‘Are you all right, Nubia?’
Nubia nodded. She wanted to tell Flavia that sometimes she felt as if everything that had happened to her in the last few months was a dream. Any moment she would wake up back in her tent in the desert, with her mother bringing her a foaming bowl of goat’s milk and her little brothers squabbling on the carpets and her dog emerging from the covers, yawning and grinning. But she didn’t have the words to express all that so she said simply, ‘Sometimes I’m feeling in a dream.’
Flavia smiled and squeezed Nubia’s hand. Then she turned her head away and rubbed her eye, as if to brush away a speck of dust.
The litter slowed and stopped before a porch with two simple white columns. Set back from these columns were sky-blue double doors, with big brass studs in them. They gave no hint at what lay beyond.
‘Here we are,’ said one of the litter-bearers. ‘The house of the senator Aulus Caecilius Cornix.’ He extended his hand to Flavia.
As soon as Flavia stepped onto the pavement her eye was drawn upwards. Running behind the umbrella pines was a tall aqueduct, its arches red-orange in the light of the setting sun.
Flavia turned back to the litter-bearer and said with all the confidence she could muster, ‘Please don’t go until I know if they’re home.’
The man nodded and turned to help Nubia out of the litter.
Flavia took a deep breath, stepped forward and banged the knocker smartly. It was made of heavy brass, shaped like a woman’s hand holding an apple. Flavia heard it echo inside, and presently the welcome sound of shuffling footsteps. The rectangular door of the peephole slid open and dark eyes regarded her suspiciously.
‘Is the Lady Cynthia Caecilia in?’ said Flavia in her most imperious voice.
‘Who wants her?’ growled the doorkeeper.
‘Flavia Gemina, daughter of Marcus Flavius Geminus, sea captain,’ said Flavia, and added, ‘her niece.’
‘They’ve gone away to Tuscany. Won’t be back until the Kalends of October,’ he said. ‘Nobody told me about any guests. Come back in two weeks.’
‘No! Wait!’ begged Flavia, her poise evaporating. ‘Please let us in. We’ve nowhere else to go and it will be dark soon!’
‘Sorry.’ The little door of the peephole slid emphatically shut.
A terrible panic squeezed Flavia’s throat and she slowly turned to face Nubia and Caudex.
The litter-bearers glanced at each other and one of them stepped forward. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to pay us, now, miss,’ he said. ‘That’ll be forty sestercii.’
Flavia Gemina burst into tears.
Lupus could hear a strange whimpering noise.
He opened his swollen eyelids to see what it was. But all he could see were the rough hemp ropes that formed his prison, dark against the red light of the setting sun. Presently he realised the whimpering noise was coming from his own throat.
At least the flies had left him. He opened his mouth and tried to cry out, but there was no moisture left.
He closed his eyes. Better just to die. Then his short, wretched life would finally be over. He had only two regrets. He would never know if Clio was still alive. And he would never avenge his parents’ murder.
Voices were calling him. Voices from beyond. Lupus opened his eyes again.
He could just make out the god, young and beardless, with bronzed curly hair like Mercury, or the Shepherd. The young god was giving him water, pushing a skin of it through the ropes, and Lupus could feel it squirting over his swollen lips and running down his chin and then into his mouth and it was wonderful.
‘Lupus! Can you hear me? How on earth did you get here? What are you playing at?’ said the Shepherd, or Mercury. ‘You’re lucky we came along. I wanted to go home. It was Lysander here who saw a deer pass this way.’
Suddenly Lupus was swinging and falling and strong arms caught him and cut away the ropes and he felt cool water on his face and was finally able to fully open his eyes.
It wasn’t a god. It was his tutor Aristo, ruddy from a day in the sun, with a brace of rabbits over his shoulder, speaking Greek to his short dark friend, then smiling at the expression on Lupus’s face and now laughing with his white teeth as he carried Lupus home.
Flavia sat on the sun-warmed pavement with her feet in a Roman gutter and sobbed. Nubia crouched beside her and patted her back. Caudex, still holding their bags, looked stupidly at the litter-bearer.
‘Forty sestercii,’ repeated the bearer, with a glance at his friend.
Flavia looked up at him with red eyes. ‘How can it be forty sestercii?’ she said through her tears. ‘That’s twice as much as the fare from Ostia.’
‘She’s right,’ said a voice behind Flavia. ‘You’ll take ten sestercii and no more. Or I’ll have to mention it to Senator Cornix.’ The voice was light and confident, with a Greek accent, like Aristo’s.
Flavia looked over her shoulder. The sky-blue doors of the house stood open and a smiling man in a lavender tunic stepped forward. He winked at Flavia as he handed the litter-bearer something. Flavia heard the clink of coins.
‘Off you go now, boys,’ said the man in lavender, flapping his hand dismissively. The bearers glanced at each other, nodded and took their empty litter back the way they had come.
The smiling man turned to Flavia and extended a hand. ‘Up you get, Miss Flavia,’ he said. ‘I have to apologise for Bulbus. He’s a good doorkeeper but he’s as stupid as an onion. A very small onion.’
Flavia laughed through her tears and took his hand, which was covered in rings. He pulled her gently to her feet.
He was not much taller than she was, slim and dark, and his bright black eyes were lined with kohl. She liked him at once.
‘My name is Sisyphus.’ He bent his head politely. ‘Your uncle’s secretary. I am certain that Senator Cornix and the Lady Cynthia would want to extend the hospitality of their home to a relative, even in their absence. Do please come in.’
Aristo was furious.
Lupus had never seen him so angry.
‘I leave them alone for a few hours and what happens?’ he yelled at Miriam, who was bending over Lupus, spooning soup into his cracked mouth.
‘This one runs off and gets himself caught in a boar trap, Jonathan disappears, apparently to Rome, and then Flavia and Nubia charge off after him! Do you realise Captain Geminus will hold me responsible if anything happens to them? He could take me to court, have me sent to the mines of Sicily. Or worse. Dear Apollo!’
Miriam looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Miriam,’ said Aristo. He started to reach out a hand to pat her shoulder and then let it drop to his side. Lupus knew Aristo was still in love with Miriam, even though she was betrothed to Flavia’s uncle.
‘I didn’t mean to make you cry,’ said Aristo.
‘It’s not you,’ said Miriam. ‘It’s father. I’m worried about him.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Aristo, and this time he did touch her very briefly on the shoulder. ‘It’s late now and the basilica will be closed, but I’ll go first thing tomorrow morning and see how your father is doing.’ Aristo turned and looked at Lupus, and his expression softened. ‘And if you’re feeling better tomorrow, Lupus, you can come with me.’
The squalid room was filled with the deep purple gloom of dusk by the time Simeon returned. He held a sputtering oil lamp in one hand and two flat circular loaves in another. He set the lamp on the window ledge and turned to look down at Jonathan.
‘What are you doing cowering in the corner?’ he asked in his deep voice.
‘I’m sure that crack wasn’t here when we arrived,’ said Jonathan. ‘I think the whole ceiling is going to come down on us.’
Simeon looked up and studied the ceiling. ‘Very possibly,’ he said. ‘But if it does there’s nothing we can do about it. Here. You may as well die on a full stomach.’ He tossed Jonathan one of the loaves. Despite himself, Jonathan grinned.
‘That’s better,
’ said Simeon. He eased something off his shoulders and onto the bed. It was a long cloth case with a leather carrying strap.
‘What’s that?’ said Jonathan, tearing a piece from his loaf as he moved out of the dark corner.
‘It’s a key. Our key to the Imperial Palace.’ Simeon undid several ties on one side of the case and pulled out a wooden instrument with four strings. It looked like a lyre, but it was longer and thinner with a bulbous sound box. ‘My real instrument is the psaltery,’ said Simeon, ‘but this will have to do.’ He gave it an experimental strum. The notes were rich and very deep.
Simeon sat on the edge of his bed and tuned the strings for a moment. ‘How’s the bread?’ he asked, as he twisted one of the wooden pegs.
‘Not bad,’ admitted Jonathan. ‘It’s rye and aniseed. Here.’ He stood and broke off a piece and handed it to his uncle and sat down again on his own bed.
Simeon grunted his thanks and ate the bread as he strummed and tuned. Finally he kicked off his sandals and settled the bulb of the instrument between the soles of his bare feet. Then he began to play.
‘You’re Myrtilla’s daughter, is that right?’
Flavia looked up from her bowl of cold, solidified black bean soup and nodded.
‘Thought so,’ said Sisyphus, and handed Flavia two small ceramic jars. ‘Sprinkle some oil and vinegar on your soup; it makes it taste much better.’
Flavia did so and took another mouthful.
‘I believe I met your mother once,’ he said. ‘Lady Cynthia’s younger sister, the one who married a sea captain. Is that right?’
Flavia nodded.
‘That’s why I’ve never seen you here before,’ said Sisyphus. ‘My mistress Cynthia and your father fell out several years ago, didn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said Flavia, digging her spoon in again. ‘I don’t think my aunt likes pater very much.’
‘Well,’ said Sisyphus, ‘I only met your mother the once, but I remember she was lovely. You have her nose and mouth, I think.’
‘Thank you,’ said Flavia. ‘And thank you for taking us in. And for the bath and the room and this soup. It’s delicious.’
‘I told you the oil and vinegar would transform it.’
Flavia and Nubia had bathed in a small cold plunge and put on fresh clothes. Now they were dining in a courtyard beneath a grape arbour. At the wooden table sat Sisyphus, Bulbus, Caudex and a silent female slave named Niobe who was the cook and housekeeper. It was dusk, and moths fluttered round a dozen oil-lamps hanging among the vine leaves.
‘And you’re Nubia? Flavia’s slave girl?’ asked Sisyphus.
Nubia nodded.
‘She used to be my slave girl,’ said Flavia, ‘but last month I set her free. Now Nubia’s my . . . friend.’
‘I utterly approve,’ said Sisyphus. ‘I hope to earn my freedom one day, too.’ He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and frowned at Caudex, who had already finished his soup and was wiping the clay bowl with a hunk of caraway seed bread. ‘Tell me, Miss Flavia, why have you made this sudden trip to Rome?’
‘Well, our friend Jonathan is Jewish and his mother Susannah died in the destruction of Jerusalem and he blames himself for some reason. But he might have found out that there are lots of Jewish women—’
‘—in Titus’s palace?’ Sisyphus finished her sentence.
‘Exactly!’ cried Flavia. ‘I think he wants to ask them about his mother.’ Suddenly she frowned. ‘How did you know there are Jewish slaves in the palace?’
Sisyphus shrugged. ‘Everyone knows that Titus’s palace is full of beautiful Jewish slaves. They were his gift to Berenice.’
‘Who?’
‘My dear girl.’ Sisyphus put down his spoon and widened his kohl-rimmed eyes at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Queen Berenice?’
In a dark room in a Roman apartment block, Jonathan’s uncle Simeon thumbed the deepest string of the instrument.
It was a note so deep that Jonathan did not so much hear it as feel it reverberate on the bone above his heart. Simeon pulled the string again and again until it was a beat, low and steady. Presently his other hand began to pluck the thinner strings and a melody flowed above the beat.
Then his uncle began to sing.
Once, Jonathan had felt the thick brown pelt of a mink. Simeon’s voice was as soft and rich as that pelt. He sang of a weeping willow tree and a river but Jonathan was scarcely aware of the words. He closed his eyes.
Everything was strange. The sounds outside his head, the feelings inside his heart, the smells and textures of Rome. But the music carried him away from all that. He felt that if he could learn to play this strange deep lyre it would heal his pain. Or at least bring some relief.
After a time the song ended, and Jonathan opened his eyes to find his uncle looking at him with raised eyebrows.
‘What’s that instrument called?’ said Jonathan huskily.
‘It’s a bass lyre. Some people call it a barbiton. This is the Syrian model. Do you like it?’
Jonathan nodded. ‘Will you teach me to play it?’
Simeon smiled and Jonathan realised he had never seen his uncle smile before. Some of Simeon’s teeth were missing but the smile transformed his face so delightfully that Jonathan had to laugh.
Then Simeon laughed, too, and tossed him something jingly. It was a small tambourine.
‘Let’s see if you can keep a beat first,’ he said, and began his next song.
‘My dears, the story of Titus and Berenice is terribly romantic.’ Sisyphus leant back in his chair and took a sip of wine. A lamp hanging among the vine leaves illuminated one side of his face dramatically and made his dark eyes liquid and mysterious.
‘Berenice was a beautiful Jewish queen,’ he began. ‘She met Titus in Judaea, the year before he took Jerusalem. He was a handsome commander in his prime and she a beautiful widow. They were attracted to each other like . . . those moths to the flame. They fell passionately in love. Despite the fact that she was nearly forty and he was only twenty-eight. Despite the fact that she believed in one god and he in many. Despite the fact that she was a Jewish subject and he a Roman conqueror.’
Sisyphus closed his eyes.
‘I saw her once here in Rome, about five years ago. She must have been at least forty-five but she was glorious! Sensuous lips, eyes like emeralds, and jet black tresses tied up with ropes of seed pearls. Her skin was silky smooth and honey-coloured.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘They say she kept it soft by bathing in milk and aloes, like Cleopatra.’
‘Milk?’ repeated Caudex thickly. He was listening as intently as the girls.
Sisyphus nodded. ‘What banquets they had!’ he sighed. ‘Titus lived it up in his palace on the Palatine as if he were already Emperor and Berenice his Empress. Meanwhile, the real Emperor, Vespasian, lived in a modest home in the Gardens of Sallust.’ He shook his head. ‘It couldn’t last. As long as Titus was merely co-ruler with his father, the senate could ignore his eastern lover, but as soon as Vespasian’s health got worse and it looked as if Titus might become Emperor . . .’ Sisyphus leaned back and poured himself another glass of spiced wine.
‘What?’ said Flavia and Nubia together.
‘I’m a Greek,’ said Sisyphus. ‘We’re not afraid of strong women. But the Romans. They suspect and fear a woman with power. Especially one from the East.’
He leaned forward and lowered his voice dramatically. ‘The Senate forced Titus to choose between the great love of his life,’ Sisyphus held up one cupped hand, ‘and their political support.’ He held up the other, and looked from hand to hand sadly, as if weighing two difficult choices.
‘What does he choose?’ asked Nubia, gripping Flavia’s hand beneath the table.
‘He’s a Roman!’ Sisyphus dropped his hands and puffed his cheeks dismissively. ‘Of course he chose power over love. He told her she had to leave Rome.’
The girls sat back, disappointed, and Caudex made an odd clucking sound.
‘But it was a difficult choice.’ Sisyphus nodded slowly. ‘They say Titus wept when he sent Berenice away, and that she wept as she went. They also say . . .’ Here he leaned forward again ‘. . . that he promised to recall her and make her Empress as soon as the Mule-Driver died.’
‘Who is the Mule-Driver?’ asked Nubia.
‘Vespasian, of course. The old Emperor. So when Berenice left six months ago, she only took two of her many slaves, only one chest of clothing, and she only went as far as Athens. She expected to be called back very soon, you see.’
‘How many slaves did she have?’ asked Flavia.
‘Hundreds. All high-born Jewish women. They were Titus’s gift to her. She also made Titus promise to be kind to all the male Jewish slaves in Rome.’
Flavia frowned. ‘But our cart-driver said that Titus put thousands of the male slaves to work on the new amphitheatre.’
‘Pah!’ Sisyphus blew out his cheeks again. ‘Of course they work; they’re slaves. But they’re well fed and their quarters quite comfortable. And do you know where Berenice’s women live?’
The girls and Caudex shook their heads.
‘In Nero’s Golden House!’
‘Oh!’ breathed Flavia and Nubia and Caudex.
After a moment of reverent silence Nubia meekly asked, ‘What is Nero’s Golden House?’
‘After the great fire here fifteen years ago Nero built the most amazing palace on the ashes. It covered three hills. There were gardens, vineyards, woods, even a lake. He made Rome his villa, the Palatine Hill his atrium, and the huge lake his impluvium. The people hated him for it.’
‘Now I remember!’ cried Flavia. ‘Pliny mentions the Golden House in his Natural History, doesn’t he? It was made of pure gold.’
‘Almost,’ said Sisyphus. ‘The rooms were decorated with ivory, marble, silk and gold.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Of course, Vespasian stripped most of that away and built his new amphitheatre on the site of the lake. But they say the Golden House still bears traces of its former glory, with scenes from Greek mythology painted on almost every wall, and gem-encrusted fountains and hidden corridors . . .’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 45