‘So it could be a word spelled A-something-I-something-E.’ Flavia frowned. ‘What’s a Latin word that ends in E?’
‘There are hundreds. Lots of words end in E when you are speaking to someone –’
‘Or praying to one of the gods! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?’ Flavia sat up so that she could think more clearly. ‘So we only need letter two and letter four: “my second commands” and “my fourth teaches” –’
‘En!’ cried Nubia, high in the rigging. ‘Behold!’
‘She’s right!’ cried Flavia. ‘En means “behold” or “look”. The riddle says “my fourth teaches”: so N could fit, because in a way, it teaches. So we have A-something-I-N-E . . .’
‘En!’ cried Nubia again, more urgently: ‘Behold!’ She was pointing back and to the left. Then Lupus pointed, too, and suddenly Quartus cried,
‘To port, to port!’
‘She’s not giving us the next clue,’ said Flavia, scrambling to her feet. ‘She really wants to show us something!’
Flavia ran to the side of the ship and Jonathan followed, staggering a little as the deck rose and fell beneath him.
They leaned over the polished oak rail and gazed back.
A long, low warship was moving up quickly behind them. With its bristling oars and the eye painted on the prow, it reminded Flavia of some kind of dangerous insect.
‘Like bug.’ Nubia’s voice from above echoed Flavia’s thought.
The warship was already beside them, so close that they could see the water dripping from the flashing oars and hear the song of the oarsmen. The officer leading the chant was walking forward, so that he seemed to be overtaking the Myrtilla on foot. At the ship’s stern a figure sat in the shade of the open cabin.
Flavia squinted. ‘Maybe it’s Pliny.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Flavia’s father joined them at the rail. ‘The admiral said he was coming down tomorrow. But that ship is certainly one under his command, probably on manoeuvres from the naval harbour at Misenum.’
They waved as the warship slid past and the singing young officer grinned and waved back. The oarsmen were too intent on their rowing even to look at the ship they were overtaking. Soon the warship had pulled far ahead and disappeared behind a honey-coloured shoulder of rock.
‘By Hercules, they’re fast,’ said Aristo.
‘Superb!’ agreed Mordecai.
‘They have the benefit of eighty oarsmen as well as the wind full in their sail,’ said Captain Geminus with a grin.
As they approached the promontory, the Myrtilla’s crew had one of its periodic bursts of activity when Captain Geminus bellowed and three of the crewmen swarmed over the rigging.
When the activity finally subsided, the Myrtilla had changed direction and was sailing into a vast blue bay.
‘There it is,’ said Flavia. ‘The great bay of Neapolis.’
Jonathan had never seen so many boats in his entire life. Not even in the port of Ostia. They had passed the naval harbour of Misenum and the port of Puteoli on their left, and were now sailing towards a large mountain.
‘That, of course, is Vesuvius,’ said Flavia’s father. ‘It’s covered with vineyards; which is why it’s so green. You can see a few red roofs among the vines. Those are villas of the very rich.’
‘How great and marvellous are your works,’ murmured Mordecai. A breeze touched the two locks of grey hair which hung from his black turban. ‘Truly this place is like paradise.’
‘Pliny says this is the most fertile region in the whole world,’ said Flavia.
‘Does your uncle own one of those villas on the mountain?’ Jonathan asked her.
‘No,’ said Flavia, ‘he lives further south, between Pompeii and Stabia.’
‘Where?’
Captain Geminus pointed again: ‘See the town at the foot of Vesuvius?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s Herculaneum. Then . . . look right – no further – yes, there. That’s Pompeii and then . . . do you see that small cluster of red roofs a bit further to the right? That’s Stabia. My brother lives nearer to Stabia than Pompeii. But we’ll disembark in Pompeii. The harbour at Stabia is murder to get in and out of.’
It was late afternoon by the time the Myrtilla sailed into the port of Pompeii. The vast blue bowl of the sky was filled with the piercing cries of swifts, which had begun to fly lower as the day cooled.
Pompeii was built on a hill, and they could see the imposing town walls across the water, orange in the rays of the sinking sun. The red roofs of the tallest buildings peeped above.
Using the large paddle at the back of the ship, Flavia’s father guided the Myrtilla into the harbour. When the ship was moored, they all made their way carefully down the boarding plank.
‘I must organise my berth with the harbourmaster,’ said Captain Geminus, looking around. ‘Ah, here he comes. Can you wait at that tavern over there across the square, the one with the yellow awning and plane trees? We’ll bring the baggage and dogs over in a few minutes.’
The seven passengers made their way slowly past a forest of elegant masts. Coloured pennants fluttered and the tackle jingled musically in the late afternoon breeze. After two days on the springy wood of the Myrtilla’s deck, the pier felt hard and unyielding under Flavia’s feet, and jarred her heels as she walked.
The harbour shrine of Castor and Pollux was wreathed with garlands, for it was the Ides of August, a day sacred to Jupiter, Diana and the Twins. The shops and taverns around the square were all clean and swept. Many had hanging baskets of violets and daisies.
Fresh from an afternoon at the baths and still dressed in their festive clothes, the young Pompeians strolled along the waterfront as the day cooled, perfumed girls in wisps of silk and young men in sea-green tunics with their hair slicked back. Some wore flowered garlands on their heads. Flavia wondered whether Vulcan the blacksmith was among them.
At the tavern with the yellow awning, Mordecai ordered two jugs of well-watered wine. The serving-girl brought the wine immediately and returned a few moments later with bowls of nuts.
‘Mmmm, pistachio nuts!’ said Jonathan, taking a handful. ‘You don’t get free nuts with your wine in Ostia.’
‘That’s because Pompeii is a much more elegant place than Ostia.’ Aristo lifted his wine cup towards the city walls.
‘And more expensive, too,’ grumbled Mordecai, as he counted out coins for the girl.
‘Here comes your father already,’ Jonathan said to Flavia, spitting out a shell. Then he frowned: ‘He’s changed his clothes!’
Nubia frowned, too: ‘He’s had his hairs cut.’
‘And it appears he’s bought himself a new pair of boots, as well.’ Mordecai tugged his beard in puzzlement.
Lupus grinned and shook his head, as if to say they were all mistaken.
‘Uncle Gaius!’ squealed Flavia. She jumped up from her chair, vaulted over a planter full of daisies and threw herself into her uncle’s arms.
Gaius Flavius Geminus Senior was ten minutes older than his twin brother Marcus, who hurried up a few minutes later, followed by Quartus with the luggage and Sextus with the dogs.
‘Gaius!’ Flavia’s father dropped the sea bag he was carrying and embraced his brother. ‘You got my letter! I wasn’t sure I’d sent it in time. I was going to take rooms in a tavern and organise a carriage tomorrow!’
‘Your letter came yesterday. Xanthus has the cart ready and waiting, with a couple of horses tethered behind. If we go now we’ll be home before dark.’
‘But Uncle Gaius!’ said Flavia. ‘I wanted to spend the night in Pompeii. I wanted to look around the town. There’s someone here I want to find.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Her uncle ruffled her already tousled hair. ‘We’re expecting you at the farm. You can see Pompeii any time. Now, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?’
The sun had just set and all the colour had drained from the hot summer sky when Xanthus the farm manager drove them into the du
sty farmyard. Xanthus was a short, leathery freedman with thin fair hair and a permanently worried expression. As the cart rocked to a halt, he jumped down to wedge the wheels. Flavia and the others climbed out of the carriage, stretching and groaning.
The jolting of the cart had produced the usual effect on Flavia: she was bursting to use the latrine. Scuto’s intention was the same as hers. He scampered round the farmyard, wagging his tail and sniffing out a suitable spot to relieve himself. He finally decided to take revenge on the big wooden box which had jostled and jolted him for nearly an hour.
Flavia’s dog had just lifted his leg against one of the cart’s rear wheels when there was a terrifying snarl. Out of the evening shadows streaked an enormous creature.
A huge black wolf was heading straight for Scuto!
As the snarling wolf tore through the farmyard, everyone froze. Even Scuto – one leg still lifted – seemed paralysed by fear as the savage creature bore down upon him.
‘Ferox! No!’ bellowed Flavia’s uncle Gaius.
The enormous beast jerked to a halt, as if it had been pulled up short.
Flavia looked closer: it had been pulled up short. The monster strained against a leather collar attached to a long iron chain. His eyes bulged with fury and his claws scrabbled at the earth.
Scuto gulped, lowered his leg and backed off. Jonathan and Nubia clutched their own puppies tightly. Nipur was whimpering and Tigris expressed his un-tigerlike terror by wetting his master’s tunic.
‘Oh Pollux!’ swore Jonathan. ‘He’s widdled down my front.’
As if a spell had been broken, everyone laughed and began to move again. Ferox was the only one not amused. He uttered a series of deep barks which echoed off the farm buildings and stables.
‘Come bathe and have some dinner,’ shouted Flavia’s uncle over the din. ‘The slaves will unpack. And don’t worry about Ferox. Once he gets to know you, he’s no trouble at all.’
Gaius’s farm was an ancient but cheerful building with white walls and a red-tiled roof. The living quarters were built round an atrium and a large inner garden. A high wall separated the house from the farmyard and outbuildings.
Next to the kitchen was a simple two-roomed bathhouse. Gaius’s house-slaves had heated the water so that the travellers could wash off the dust of the journey and soak their aching limbs. The girls went first, followed by the boys and men.
Clean and refreshed, hair still damp, they found their way to the garden triclinium just as the first few stars pricked the violet sky.
‘It is our Sabbath,’ Mordecai said to Flavia’s uncle. ‘Do you mind if Miriam lights the candles?’
‘Of course not,’ said Gaius, and Mordecai gave him a small bow of thanks.
As the adults reclined and the children took their seats, Miriam remained standing. Pulling a lavender scarf over her curly hair, she recited a Hebrew prayer and lit the candles with a taper.
For a moment everyone was silent. The scent of rose and jasmine drifted in from the inner garden and somewhere a bird sang one sleepy note. The moon hung like a pearl crescent above the cool green leaves of a laurel tree.
Then Gaius’s ancient cook Frustilla shuffled in with hot black-bean soup, cold roast chicken and brown bread, while a half-witted house-slave named Rufus began to light the oil-lamps.
As they ate, Gaius asked Flavia if there was anything special she and her friends would like to do while they were in Pompeii.
‘We’d like to visit a blacksmith’s shop by the Stabian Gate.’
‘That’s an unusual request for a ten-year-old girl.’ Her uncle raised an eyebrow. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Well, a few days ago we rescued Admiral Pliny –’
‘What!’ Gaius nearly choked on his soup. ‘You rescued Admiral Pliny? The Emperor Vespasian’s friend and advisor?’
Flavia nodded. ‘He asked us to solve a riddle and find the man who gave it to him.’
‘A riddle? Before you tell me how you rescued Pliny, can you tell me why on earth the Commander-in-Chief of the imperial fleets wants to solve a riddle?’
Flavia and Jonathan looked at each other and grinned.
‘The treasure!’
Jonathan’s eyes opened with a start. His heart was pounding and his body was drenched in sweat. At first he thought he was still dreaming. The ceiling of his bedroom was too high and the walls were too close together. The faint scent of fermenting wine drifted through the high window. Somewhere a cock crowed.
Then he remembered. He was at Flavia’s uncle’s farm. The previous day, the Sabbath, had been a quiet one. They had unpacked and explored the farm. Today they were going into Pompeii to look for the blacksmith called Vulcan.
‘Lupus?’ he whispered. There was no reply.
Jonathan lifted his head. He was surprised to see Lupus’s bed was empty. Tigris was gone, too.
After a moment Jonathan got up and slipped on his tunic and sandals. Groggily he pulled back the curtain in the doorway and walked from the dim atrium into the bright garden. It was a few minutes past dawn and the sky above was lemon yellow. Birdsong filled the air and the cock crowed again.
‘Good morning, Jonathan!’ said Flavia. ‘We were just going to get you.’
‘Breakfast is ready.’ Miriam smiled at him.
They all sat around a white-painted wrought-iron table under a laurel tree near the well, eating flat brown bread, dates and white cheese. The dogs sat attentively nearby, hoping for scraps. Miriam was pouring out barley water from a jug and Aristo was making notes on a wax tablet.
Jonathan pulled back a chair and sat down heavily.
‘Are you all right, Jonathan?’ asked Flavia, passing him the plate. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘Just a bad dream.’ He tore off a piece of bread and tossed it to Tigris. Then he took a handful of dates. ‘Are we having lessons today? I thought we were going into Pompeii to find Vulcan.’
‘Uncle Gaius says he’ll take us later,’ said Flavia, ‘when he takes my father back to the harbour.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Aristo had seen the look on Jonathan’s face. ‘It’s only a short lesson today.’
The young Greek put down his wax tablet and lifted a large orange and black ceramic pot from the ground. He set it carefully in the centre of the table. On its side was painted a scene from Greek mythology.
Scuto had wandered off with the puppies to explore the garden. Jonathan watched them wistfully.
‘This Greek vase is an antique – almost five hundred years old,’ Aristo was saying. ‘It was used for mixing wine at dinner parties. Flavia’s uncle very kindly said I could show it to you this morning. You may look, but – no, Lupus! Don’t touch it! It’s worth over four hundred thousand sestercii.’
Jonathan sat up straight. ‘That’s nearly half a million!’
‘Precisely,’ said Aristo. ‘Not only is it old, but it is the work of a master. The artist has decorated this vase in a very clever way, painting the space behind the figures black, so that they show up red-orange, the colour of the clay. Then, with a fine brush, he has added the eyes, mouths and other details. This, of course, is the way all the Greek potters decorated their vases five hundred years ago.’
Jonathan and the others brought their faces closer to look at the figures on the big mixing bowl. Suddenly Lupus giggled and pointed.
‘Yes,’ admitted Aristo ruefully, ‘those satyrs are a bit rude. But when you are half-man, half-goat, I suppose you don’t need to wear any clothes.’
Flavia giggled, too, and Miriam blushed. Jonathan grinned; he felt better already.
‘However,’ said Aristo, clearing his throat. ‘I haven’t brought out this vase to show you naked satyrs. I know you’re looking for a blacksmith named Vulcan and I thought you might like to hear the story of his namesake. This figure here – the man riding the donkey – is Vulcan, blacksmith of the gods.’
‘Vulcan,’ began Aristo, ‘was the son of Jupiter and Juno. As the son of the king and queen of the gods,
he should have been very fine to look at, but baby Vulcan was small and ugly with a red, bawling face. Juno was so horrified that she hurled the tiny baby from the top of Mount Olympus.’
‘What is Muntulumpus?’ asked Nubia.
‘Mount Olympus,’ enunciated Aristo, ‘is a mountain in the north of Greece. It’s the home of the gods.’
‘What happened to the baby?’ asked Miriam, her violet eyes wide with concern.
‘The baby fell down for a day and a night. Luckily, he landed in the sea. Even so, his legs were damaged as they struck the water and they never developed properly. Baby Vulcan sank like a pebble into the cool, blue depths, where the sea-nymph Thetis found him and took him to her home – an underwater grotto. There she raised him as if he were her own child.’
Aristo paused to take a sip of barley water. ‘Vulcan had a happy childhood. Dolphins were his playmates and pearls his toys. Then one day, when he was about your age, he found the remains of a fisherman’s fire on the beach. The young god stared in amazement at a single coal, still red-hot and glowing. After a world of cool, watery blues and greens, it was more lovely to him than any pearl.
‘Vulcan carefully shut this precious coal in a clam shell, took it back to his underwater grotto and made a fire with it. On the first day, he stared at this fire for hours on end, never leaving it. He fed the flames with seaweed, driftwood, coral and stones. On the second day, he discovered that when he made the fire hotter with bellows, certain stones sweated iron or silver or gold. The third day he beat the cooled metal into shapes: bracelets, chains, swords and shields.
‘Vulcan made pearl-handled knives and spoons for his foster-mother. He made a silver chariot for himself and bridles so that seahorses could transport him quickly. He even made slave-girls of gold to wait on him and do his bidding. From that day onwards, he and Thetis lived like royalty.’
Aristo pointed to the vase.
‘See, he holds hammer and tongs. That’s how you can recognise him. And if you look carefully, you can see that the artist has painted his legs to look too small for his body.’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 16