and push myself towards the fissure, and then grabbed hold of the foaming lips and pulled myself inside. The waves came rushing in from behind and I was trapped, unable to go either forward or back while the spray surged around me, whipping seaweed against my face and filling my nose with saltwater. When the waves receded I scrambled forward and hit my head against the low ceiling or rock. That must have been when the wound on my head started bleeding again.
Darkness surrounded me. My strength suddenly vanished, sucked out to sea with the tide. I steeled myself for the next wave, which came surging around me like a blast from Neptune’s nostrils. My nose was flooded with saltwater and I tasted blood on my tongue. The water ebbed. I thought it would surely pull me with it, but somehow I held on.
I opened my eyes, blinking at the burning salt. The wave had pushed me deep into the fissure. I looked up and saw a ray of sunlight from a hole high above. I was within the cave.
It was not merely surprising that I should have managed such a thing; it was impossible. The stunned looks on their faces told me as much.
Even in the dim light I recognized Olympias. I had dreamed of seeing her naked. Now I saw. Her flesh was smooth and unblemished, covered with a sheen of sweat that made the paler parts of her glow like alabaster in the sepulchral light. Her arms and legs were darker than the rest of her, burned by the sun to pale gold. She was slender but hardly frail, and looked even more vital and robust naked than clothed. Her breasts were full and round, with large nipples that were surprisingly dark considering her golden mane and the patch of gold between her sleek thighs. Sadly, I was in no condition to appreciate the sight.
Her companion appeared to appreciate it very much ��� just how appreciative was evident when they sprang apart and I saw the proof of his arousal. He scrambled to his feet, bumped his head against a shelf of rock, and cursed. Olympias meanwhile rolled onto her side and searched among the cushions and coverlets on the stone floor. She found what she was seeking, a shiny dagger with a blade as long as a man’s forearm, and swung it upward in a great arc. I suppose she meant to hand it
to her defender, but in her haste and confusion she very nearly cut his arousal short. They both gasped loudly at the near miss. Alexandros staggered back, struck his head again, and cursed. I might have laughed, had I not been in so much misery from the cold and wet and the throbbing in my head.
He was a physical match for Olympias, as I would have expected; it was unlikely that a beautiful young woman of her talent and discernment would have fallen in love with a Thracian stable slave who was anything less than impressively broad-shouldered and handsome. His shaggy mane of hair glinted chestnut in the dim light; his chest and limbs were dusted with a covering of the same soft stuff. His features were starkly moulded, with generous lips and bushy eyebrows that converged in a single line above his fiery eyes; his sparse beard, only a few days old, accentuated his high cheekbones and thrusting jaw. His arousal, even in its rapidly fading state, looked substantial. He was not beautiful as Apollonius was beautiful, but I could see why Olympias had chosen him. Apparently he had a brain as well as brawn, since Zeno had used him to help keep accounts, but at the moment he looked rather dull and bovine as he rubbed his head and fumbled to take the dagger from Olympias.
‘Put the weapon away,’ I said wearily. ‘I haven’t come to hurt you.’
They stared at me, wide-eyed and dubious. There was a softening in Olympias’s eyes; only in that instant did she finally recognize me. What must I have looked like, rising up from the spuming tunnel wrapped in tendrils of seaweed, with blood trickling down my face? Alexandros stared at me as if I were a sea monster, and perhaps he thought I was.
‘Wait,’ Olympias whispered. She laid her hand on Alexandros’s arm. ‘I know him.’
‘Yes? Who is he?’ He spoke with a heavy Thracian accent, and there was a wild, desperate note in his voice that caused me to slide my hand nearer to where my own dagger was sheathed beneath my tunic.
‘The Finder,’ she said. ‘From Rome ��� the man I told you about.’
‘Then he’s found me at last.’ He pulled his arm free. The long blade sliced through a pale shaft of sunlight and glimmered like quicksilver. He drew back against the cave wall and stared at me like a trapped animal.
‘Is that what’s happened, Gordianus?’ Olympias looked at me suspiciously. ‘You’ve come to take him to Crassus?’
‘Put the knife away,’ I whispered. I began to shiver uncontrollably. I clenched my teeth to stop them from chattering. ‘Can you make a fire? I suddenly feel very cold, and a little faint.’
Olympias studied me for a moment, then made up her mind. She reached for a woollen gown and pulled it over her head, then stepped towards me and reached for the hem of my tunic. ‘Out of this, first, or else you’ll die from the cold more surely than you will from a dagger. No fire, I’m afraid ��� we can’t have anyone seeing the smoke ��� but we can wrap you in something warm. Alexandros, you’re shivering as well! Put that knife away and cover yourself.’
The cave, when I had first glimpsed it, had seemed enormous, stretching away like the Sibyl’s cave into unknown space. It was not as large as that, but it did rise to a considerable height and was cut into the stone at an angle that slanted sharply away from the sea, so that the floor was stepped in a number of rocky terraces. Stowed here and there in small nooks were Alexandros’s comforts ��� dirty coverlets, bits of food, utensils, jugs of fresh water, and a plump wineskin. Olympias took me to one of the higher terraces and wrapped me in a wool blanket. When my shivering subsided she offered me some crusts of bread and cheese, and even a few delicacies that I recognized from the funeral banquet; she must have pilfered them from the table and brought them as a treat for Alexandros. I protested that I wasn’t hungry, but once I began I could hardly stop eating.
Soon I felt better, though bolts of pain still shot through my head when I moved it too sharply. ‘How soon will the opening of the cave be passable? Without serious risk of drowning, I mean?’
Alexandros glanced at the mouth of the cave, where already the foaming tide seemed to have ebbed. ‘Not long now. There won’t be clear beach beneath the opening for another few hours, but already you could make your way into the water and up to the path without danger.’
‘Good. Whatever else happens, I must be there, at the arena. No matter how terrible. And I must find Eco.’
‘The boy?’ said Olympias. Apparently she had never cared enough to catch his name.
‘Yes, the boy. My son. The one who casts such longing looks in your direction, Olympias.’
Alexandros wrinkled his brow disapprovingly. ‘The mute boy,’ Olympias explained to him. ‘I told you about him, remember? But, Gordianus, what do you mean when you say you must find him? Where is he?’
‘Last night, when we set out for Cumae, we followed the route we took with you. We were attacked, on the precipice that overlooks Lake Avernus.’
‘By lemures?’ whispered Alexandros.
‘No, by something worse: living men. Two, I think, but I can’t be certain. In the confusion Eco disappeared. Afterwards I went searching for him, but my head …’
I touched the tender spot and winced. The bleeding had stopped. Olympias studied the wound. ‘Iaia will know what to do for this,’ she said. ‘But what about Eco?’
‘Lost. I never found him, and then I lost consciousness. When I awoke I came here. If he’s gone back to Gelina’s villa, he may end up at the funeral games by himself. He’s seen gladiators fight to the death before, but the massacre ��� whatever else happens, I must get back before it starts. I don’t want Eco to see it alone. The old slaves, and Apollonius … and little Meto …’
‘What are you talking about?’ Alexandros looked at me, puzzled. ‘Olympias, what does he mean by a massacre?’
She bit her lip and looked at me ruefully.
‘You haven’t told him?’ I said.
Olympias gritted her teeth. Alexandros was alarmed. ‘What do you mean by a massacre? What are you saying about Meto?’
‘Doomed,’ I answered. ‘All of them, doomed to die. Every slave from the fields and the stables and the kitchens will be publicly slain to satisfy the good people of the Cup. Politics, Alexandros. Don’t ask me to explain Roman politics to a Thracian slave, just take my word for it. For the crime of the true killer, whom he cannot find, Crassus intends to have every slave in the household put to death. Even Meto.’ Today?’
‘After the gladiator contests. Crassus’s men have erected a wooden arena in the flatlands by Lake Lucrinus. It should be quite an event, the kind of thing people will talk about from here to Rome for a long time to come, even after Crassus defeats Spartacus and finally gets himself elected consul - and after that, who knows? Perhaps he’ll manage to make himself dictator, like his mentor Sulla, and people will still talk about the day he put the slaves of Baiae in their place.’
Alexandros leaned back, aghast. ‘Olympias, you never told me.’
‘What would have been the point? You would only have fretted and brooded���’
‘And perhaps he would have made some grand gesture by returning to Baiae to face Crassus’s judgment himself?’ I suggested. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell him, Olympias? Instead you let him think that he merely had to stay in hiding long enough for Crassus to leave, and then he might escape, and you never whispered a word about all the slaves fated to die in his place.’
‘Not in his place, but alongside him!’ said Olympias angrily. ‘Do you think it makes any difference to Crassus whether he finds Alexandros or not? He wants to put the slaves to death ��� you said so yourself, just now, for politics, to put on a show. Better for Crassus if he never finds Alexandros ��� that way he can keep scaring people with stories of the murdering Thracian monster who ran off to join Spartacus.’
‘What you say may be true now, Olympias, but was it so at the beginning, when Alexandros first fled to Iaia’s house? What if you had turned him over to Crassus then? Would Crassus ever have concocted his scheme to avenge Lucius Licinius in such a terri
ble way? Do you feel no guilt for what you’ve done, hiding your lover and letting all the other slaves be slain? The old men and women, the children���’
‘But Alexandros is innocent! He never murdered anyone!’
‘So you say; so he tells you, perhaps. But how do you know, Olympias? What do you know?’
She drew back and sucked in a breath. The lovers exchanged an odd glance. ‘You know as well as I that it makes no difference whether Alexandros is innocent or not,’ she said. ‘Guilty or innocent, Crassus will crucify him if he’s caught.’
‘Not if I could prove him innocent. If I could discover who did kill Lucius Licinius, if I could prove it���’
‘Then ��� most especially then ��� would Crassus be certain to put Alexandros to death. And you as well.’
I shook my head and grimaced at the flash of pain across my forehead. ‘You talk in riddles, like the Sibyl.’
Olympias looked at the mouth of the cave, where flashes of light were reflected from the churning water beyond. ‘The tide has ebbed enough,’ she said. ‘It’s time for us all to go up to the house to see Iaia.’
XXIII
Iaia made a great fuss over the wound on my head. She insisted on brewing a compound of foul-smelling herbs which she slathered onto the cut, then wrapped a long strip of linen around my head. She also gave me an amber-coloured infusion to drink, which I put to my lips with some trepidation, thinking of Dionysius.
‘You seem to know a great deal about herbs and their uses,’ I said, sniffing at the steam that rose from the cup.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘Over the years, learning to make my own paints ��� to harvest and prepare the proper plants at the proper time of year ��� I came to know quite a lot about such things, not only which root might provide a splendid blue pigment, but which one might cure a wart.’
‘Or kill a man?’ I ventured.
Arms of Nemesis - Roman Sub Rosa 02 Page 26