‘Very well,’ I said quiedy, ‘that much is setded, then. You didn’t kill Dionysius. Who did, I wonder?’
‘Who do you think?’ said Iaia. ‘The same man who killed Lucius Licinius. Crassus!’
‘But for what reason?’
‘I can’t say, but now I think it is time for you to tell me what you know, Gordianus. For example, yesterday you sent the slave Apollonius diving off the pier below Gelina’s house. I understand you made some startling discoveries.’
‘Who told you? Meto?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘No secrets, Iaia!’
‘Very well, then, yes. Meto told me. I wonder if we came to the same conclusion, Gordianus.’
‘That Lucius was trading arms to the rebel slaves in return for plundered silver and jewels?’
‘Exactly. I think Dionysius may have also suspected some such scandal; that was why he hesitated to reveal Alexandros’s hiding place, because he knew that there was a greater secret to uncover. Meto also told me that you discovered certain documents in Dionysius’s room - incriminating documents regarding Lucius’s criminal schemes.’
‘Perhaps. Crassus himself couldn’t fully decipher them.’
‘Oh, couldn’t he?’
A faint tracing of pain flickered through my skull. ‘Iaia, do you seriously suggest
She shrugged. ‘Why not speak the unspeakable? Yes, Crassus himself must have been involved in the enterprise!’
‘Crassus, smuggling arms to Spartacus? Impossible!’
‘No, quite disgustingly possible, for a man as vain and greedy as Marcus Crassus. So greedy that he couldn’t resist the opportunity to reap a huge profit by dealing with Spartacus ��� surreptitiously, of course, using poor, frightened Lucius as his go-between. And so vain that he thought it would ultimately make no difference to his cause when he gains the command against the slaves. He thinks himself such a brilliant strategist that it won’t matter that he has armed his own enemy with Roman steel.’
‘Then you say he poisoned Dionysius because the philosopher was close to exposing him?’
‘Perhaps. More likely Dionysius had begun to insinuate blackmail, subtle blackmail, merely asking for a handsome stipend and a place in Crassus’s retinue. But men like Crassus will not put up with subordinates who hold a secret over them; Dionysius was too stupid to see that there was no profit in the knowledge he was seeking to exploit. He should have kept his secrets to himself; then he might have lived.’
‘But why did Crassus kill Lucius?’
Iaia looked down at her feet, where the sunlight had crept close enough to warm her toes. ‘Who knows? Crassus came that night in secret to discuss their secret affairs. Perhaps Lucius had begun to balk at the tasks to which Crassus set him and threatened to expose them both; it would be like Lucius to panic. Perhaps Crassus had discovered that Lucius was cheating him. For whatever reason, Crassus struck him with the statue and killed him, then saw a way to turn even that moment of madness to his advantage, by making it look as if a follower of Spartacus had committed the crime.’
I stared out at the unending progression of waves that proceeded from the horizon. I shook my head. ‘Such supreme hypocrisy - it’s almost too monstrous to be believed. But why, then, did Crassus send for me?’
‘Because Gelina and Mummius insisted. He could hardly refuse to allow an honest investigation of his cousin’s death.’
‘And how did Dionysius come to have the documents?’
‘That we can’t be sure of. The only thing we know for certain is that we shall never have an explanation from Dionysius’s lips.’
I thought of Crassus’s dark moods, his unspoken doubts, his long nights of searching through the documents in Lucius’s library. If all was as Iaia had concluded, then Crassus was killer, eulogist, judge, and avenger combined, beyond the power of any of us to punish.
‘I see you are not entirely satisfied,’ Iaia said.
‘Satisfied? I am most dissatisfied. What a waste, what futility, to have put myself in such danger, and not only myself ��� Eco! All for a bag of silver. Crassus solves all his problems with silver ��� and why not, when men like me will settle for mere coins. He might as well have sent me the money and allowed me to stay in Rome, instead of dragging me here to take part in his hideous deception���’
‘I meant,’ said Iaia, ‘that you might not be satisfied with my explanation of events. There are certain other circumstances of which you know nothing, which might grant you a little more insight into the workings of Crassus’s mind. These matters are so delicate, so personal that I hesitate even now to discuss them with you. But I think Gelina would understand. You know that she and Lucius were childless.’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet Gelina very much wanted a child. She thought the problem might lie with her, and she sought my help; I did what I could with my knowledge of medicines, but to no avail. I began to think the problem rested with Lucius. I brewed remedies which Gelina administered to him in secret, but that was of no use, either. Instead, Priapus eventually withdrew his favour from Lucius entirely. He became crippled in his sex ��� powerless, just as he was powerless to control his own life and destiny. Imagine being Crassus’s creature, compelled to fawn over his greatness, reduced to tawdry schemes of escaping his domination - which Crassus would never allow, because it gave him a perverse pleasure to keep his cousin pressed beneath his foot.
‘And yet Gelina still wanted a baby. She wouldn’t be denied. You’ve seen her; you know that she could hardly be called demanding or domineering. In many ways she’s more retiring and acquiescent than befits a woman of her station. But in this one thing she would have her way. And so, against all my advice but with the full knowledge of her husband, she asked Crassus to give her a child.’
‘When was this?’
‘During Crassus’s last visit, in the spring.’ ‘Why did Lucius allow it?’
‘Don’t many husbands quiedy allow themselves to be cuckolded, because to protest would only aggravate their humiliation and shame? Beyond that, Lucius had a perverse penchant for making choices that would harm him. And Gelina appealed to his family pride - Crassus would at least give them an heir with the blood of a Licinius.
‘But no child resulted. The only result was the coolness that developed between Lucius and Gelina. She had done exactly the wrong thing, of course. Had she approached any man but Crassus, Lucius might have kept a shred of dignity. But for his all-powerful cousin to be invited into his wife’s bed - for Crassus to be asked to bring a child into the household he already dominated - these humiliations preyed on his soul.
‘You see, then, that there was more than financial deception and fraud to spark a murder between the two cousins. Crassus can be quite cold and brutal; Lucius’s shame pricked at him like a crown of thorns. Who knows what whispered words passed between them that night in the library? Before it was over, one of them was dead.’
I looked heavenward. ‘And now a whole household of slaves will die. Roman justice!’
‘No!’ Alexandros jumped to his feet. ‘There must be something we can do.’
‘Nothing,’ whispered Olympias, reaching for his arm and grasping at thin air when he drew away.
‘Perhaps …’ I squinted at the edge of sunlight that blazed along the scalloped tile roof. Time was fleeting. The games might already have begun. ‘If I could confront Crassus directly, with Gelina as witness. If Alexandros could see him and identify him for certain���’
‘No!’ Olympias interposed herself between us. ‘Alexandros cannot leave Cumae.’
‘If only we had the cloak ��� the bloodstained cloak from which Crassus tore his seal before he discarded it along the road! If only I hadn’t lost it to the assassins last night. The assassins … oh, Eco!’
And then the cloak appeared, wafting out of the dark shadows of the house into the bright sunshine, held aloft by the outstretched arms of Eco himself, who smiled and blinked the sleep
from his eyes.
XXIV
‘But I thought you knew,’ Iaia kept saying. ‘I thought that Olympias must have already told you.’ She was forgetting that on the night before, before Eco had come breathlessly beating on her door, Olympias had already slipped down to sleep with Alexandros in the sea cave and so had no way of knowing, as I had no way of knowing, that all the while we debated and deduced on the terrace, Eco was fast asleep within the house, clutching the filthy, bloodstained cloak he had saved from the assassins.
‘How foolish I feel, Gordianus. Here I’ve sat, trying to impress you with my deductions, when all along I should have been telling you what you most wanted to know ��� that your son was safe and sound here under my roof!’
‘The important thing is that he’s here,’ I said, swallowing to clear the sudden hoarseness in my voice and blinking back the tears that made Eco’s beaming, dirt-smudged face swim before my eyes. I squeezed him tightly in my arms and then stepped back, sighing from a sudden shortness of breath.
‘When he came to me last night I could see that he was frightened and exhausted but not hurt,’ said Iaia. ‘He was frantically trying to tell me something ��� I had no way of understanding. I gave him a special brew to calm him. At last he mimed using a wax tablet and stylus; I went to fetch them but when I came back he was fast asleep. I roused two of the slaves to carry him to bed. I looked in on him once or twice; he slept like a stone through the night.’
Eco looked up at me. He gingerly touched the bandage around my head.
‘This? Nothing at all; a little bump to remind me to be more careful in the woods.’
The smile abruptly faded from his lips. He averted his eyes and looked deeply troubled. I could guess the root of his shame: he had failed to warn me of the assassins’ approach, failed to rescue me last night, and instead of sending aid to me in the forest he had fallen asleep against his will.
‘I fell asleep myself,’ I whispered to him. He shook his head gloomily, angry not at me but at himself. He grimaced and pointed to his mouth. His eyes brimmed with tears. I understood as clearly as if he had spoken: If only I could speak as others can, I could have shouted a warning to you on the precipice. I could have told Iaia that you were hurt and alone in the woods. I could say all that I need to say at this moment!
I put my arms around him to hide him from the others. He shivered against me. I looked over his shoulder and saw that Olympias and Alexandros were smiling warmly, seeing only the joy of our reunion. Iaia smiled, but her eyes were sad. I released him, and while Eco turned towards the empty sea to compose his face, I pulled the bloodstained cloak from his trembling fingers. ‘The important thing now is that we have the cloak!’
‘That changes nothing,’ protested Olympias. ‘Tell him, Iaia.’
Iaia looked at me sidelong and pursed her lips. ‘I’m not sure …’
Alexandros stepped forward. ‘If there is any way to stop Crassus from killing the slaves���’
‘Maybe,’ I said, trying to think. ‘Maybe …’
‘I would never have stayed in the cave all this time had I known what was happening,’ Alexandros said. ‘You shouldn’t have deceived me, Olympias, even to save me.’
Olympias looked from his face to mine and back again, at first desperately and then shrewdly. ‘You won’t leave me behind,’ she quietly insisted. ‘I shall go with you. Whatever happens, I must be there.’
Alexandros moved to embrace her, but now it was she who shrank back. ‘If it’s to be done, we should move now,’ she said. ‘The sun is getting higher. The games will have already begun.’
The slave who fetched our horses gave me an odd look, puzzled at the bandage around my head. When he saw Alexandros he let out a gasp and turned pale. Iaia and Olympias had managed to deceive even their household slaves. Iaia did not bother to bind the man to secrecy; soon all the Cup would know that the escaped Thracian was still among them.
‘Iaia, are you coming?’ Olympias asked.
‘Too old, too slow,’ Iaia insisted. ‘I shall go on to the villa at my own pace and wait there for news.’ She stepped beside me and gestured for me to bend down from my mount, then spoke softly into my ear. ‘Are you sure of yourself, Gordianus? To challenge Crassus like this … to box the lion’s ears in his own den …’
‘I think I have no choice, Iaia. It is how the gods made me.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, the gods give us gifts, whether we ask for them or not, and then they give us no choice but to use them. We can blame the gods for many things.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But I think you should know that the gods did not make your son a mute.’
I frowned at her, puzzled.
‘Last night I looked in on him a number of times, to see that he slept soundly. He kept calling for you.’ ‘What? Calling? In words?’
‘As clearly as I speak to you now,’ she whispered. ‘He said, “Papa, Papa.’”
I sat upright and looked down at her, baffled. She had no reason to deceive me or to delude herself, and yet how could such a thing be? I turned and glanced at Eco, who looked gloomily back at me.
‘What are we waiting for?’ said Olympias. Having made up her mind, she was determined to begin. Alexandros, on the other hand, seemed to be having second thoughts. A shadow of doubt crossed his face, then his features resolved themselves into a mask of perfect acquiescence to the will of the gods, such as any Stoic would have envied.
With a last wave to Iaia, the four of us set off.
From the Avernine woods we emerged onto the high, windy ridge overlooking Lake Lucrinus and Crassus’s camp. The plain was dotted with great plumes of smoke that rose from spit-fires and ovens; a crowd must eat. Through the haze I saw the great bowl of the wooden arena filled with spectators who had come to gawk and thrill at the funeral games. No faces were discernible at such a distance, only the mottled colours of the spectators dressed in their brightest clothing to enjoy the holiday and the perfect weather of a crisp autumn day. I heard the clash of swords against shields. The vague, general murmur of the crowd rose to roaring shouts that must have been heard across the water in Puteoli.
‘The gladiators must still be fighting,’ I said, squinting and trying to make out what was happening within the ring.
‘Alexandros has strong eyes,’ said Olympias. ‘What do you see?’
‘Yes, gladiators,’ he said, shielding his brow from the sun. ‘There must have already been several matches; I see pools of blood on the sand. Now three matches are being staged at once; three Thracians against three Gauls.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Olympias.
‘By their arms. The Gauls carry long, curved shields and short swords; they wear torques about their necks and plumed helmets. The Thracians fight with round shields and long, curved daggers, and wear round helmets with no visor.’
‘Spartacus is a Thracian,’ I said. ‘Crassus no doubt chose Thracians so the crowd could vent its anger against them. They can expect no mercy from the spectators if they fall.’
‘A Gaul is down!’ Alexandros said.
‘Yes, I see.’ I squinted through the haze.
‘He’s thrown his blade aside and lifts his forefinger, asking for mercy. He must have fought well; the spectators grant it - see how they pull out their handkerchiefs?’ The arena was like a bowl filled with fluttering doves as the crowd waved their white handkerchiefs. The Thracian helped the Gaul to his feet and they walked towards the exit together.
‘Now one of the Thracians falls! See the wound in his leg, how it pours blood onto the sand! He stabs the ground with his dagger and holds up his forefinger.’ A resounding chorus of catcalls and boos rose from the arena, a noise so full of hatred and blood lust that it caused hackles to rise on my neck. Instead of waving handkerchiefs the crowd pointed upwards with clenched fists. The defeated Thracian leaned back on his elbows, exposing his naked chest. The Gaul dropped to one knee, gripped his short sword with both hands and plunged it into the Thracian’s heart.
Olympias turned her face away. Eco watched in glum fascination. Alexandros still wore the look of stern resolution with which he had departed Cumae.
The triumphant Gaul walked once around the perimeter of the ring, holding his sword aloft and receiving the accolades of the crowd while his opponent’s body was dragged to the exit, leaving a long smear of blood across the sand.
The remaining Thracian suddenly bolted and began to run from his opponent. The crowd laughed and jeered. The Gaul chased after him, but the Thracian outdistanced him, refusing to fight. There was a commotion in the stands, then a dozen or more attendants entered the ring, some carrying whips and others wielding long, smouldering irons, so hot that I could see the glow at their tips and the little plumes of smoke that trailed after them. They poked at the Thracian, searing his arms and legs, making him jerk and clutch himself with pain. They lashed him with the whips, driving him back toward his opponent.
Olympias gripped Alexandros’s bare arm, sinking her nails into the flesh. ‘This was a mistake!’ she hissed. “These people are mad, all of them. There’s nothing we can do!’
Alexandros wavered. He stared down at the sickening spectacle, his jaw clenched. He gripped the reins so tightly that his arms began to tremble.
In the arena the Thracian finally began to fight again, running towards the Gaul with a high, mad scream that rose above the murmur of the crowd. The Gaul was taken unawares and retreated, tripping over his own feet and falling on his backside. He recovered enough to protect himself with his shield, but the Thracian was relentless, banging his shield against the other’s and stabbing again and again with his curved blade. The Gaul was wounded; he threw his blade aside and frantically waved his forefinger in the air, signalling for mercy.
Handkerchiefs and clenched fists filled the air, together with a thunderous roar. At last the fists began to outnumber the handkerchiefs, and the crowd began to stamp and chant: ‘Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!’
Instead, the Thracian threw down his dagger and shield. The attendants came after him again with their whips and irons, lashing and poking him from all directions, compelling him to perform a hideous, spastic dance. At last he picked up his dagger. They drove him back toward the Gaul, who was already covered with blood from the wounds on his arms. The Gaul rolled onto his stomach and pressed his hands to his visor, steeling himself. The Thracian dropped to his knees and drove the dagger into the Gaul’s back again and again in time with the chanting of the crowd: ‘Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!’
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