Then she screamed.
Curled up inside the chest was Pulchra’s slave-girl.
Jonathan squeezed after Pulchra along a narrow space between two walls. They had left the puppies in the garden near the lemon tree and Pulchra had led him through a maze of porticoes and rooms through the kitchen and into a kind of pantry.
‘Along here,’ she gasped, edging her way along. ‘Pretty soon I won’t be able to fit any more.’
A week earlier Jonathan wouldn’t have been able to fit either, but he had been in a coma for three days with no food and had eaten very little since. He had never been so thin.
Finally they reached a place with tiny gaps in the bricks. Pulchra silently pointed to one. Jonathan brought his eye close and found he was looking into a large room, a tablinum. He could see the backs of two muscular men in sea-green standing beside a column. Beside them stood a short man in a tan tunic. Beyond him Jonathan could see part of a table and a frescoed wall.
After a moment the muscular men shifted to one side and Jonathan saw that Pulchra’s father sat behind the table. A scribe in a lemon-yellow tunic stood beside him.
Pollius Felix was leaning back in a bronze and leather chair, listening to the man in the tan tunic. The sun streamed in from the left, illuminating the short man and part of the table, but leaving Felix’s face in shadow.
‘Please do me this service, Patron,’ the man in tan was saying. His voice was muffled but perfectly audible. ‘It’s a terrible thing that my lovely little Maia has disappeared. For ten years I have brought you the first crop of olives and the first pressing of oil. I have never asked a favour in return, only your protection. But now I ask that you find and return her to me and punish the men who took her!’
Jonathan and Pulchra exchanged wide-eyed looks, then returned to their peepholes. Felix had risen from his chair and moved out from behind the table. He wore a white toga over a pale blue tunic.
‘Rusticus.’ Felix embraced the man, then held him at arm’s length. Jonathan could see the man was a peasant, with sunburnt, leathery skin.
Felix put an arm around Rusticus and walked him away from the desk, towards Jonathan and Pulchra. ‘You were right to come to me first, Rusticus. I will find your little Maia and punish the culprits. Tell me what happened.’
‘My youngest son Quintus saw everything,’ stammered the farmer. ‘He and Maia were playing hide-and-seek among the olives when the men appeared.’ His voice broke. ‘Maia drew the men away from his hiding-place, so that they wouldn’t catch him, too.’
The farmer stifled a sob and Jonathan saw Felix signal one of his men. A moment later a slave stepped into Jonathan’s field of vision with a wine cup.
‘Here,’ said Felix. ‘Drink this.’
The farmer drained the cup and shuddered. ‘I’m sorry, Patron.’
‘Don’t be ashamed of your tears,’ said Felix. ‘A real man is never afraid to weep for his family. Tell me. Was there anything else about these men? Anything which might identify them?’
‘I’m not sure. My little Quintus has a great imagination, but I don’t think he made this up . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Felix quietly, his arm still around the shorter man’s shoulders.
‘Quintus said the men who took Maia were wearing masks, like the ones actors wear at the theatre. Horrible, grinning masks.’
Lupus stopped swimming. He rolled over and floated on the gentle swell of the bay, looking back towards the Villa Limona. From most angles it was impossible to see the entrance to the villa’s secret harbour.
The villa itself was built on at least four levels. He saw a row of white columns half way down and realised it was the portico outside his bedroom. On the floor above it, the ground floor, was a larger portico. Its columns were fluted and they had red bases.
With all its different levels and domes the Villa Limona looked more like a small village than a villa. Beyond it he could see the long covered colonnade down which he had driven the day before. It was surrounded by silvery-green olives, looking greyer under their covering of ash. Beyond them rose more grey-green slopes, then rugged mountains. The sun was just rising behind them to his left.
Lupus was beginning to get cold, but his short rest had re-energised him so he swam south, away from the villa and its secret harbour.
Some of Felix’s slaves were climbing up the rocks on the other side of the villa. He could see their fishing nets full of shining fish thrown over their backs. He stopped to tread water and look.
Near the fishing rocks was a man-made pier. Moored to it was a long sleek ship. It had a mast and sail and holes for ten oars on either side. It was light and narrow, designed more for speed than transport. Beyond it a small headland offered some protection from the winds.
Further south, the shore became rugged. There was a small beach and then sheer cliffs plunging straight into the water. These cliffs were riddled with grottoes at water level, and caves above.
Suddenly a flash of colour caught Lupus’s eye. Emerging from one of the grottoes was a boat. At any other time of day it would have been difficult to see, especially at this distance, but the early morning surface of the water was still milky and so the dark blue boat stood out clearly against it.
Flavia and Nubia stared down in horror at the slave-girl curled up in the box, and she gazed back, rolling her eyes in terror. She lay on one side with her knees drawn up almost to her face, which was red and swollen from crying.
Flavia couldn’t remember the girl’s name, but Nubia did. She held out her hand.
‘Come out, Leda,’ she whispered.
Leda shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she whimpered. ‘She’ll beat me even more if I don’t stay here.’
‘You mean she knows you’re here?’ gasped Flavia.
Leda nodded. ‘She makes me stay in here when I misbehave.’ The slave-girl’s nose was running, so Flavia held out a linen handkerchief. Leda made no move to take it. She stared as if she had never seen one before.
‘It’s all right,’ said Flavia. ‘Blow your nose. And you can keep it,’ she added.
‘No!’ whimpered Leda. ‘She’d only say I stole it and then she’d beat me.’
Flavia and Nubia looked at each other in dismay.
‘Please come out,’ Flavia said. ‘I’ll make sure you aren’t punished.’
Leda shook her head. ‘You’ll be gone in a day or a week and when you’re gone she’ll just beat me again, even harder.’
Flavia knelt on the floor beside the cedarwood chest so that she wasn’t looming over the slave-girl.
‘Leda,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll talk to Pulchra. I promise I’ll try to make things better for you. Please don’t worry.’ She patted the girl on the shoulder, and Leda winced.
Flavia suddenly went cold. She stood and leaned further over, trying to see the slave-girl’s back. In one or two places, seeping through the fine yellow linen of her tunic, Flavia could see the dark stain of fresh blood where Pulchra had wielded the birch switch with particular vigour.
Jonathan’s stomach growled loudly. For over two hours he’d been riveted to his peephole, watching Felix receive his clients. Now at last, his stomach was protesting. He glanced at Pulchra ruefully. She smiled and nodded and motioned for him to go. But just as he began to edge back towards the kitchen, he felt her hand catch his.
He turned and looked back at her.
Pulchra was pointing urgently towards the peephole.
Curious, Jonathan put his eye back to the chink in the bricks. And gasped.
Felix stood in front of his desk facing left, his fine profile lit by the weak morning sun.
Approaching him was the biggest, ugliest man Jonathan had ever seen. The giant wore a sea-green tunic the size of a ship’s sail and his thin black hair was plastered over his balding scalp in ridiculous imitation of the younger men around him. His thighs were so huge that they rubbed together as he moved forward, yet they were not fat, but solid muscle. His chest was massive and his arms m
uscular and oiled. His nose had been broken at least twice and his ears were swollen like cauliflowers.
The big man lumbered up to Felix, dropped to his knees and fervently kissed his patron’s hand.
Back in the sky-blue triclinium, when it was safe to talk, Jonathan turned to Pulchra. ‘Who was that huge man?’
‘I could tell you some stories about him!’ Pulchra dipped a piece of bread in liquid honey and took a dainty bite. ‘His name is Lucius Brassus and he’s one of my father’s most loyal soldiers.’
Jonathan frowned. ‘What do you mean, soldier?’
‘Did I say soldier?’ Pulchra giggled. ‘I meant client of course . . . Oh, good morning, Fulvia! You’re just in time for some breakfast.’
Jonathan looked up to see Flavia and Nubia standing in the doorway with Scuto behind them. Flavia’s face was pale.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Pulchra, ‘you don’t look at all well, Fulvia. And look at your hair! You must ask Leda to arrange it for you right away.’
‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ Flavia’s hand went automatically to her head.
‘Nothing’s wrong with it,’ said Jonathan. ‘It looks like it always does.’
‘Oh,’ said Flavia, and Jonathan was startled by the look of cold fury on her face. Pulchra didn’t notice; she was letting Nipur lick honey from her finger.
Jonathan opened his eyes wide at Flavia, as if to say: What’s the matter?
She took a deep breath and gave a little shake of her head. Some colour returned to her face.
‘Actually, Pulchra,’ said Flavia in a sweet voice, ‘I’d love Leda to style my hair. You’re absolutely right. I can’t possibly go out in public with it looking like this. Where is Leda anyway?’ Flavia looked round innocently.
Pulchra didn’t even bother to look up. ‘She’s in the big cedar chest in my bedroom. Just tell her to do your hair like mine. And you may as well bring her back here afterwards.’
Lupus had just slipped on his tunic and was pushing his wet hair back from his forehead when he heard voices.
People were coming down the path.
He quickly ducked behind the oleander bushes, glad he was wearing his olive green tunic. He made himself as still and quiet as possible.
‘What’s her name again?’ Lupus heard a man’s voice say.
‘Maia. Maia Rustica. About nine or ten years old.’ The second voice was very deep and Lupus thought he recognised it from dinner the night before.
‘I don’t see why it’s so urgent,’ said the first man. Lupus heard a scraping noise and a splash; they were launching the boat. ‘Besides, now that she knows where the others are she could ruin everything.’
‘It’s urgent because her father Rusticus lives just up the hill,’ said the man with the deep voice. ‘He’s one of the Patron’s clients. They never should have taken a child from so close to home. My brother and his friends are idiots. I hear they performed a comedy about pirates on their last night at the refugee camp. Imagine. Risking everything for a few coins!’ Deep Voice swore. ‘Anyway, bring the girl straight back to me.’
‘I still don’t see what good that will do,’ Lupus heard the first man grumble. There was a creak and the soft plop of oars. He must be in the boat now.
‘I’ll have a word with her,’ said Deep Voice. ‘She’s a local girl; she’ll know enough to keep her mouth shut.’
‘All right,’ said the first man. ‘I should be back in about an hour.’
‘I’ll be here,’ said Deep Voice. Suddenly Lupus remembered his name. He was Crispus, a muscular man with black hair, dark stubble on his jaw and eyelashes as long as a girl’s. The night before, he’d told a funny joke about two Greek merchants and an olive.
He was also the Patron’s right-hand man.
Lupus breathed a sigh of relief as he heard Crispus go back up the path. He counted to one hundred and then slowly rose and peered round the dusty oleander. There was no one in sight, so he strolled casually back up the path, as if returning from a morning walk.
His mind was racing. The actors from the camp must be the kidnappers. But who was Maia? How could she ruin everything? And who was Crispus’s brother? He needed to talk to Flavia and the others. He turned and passed between marble columns into the garden. It was only three hours past dawn and already the air was shimmering with heat.
Suddenly he realised he’d taken a wrong turn. This wasn’t the same garden he’d come out of.
He knew his bedroom faced west so he walked away from the rising sun. Yes, there was the sea, straight ahead, visible through more columns. But these columns were fluted, and painted deep red to about his shoulder height. He was on the upper portico, one floor above his bedroom.
He stood and looked out at the view for a moment, enjoying the faint offshore breeze which touched his hair.
‘Hello,’ said a pleasant voice behind him. ‘Who are you?’
Lupus turned. Sitting in a chair beside one of the columns was a beautiful woman in pale blue. She had delicate features and golden hair.
Lupus flipped open his wax tablet and wrote
MY NAME IS LUPUS. I CAN’T SPEAK.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman, and then gave him a sweet smile. ‘Please sit beside me and keep me company for a while.’ She patted the empty chair next to her.
Lupus hesitated, but only for the briefest moment. Flavia wanted them to learn all they could about Felix. This woman might know something. He sat beside her on a comfortable wicker chair with yellow linen cushions.
‘I suppose you’re one of my husband’s new proteges,’ the woman said. ‘He seems to recruit them younger every year. How old are you? About eight?’
Lupus nodded.
She smiled. ‘My name is Polla Argentaria,’ she said, ‘wife of the most powerful man in the Roman Empire. Or so they say. A man who inspires fear or devotion. Sometimes both.’ She glanced at Lupus. ‘I can see you are one of those who is devoted to Felix. How does he do that?’ she said, almost to herself. ‘How does he win people’s hearts so easily?’
Lupus glanced at her. She had high cheekbones and arched eyebrows.
‘I believe,’ said Felix’s wife, gazing out towards the horizon, ‘that when he is with you, he focuses all his power and charm and attention on you alone. The rest of the world seems to fade away and he is yours. But,’ she said, ‘at the very moment you think he is yours, you become his.’
Lupus looked out towards the horizon, waiting for his face to cool and his heart to stop pounding. When he finally glanced back at her, he saw that she was asleep. He rose carefully, so that the wicker chair would not creak.
As he turned to go, something on the water caught his eye. A small rowing boat was moving slowly south, heading for the grottoes.
He must find the others as soon as possible.
Leda climbed out of the cedarwood chest to do Flavia’s hair. But before she began, she let the girls smooth balm over the ugly welts on her back.
After that, it only took Pulchra’s slave-girl a few minutes to arrange Flavia’s hair. She pulled it up in an elegant but comfortable twist, held with just four ivory hairpins.
‘You’re very good!’ said Flavia, gazing into Pulachra’s bronze hand mirror and patting her hair.
Leda turned bright pink, and Flavia guessed it was probably the first time in her life the slave-girl had ever been praised.
Lupus found them all in one of the inner gardens. They were staring at a tree. Apart from the yellow fruit it looked like an ordinary bay tree to him.
As soon as Pulchra’s back was turned he signalled Flavia that he had urgent news. Flavia looked pointedly at Pulchra and shrugged, as if to say: What can we do?
‘. . . and it’s worth over a million sesterces,’ Pulchra was saying.
Lupus saw Flavia looking around for inspiration. Suddenly her eye focused on something on the hillside.
‘What’s that up in the vineyards?’ Flavia asked Pulchra. ‘It looks like a little temple.’
‘Oh, that’s an ancient shrine to the wine god Dionysus,’ said Pulchra importantly. ‘Of course we own all that land up there.’
‘Could we go and see it? Dionysus is my favourite god.’ Lupus had never heard Flavia mention Dionysus before.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pulchra slowly. ‘I don’t usually walk anywhere, and it’s too steep for a litter . . .’
‘I’d love to go for a walk with you,’ said Jonathan, with his most charming smile. ‘I’ll bet the view from there is wonderful.’
‘We could take a picnic lunch,’ suggested Flavia.
‘We want to go! We want to go!’ cried Pulchra’s little sisters. ‘A picnic! A picnic!’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Pulchra tossed her golden hair. ‘You’re too young. You’d get terribly tired.’ She turned to the others. ‘You wait here. I’ll tell our cook to prepare a picnic. Come on, Leda!’
Pulchra went off towards the kitchen with her two little sisters clamouring at her heels.
When they were gone the four friends turned to each other and Lupus gave Flavia a thumbs up.
‘Quickly,’ said Flavia, ‘Before she gets back. Any clues?’
Lupus began to write on his wax tablet.
‘Pulchra took me to spy on her own father!’ said Jonathan and his dark eyes gleamed. ‘We watched him receiving his clients for nearly two hours. He gives people money or advice and they kiss his hand and call him Patron and he has one client named Lucius Brassus, who’s the size of Ostia’s lighthouse. And,’ Jonathan took a breath and continued before Flavia could comment, ‘he promised to find the daughter of one of his clients. She was kidnapped yesterday!’
As Jonathan finished speaking, Lupus held his wax tablet behind Jonathan’s shoulder.
‘Was she by any chance named . . . Maia?’ asked Flavia.
Jonathan’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know?’
Flavid nodded towards Lupus. On his tablet he had written:
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 33