Lupus and the others tried to see what Mordecai was doing, but he kept his back to them and allowed his loose blue robes to screen Vulcan’s foot from their view. Lupus saw the doctor put the blacksmith’s boot on the floor and bend his turbaned head over the foot.
‘Ah,’ murmured Mordecai, almost to himself, ‘Clubfoot. Not a terribly bad case . . .’ He examined it for a few minutes and then helped Vulcan put the boot back on.
‘This could have been corrected shortly after birth, when your bones were still soft.’ He dipped his hands in the basin and then turned back, drying them on a napkin. ‘It could have been corrected! Did your parents not know that?’
Tears filled Vulcan’s eyes, but they did not spill over. His voice was steady as he looked up at Mordecai.
‘I don’t know who my parents are, sir. I was abandoned at birth.’
Flavia felt miserable. She had called a poor, orphaned, clubfoot a jackass! How could she ever ask him about the treasure now?
Listlessly, she pushed some black olives around the rim of her dish. It was terribly hot and suddenly she had no appetite.
Her uncle Gaius strode in from his inspection of the farm and quickly rinsed his hands in the copper basin. He threw himself on the couch next to Aristo and helped himself to a slice of cheese.
‘Not too much damage to the farm,’ he remarked through his first mouthful. ‘A few shattered roof tiles and a crack in the olive press. I’m glad you got our message, Vulcan. I really could do with the services of a blacksmith for a few days. I hope you don’t mind staying in the slave quarters?’
‘Not at all,’ said the smith, with a quick glance at Miriam.
There was another pause.
Nubia broke the silence. ‘Are you the god Vulcan from Muntulumpus?’
Vulcan almost smiled.
‘No. Vulcan is just my nickname. It’s not hard to guess how I got it. I don’t like it, but it’s something I have to live with.’
Flavia swallowed. If he didn’t like being called Vulcan, he probably didn’t like being called a jackass.
The smith took a small piece of cheese and then put it down again. ‘I don’t know my real name,’ he said. ‘They say a slave-girl found me wrapped in swaddling clothes beside the banks of the river Sarnus. She gave me to her master and he gave me to one of his freedmen, a blacksmith. My adoptive parents didn’t mind my foot. They loved me as if I had been their own son and they gave me the name Lucius. But no one has called me that since my parents died.’
‘I’m adopted, too,’ said Clio. She was sitting at the table between Lupus and Flavia. ‘We’re all adopted. All nine of us.’
‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Mordecai, and then to Vulcan. ‘Please continue.’
‘There’s not much more to tell. We moved to Rome when I was still a baby. I grew up there. My father taught me to be a blacksmith and my mother taught me how to read and write. They died a year ago, when I was sixteen. After I settled their affairs, I moved back here to search for my real parents.’
‘My real parents are dead,’ said Clio, taking a handful of olives. ‘Father says they died in a plague. I never even knew them.’
‘Do you want revenge on your parents for abandoning you?’ Jonathan asked Vulcan.
‘Jonathan!’ chided Mordecai.
Vulcan lowered his head and then looked at Jonathan from under his long eyelashes.
‘No. I don’t want revenge. I have forgiven my true parents. But I want to find them. That’s why I came back to Pompeii. For the past year I have looked everywhere in the town, but haven’t found them yet. So when Brutus the travelling blacksmith died last month, I bought his donkey. Now I can visit all the farms and villages in the area. If my parents are still here, I know I will find them!’ The muscles of his arm bulged as he clenched his fist.
‘But how will you recognise them?’ asked Jonathan.
‘I believe . . .’ said Vulcan, and stopped. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, ‘but I must find them. I must!’
‘Why haven’t you asked Vulcan about the treasure yet?’ Jonathan asked Flavia after lunch.
They had taken Clio to the tree fort, while the adults were having their midday siesta. Jonathan sat cross-legged on the newly-built wooden platform. He was sharpening the point of an arrow with a small knife.
‘Treasure?’ came Clio’s voice from the leaves above. ‘What treasure?’
Flavia rolled her eyes at Jonathan. ‘That’s one reason I haven’t mentioned it! Also, I think he’s angry with me for calling him a jackass.’
‘That was pretty . . . bold of you,’ admitted Jonathan.
‘Treasure?’ said Clio again, and jumped onto the platform beside Flavia.
So Flavia told Clio all about the riddle and the treasure.
‘That’s why you called him a jackass,’ said Clio, and tipped her head to one side. ‘Who did you say gave you the riddle?’
‘Our friend Pliny. He’s a famous admiral who’s written dozens of books.’
‘He told us about the riddle because we saved his life,’ added Jonathan.
Clio’s eyes sparkled. ‘Is he a fat old man with white hair and a funny voice?’
Lupus barked with laughter from his treetop perch, and Nubia giggled behind her hand.
‘He’s not fat!’ cried Flavia, sitting up a little straighter. ‘He’s just a bit . . . stout.’
‘Do you know him?’ Jonathan asked Clio.
‘Of course’ she chirped. ‘He knows my parents and often stays at our villa. In fact, he’s coming to dinner in a few days.’
‘He is?’ cried Flavia. ‘I wish we could come, too. Then we could tell him we’ve found his blacksmith and almost solved the riddle!’
Clio looked at Flavia with her bright black eyes and tipped her chin up decisively. ‘Then I’ll send you all an invitation.’
‘In that case,’ said Flavia, ‘we’d better find out about the treasure!’
‘You’ll find the blacksmith in the toolshed by the wine cellar,’ said Xanthus the farm manager.
Flavia knew the toolshed. It was a dark, cool room full of pruning hooks, plough shares, hoes, picks and various pieces of tackle for cart and horse. When they opened the battered wooden door and peeped in, Vulcan was nowhere in sight. But someone had been there recently. The puppies pushed through Flavia’s legs and sniffed round a newly cleared space and a half-built brick furnace against one wall.
‘Shhh!’ said Jonathan suddenly. ‘Do you hear that?’
They all listened. From the cellars on the other side of the toolshed came a bubbling groan, interspersed with curses and mutters.
‘It’s horrible,’ said Clio. ‘What is it?’
A shudder shook Nubia and she gripped Flavia’s arm.
Even Scuto whimpered.
Jonathan swallowed and looked at them. ‘It sounds like someone is being murdered!’
Flavia laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s just the grape juice in the barrels. It makes that noise as it turns into wine. Sometimes the barrels practically shout. Come on!’
She led them across the beaten earth floor of the toolshed and pushed open the door to the cellars. It was a vast room with thick walls: cool, dark and musty. As they stepped inside, the damp scent of fermenting wine filled Flavia’s nostrils and made her slightly dizzy.
Vulcan was there in the gloom, leaning on his staff and speaking quietly to three farm-slaves. When he saw Flavia he stopped talking to them.
‘We were just getting more bricks,’ he said to Flavia, and nodded towards a pile of bricks. The three slaves hurriedly began taking bricks for the furnace back into the toolshed. Vulcan limped to the doorway to supervise them.
‘Did you want me?’ he said to Flavia. Although his voice was soft, his dark eyebrows made him look quite stern.
The farm-slaves were passing bricks through the doorway. Behind them the wine in the barrels snarled and groaned. Despite herself, Flavia shivered, too.
‘No, it doesn’t m
atter,’ she said, backing out of the room. ‘It can wait.’
‘What’s the matter?’ said Jonathan, a minute later. ‘Why didn’t you ask him about the treasure?’
‘Um . . . the slaves,’ said Flavia. ‘I couldn’t ask him in front of them. We’ll have to get him alone.’
But as the day progressed the young blacksmith always had at least one slave nearby and Flavia had to resign herself to waiting.
That night Flavia dreamt of her dead mother Myrtilla.
In her dream, they were back in her garden in Ostia, on a summer’s evening. Her mother and father sat beneath the fig tree by the fountain, laughing, talking and watching Flavia play with the twins, now Lupus’s age.
Flavia had woken at the darkest hour, full of despair, knowing that her mother and dead brothers were only shadows, wandering the cold grey Underworld and chirping like bats. She had tried to replace that terrible image with her dream of them all in a secret, safe and sunny garden. But it was no good. Hot tears squeezed out from the corners of Flavia’s eyes, wetting her cheeks and running down into her ears. As she stared into the darkness she knew that she would give all the treasure in the world, everything she had, even her life, if only she could make that dream come true.
The morning of the Vinalia – the late summer wine festival – dawned a glorious pink and blue, but Flavia awoke feeling drained after her restless night. Nubia and the dogs were already up, presumably gone to breakfast. Listlessly, Flavia splashed lukewarm water on her face from the jug in the corner and padded out to the garden for lessons.
The others were crowding round the wrought-iron table examining something. Even the dogs seemed interested. As Flavia approached, Nubia lifted her neat, dark head and called out:
‘Flavia! Come see what appears outside Miriam!’
Flavia sighed and quickened her step. The others moved aside to let her see.
On the table was a small wooden cage with a tiny door on one side and a handle on top. Inside perched a bright-eyed little sparrow.
‘Oh!’ cried Flavia. ‘He’s lovely! Where did he come from?’
‘He just appeared outside Miriam’s bedroom door this morning!’ said Jonathan, and added, ‘Aristo says it means Miriam has an admirer!’
‘Who is it, Miriam?’ asked Flavia; already her dream was fading. ‘Who is your admirer?’
Miriam flushed. ‘I don’t know.’
Aristo smiled at Miriam. ‘A sparrow is the traditional gift of a man to his sweetheart,’ he said. ‘The poet Catullus even wrote a poem about a sparrow that he gave to his beloved. He talks about the little bird on his girlfriend’s lap, hopping about now here and now there.’
‘Oh, do you think it’s tame?’ breathed Flavia.
‘Probably,’ said Aristo. ‘Shall we see?’
He eased open the delicate cage door and held his forefinger just outside. The sparrow cocked his head and regarded the large finger with a bright eye. He hopped to the door and cheeped. Then he hopped onto Aristo’s finger. Flavia started to squeal with excitement, but Nubia put a restraining hand on her arm.
Very slowly, Miriam put her elegant white finger next to Aristo’s, so that they barely touched. After a moment, the sparrow hopped on to Miriam’s finger. Scuto, his eyes fixed on this feathered morsel, gave a wistful whine.
‘Oh!’ giggled Miriam. ‘He tickles.’
‘Sit down,’ whispered Jonathan. ‘See if he hops on your lap now here and now there!’
‘Not with the dogs licking their chops like that.’ Flavia laughed.
‘I take dogs away,’ said Nubia solemnly.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Flavia felt much more cheerful. Now she had two mysteries to uncover: Vulcan’s treasure, and the identity of Miriam’s secret admirer.
There were many things Nubia did not understand about the new land she lived in.
When Flavia’s uncle took them all into Pompeii later that morning to celebrate the Vinalia, Nubia did not understand why the priest on the temple steps crushed a handful of grapes over the bleeding carcass of a lamb. When they went to the theatre, she did not understand why the men on the stage wore masks while the women in the audience left their faces uncovered.
Afterwards, when they returned to the farm, she did not understand why on this particular day they ate roast lamb outside, sitting on old carpets near the vines beneath the shadows of the olive grove. She did not understand how Flavia could hand her uncle a piece of bread with the left hand. In her country this was a grave insult, for the left hand was used to wipe the bottom. And she did not think she would ever understand how the Romans could allow a wise old woman like Frustilla to wait on strong young men like Aristo and Vulcan.
But one thing Nubia did understand was the look between a girl and her lover. She had seen the same look many times at the spice market, when all the clans met together to trade.
By the end of the day, as they all walked back through the cool vine rows beneath the pale green sky of dusk, Nubia knew not only that Miriam was in love, but with whom.
Clio had promised them an invitation to the dinner party and sure enough, just as they finished their music lesson the next morning, they heard a banging on the rarely-used front door. Presently a spotty teenaged slave in a white tunic wandered into the garden. For a few moments he stared at Miriam open-mouthed. Then he remembered himself.
Gaius and Mordecai appeared in the library doorway as the young slave recited his message in a loud voice:
‘Titus Tascius Pomponianus invites his neighbour Gaius Flavius Geminus Senior to dinner at the Villa Pomponiana.
‘Please bring your family and house guests to my home at the tenth hour tomorrow for a light dinner. The starter will be mussels in sweet wine sauce and the main course a fine turbot caught only yesterday. There’ll be quails’ eggs, camel’s cheese and imported Greek olives.
‘My children will play music for your entertainment and our guest of honour will be the Admiral Pliny, on active command of the fleet at Misenum.’
The slave glanced at Miriam, licked his lips nervously and continued,
‘My young mistress Clio Pomponiana adds that the young ladies of Gaius’s household are invited to bathe . . .’ here the young slave’s voice broke and he continued an octave higher, ‘. . . to bathe with her at the ninth hour in the private baths of the villa.’
‘I think he means us,’ Flavia giggled to Nubia and Miriam.
‘Can we go, father?’ Miriam said. ‘Tomorrow’s the Sabbath.’
‘Is the villa near enough to walk to?’ asked Mordecai.
‘Easily,’ said Gaius.
Mordecai smiled. ‘Very well. I should like to meet Admiral Pliny again.’
‘Tell your master we accept his kind invitation with pleasure,’ said Gaius with a solemn bow.
After the blushing slave left, Flavia’s uncle clapped his hands and rubbed them together energetically. ‘Tascius has been in that villa for over a year and this is the first invitation I’ve had. I owe it all to you and your friends, Flavia!’
Flavia still hadn’t been able to get Vulcan on his own, but the next morning there was another clue about Miriam’s secret admirer.
Jonathan’s sister had just set the breakfast platter on the table. She was wearing a grey-blue stola with a lilac shawl tied round her slender waist, humming to herself. Flavia sighed: she would never be that elegant and graceful.
Suddenly Jonathan caught his sister’s wrist and held it for a moment. Miriam was wearing a silver bracelet set with amethysts.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Flavia. ‘Is it new?’
Miriam blushed and then nodded.
‘Who gave it to you?’ asked Jonathan sharply.
Miriam shrugged.
‘It appears outside your bedroom?’ Nubia asked.
Miriam nodded.
‘Why are you getting all these presents?’ scowled Jonathan. Flavia knew his nightmares had put him in a bad mood.
In the fig tree above them a bird trille
d sweetly as Aristo rushed into the garden. He looked sleepy and rumpled, but handsome in a fawn coloured tunic with matching lace-up boots.
If Miriam was silver, thought Flavia, Aristo was bronze.
‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling back his chair. ‘I had a broken night, and I’m afraid I overslept.’ He glanced at Miriam.
‘Lovely bracelet,’ he said. ‘Is it new?’
Later that day, a few hours after noon, Nubia ran into the garden from the farmyard. As the gate banged shut, Flavia looked up from Pliny’s scroll of famous mysteries. The boys had taken the dogs hunting and all the adults were still resting after lunch.
‘Vulcan is in the stables,’ said Nubia breathlessly. ‘Being all alone.’
‘At last!’ said Flavia. She left the scroll on the table and ran after Nubia.
Vulcan nodded at the girls as they pushed open the stable door. He had taken his donkey from one of the stalls and was grooming it.
Nubia went straight to the creature to watch Vulcan brush it, but Flavia hoisted herself up on one of the stalls, and drummed her feet on the wooden half-door. She hoped he’d forgiven her for calling him a jackass in front of Miriam.
‘Vulcan . . .’ She casually nibbled a piece of straw, ‘have you ever met Admiral Pliny?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Vulcan was brushing the donkey’s back with long firm strokes.
‘He knows you.’
Thin shafts of golden sunlight pierced the dusty air and made coins of light on the stable floor. There was a pungent smell of sweet hay and sour mash, of horse dung and saddle oil.
‘I might have met him,’ said the smith carefully. ‘Many of the rich and famous have summer houses in Pompeii.’
Flavia took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember giving any of them a riddle?’
Vulcan stopped brushing and looked up at her. ‘So that’s why you called me a jackass . . .’
‘Pliny said you told him that solving the “jackass riddle” would lead to “a treasure beyond imagining” . . .’
Vulcan handed Nubia the curry comb and indicated that she should take over. Nubia happily brushed the donkey’s velvet-grey coat.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 19