‘Jonathan!’ cried Flavia. ‘Where have you been? It’s an hour past noon.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I came as soon as I could.’
‘Did you talk to your mother? Does she have any more information about Berenice or the ark?’
‘Er . . . no. Nothing new. Did you talk to Josephus?’
‘Yes. He says when Titus captured Jerusalem the soldiers looked for the ark but never found it. Josephus thinks it’s still buried in a secret labyrinth underneath where the Temple used to be.’
‘He doesn’t think there’s any chance the gold box in Berenice’s room could be the ark?’
‘We didn’t get that far,’ said Flavia. ‘The fever got him and he collapsed dramatically. In fact, I’m not sure how much of what he told us was delirious ranting.’
‘Where’s Lupus?’
‘We don’t know. He’s probably looking for us. After Josephus collapsed all the scribes ran out of the library and we went to find a doctor. When we got back the library was deserted. But Lupus must have come because he wrote on this wax tablet.’
Jonathan picked up the coded tablet and sounded out the words as he read it backwards:
‘Rizpa . . . ill . . . feber?’
‘Greek has no V,’ said Flavia. ‘Remember we agreed to substitute beta?’ Remember we agreed
‘Oh, fever!’ said Jonathan, and continued decoding. ‘Rizpah ill . . . Fever I think . . . had . . . to get . . . help.’ He looked up at Flavia and Nubia. ‘Poor Rizpah.’
Flavia nodded grimly. ‘They’re dropping like flies!’ she said, and then, ‘Oh, Nubia! Don’t cry! I know what would cheer you up. Shall we go to the baths this afternoon?’
Nubia nodded.
‘We can go to the new Baths of Titus. They’re close to the Golden House, so we might pick up some good gossip about Berenice. Do you want to come, too, Jonathan? You can do the men’s quarters and we’ll do the ladies’ section.’
‘I suppose,’ said Jonathan. ‘I haven’t been to the baths since we got to Rome.’
‘Behold! Lupus is coming,’ said Nubia through her tears.
‘Good,’ said Flavia. ‘Now we can all go over to the baths together.’
‘Well, the baths were a wash-out,’ said Flavia to the others over breakfast on the following morning. ‘The floor of the frigidarium was so oily I almost slipped and broke my neck.’
Nubia nodded. ‘The hot plunge was not hot,’ she said.
‘And that’s the worst criticism Nubia can give,’ laughed Flavia.
‘There was something disgusting floating on the surface of the water in our caldarium,’ said Jonathan. ‘It was lucky Lupus spotted it. Also, half the men there were sick: coughing and spitting. It’s good we’ve already had the fever.’
‘I want to go home,’ said Nubia in a small voice. ‘I want to go to the Baths of Thetis and see Nipur and eat what Alma cooks.’
‘The Emperor has just sent us a message inviting us to dinner this afternoon,’ said Flavia. ‘He’s probably going to ask us what we’ve discovered. I think we can go home if we’ve solved the mystery by then. So what do we think? Who is our Prometheus? Give me your theories.’
‘I think the Prometheus is doctor named Diaulus,’ said Nubia. ‘He brings more sickness because he takes blood from those already weak. Pandora’s box is the box he calls his “wound box”. Titus should send him far, far away.’
‘That’s a reasonable theory . . .’ said Flavia. ‘Why are you shaking your head, Lupus?’
Lupus held out his wax tablet. On it he had written:
PANDORA’S BOX MUST BE THE ARK
I THINK JOSEPHUS OPENED IT
TO LET THE PLAGUE OUT
THAT’S WHY HE GOT THE FEVER.
HE IS PROMETHEUS
‘Interesting,’ said Flavia thoughtfully. ‘The conquered Jew is willing to die in order to bring destruction upon the city and people who destroyed his city and people. That’s an excellent theory, Lupus. But I think mine is the best. The only problem is it might get me executed.’
They all looked at her.
Flavia lowered her voice. ‘I think Titus himself is Prometheus. And that by destroying Jerusalem and burning the Second Temple he opened a kind of Pandora’s box: Mount Vesuvius! It has caused death and blight and pestilence for the last half year. I think Jonathan’s god must be like Jupiter, only even more powerful because he made the volcano erupt to punish Titus and the Roman people.’ Flavia sat back, pleased, and looked at Jonathan. ‘What do you think of my theory, Jonathan?’
Jonathan shrugged and took another piece of cheese and a handful of dried figs. ‘Not bad.’
‘Who do you think Prometheus is?’
‘I don’t know who Prometheus is.’
‘Then what’s your theory?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Don’t you care if Rome is devastated?’
‘Actually . . .’ said Jonathan, washing down his last mouthful with barley water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘no. I don’t care if Rome is devastated. All I care about is getting my father back together with my mother, so that she can come home.’ The bronze chair grated on the mosaic floor as he pushed it back from the table and stood. ‘I’m tired of waiting and waiting and of nothing happening. I’ve decided to do something about it.’
‘Jonathan!’ said Flavia catching his wrist. ‘You can’t. You promised your mother.’
‘How can you – of all people – say that to me?’ said Jonathan, looking down at her. ‘You disobey your father whenever it suits you, so why can’t I disobey my mother this one time? It’s for her own good.’
‘Because you’re better than I am. You’re obedient and good and honest. That’s who you are.’
‘And where has it got me?’ He shook off her hand. ‘Nowhere. I don’t care about the stupid prophecy! I only care about bringing my mother back home. Besides,’ he said, as he went out of the room, ‘you don’t even know what I plan to do.’
‘I don’t even know what I plan to do,’ Jonathan muttered to himself.
His feet were taking him towards the part of the palace where his mother had her rooms. What if she hadn’t waited until the Sabbath but had already taken his tonic and lay apparently struck down by the fever? Maybe Titus had found her and had already sent for the best doctor in Rome: Mordecai ben Ezra. But what if the Emperor had summoned another doctor who would bleed her or make her drink some horrible concoction? Or what if she had taken too much and they thought she was dead? It suddenly occurred to him that the sleeping potion was a very bad idea.
His mother had said she might take the potion this evening and it was only morning. But he had a sudden stab of doubt and so he quickened his pace. Something told him he should warn his mother not to take the potion after all.
As Jonathan hurried across a bright morning courtyard, he saw his father coming towards him. Mordecai had his medical bag over his shoulder and was obviously lost in thought. He was coming from Julia’s rooms and this time he was alone.
One chance meeting was coincidence. Two must be by divine appointment. Suddenly Jonathan knew what he had to do.
‘Father!’ he called. ‘Good morning.’ His own voice sounded strangely confident.
‘Jonathan!’ said his father in surprise. ‘How are you? Have you solved the Emperor’s mystery yet?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan, waving his hand dismissively. ‘It’s a stupid prophecy. It’s just his imagination.’
Mordecai smiled. ‘Don’t share that opinion with Titus. He takes these things very seriously. I’ve just been with him and his daughter,’ he continued. ‘Praise God: Julia’s fever broke this morning and she’s going to be fine. Have you had breakfast? Which way are you going?’
Jonathan took a deep breath. ‘I’m going this way, father. And I think you should come with me. I have something to show you. Something important.’
*
Lupus thoughtfully poured the last of the buttermilk down
his throat. He was worried about Jonathan.
As if Flavia had read his mind, she said, ‘Has anyone else noticed how grumpy Jonathan has been lately?
‘Jonathan is missing his mother,’ said Nubia.
Lupus nodded his agreement.
‘It must be hard for him,’ said Flavia, ‘knowing his mother is alive but not being able to tell his father.’
‘It must be hard for him,’ echoed Nubia, ‘because his father and mother are so close but cannot meet.’
‘Did it ever occur to you,’ said Flavia slowly, ‘how odd it is that the Emperor should invite Mordecai here to Rome just a few months after Jonathan discovered his mother was alive?’
Suddenly Lupus knew. He uttered a strangled grunt of excitement.
Flavia and Nubia automatically slapped his back but he waved them off impatiently and wrote on his wax tablet:
SOMEONE WROTE TO TITUS ABOUT
MORDECAI
‘That’s right,’ said Flavia. ‘The Emperor said he got a letter telling how Mordecai has been curing lots of people in Ostia.’
LATE ONE NIGHT wrote Lupus
ABOUT A WEEK AGO
I SAW JONATHAN WRITING A LETTER
AND HE SIGNED IT WITH TITUS’S SEAL
‘Great Juno’s peacock!’ cried Flavia. ‘It was Jonathan who wrote the letter to Titus. He’s the one who got us all invited!’
Lupus nodded.
‘But why?’ said Flavia.
‘He wants mother and father to meet,’ said Nubia.
‘Of course!’ said Flavia, hitting her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘I’m so stupid. I should have figured it out a long time ago.’
‘He is promising his mother not to tell about father . . .’ began Nubia.
Scribbling furiously, Lupus finished her thought:
BUT HE DIDN’T PROMISE NOT TO BRING HIM
TO HER!
‘And Mordecai is probably here in the palace again today, treating Titus’s daughter!’ cried Flavia.
They all looked at one another.
‘Come on!’ cried Flavia. ‘Let’s find Jonathan and stop him doing something he might regret!’
‘Are you finally taking me to her?’ said Mordecai as he walked beside Jonathan down the polished corridor.
‘Yes, she’s this way . . .’ said Jonathan. And then stopped, his heart beating hard. His father had stopped, too, and they stood staring at one another.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jonathan.
‘Your mother. Susannah. Are you finally taking me to her?’
For a moment Jonathan seemed to see a stranger. A tall, dark-eyed Roman in a white tunic and blue woollen cloak, his leather medical bag over one shoulder, standing framed between two deep red porphyry columns.
‘You know mother’s alive?’ Jonathan managed to say. ‘How?’
‘You told me.’
‘No . . . I never . . . When did I tell you?’
‘When you had the fever, after the Saturnalia. You said things . . . things that made me suspect. You spoke of her. Of Titus and Berenice, too . . .’
‘Mother made me promise not to tell you.’
‘Don’t worry.’ His father gazed down the corridor, towards the double doors at the end. ‘You were delirious. You didn’t break your promise.’
‘Father . . . do you think you could love her again?’
His father was silent.
‘I suppose now you love that widow – Helena Aurelia,’ Jonathan said miserably, ‘with her silvery laugh.’
Jonathan’s father turned to look at him. ‘In my whole life,’ he said quietly, ‘your mother is the only woman I have ever loved.’
‘But could you forgive her? Take her back?’
‘In a heartbeat.’
‘Then let me take you to her.’
Jonathan pulled the double doors open for his father but remained hidden behind the right-hand one, so that his mother would not see him. Then, heart pounding, he put his eye to the crack.
His mother sat on a chair before the loom. She was weaving and her head was turned to speak to Delilah, who sat on a floor cushion sorting balls of wool. Beams of morning sunlight shone through the lattice-work screen of the window, stamping bright hexagons of red, green and blue on the coloured web of wool. As Mordecai moved into Jonathan’s line of sight, Susannah looked up towards the doorway.
‘Who are you?’ she said, rising to her feet and taking a step backwards. She wore a long shift of peacock blue and her hair was tied back. ‘What do you want with me?’ She spoke in Latin.
Delilah had risen from her cushion and stood protectively beside her mistress.
‘Susannah. Don’t you know me?’ He spoke softly, in Hebrew.
She looked at him, her eyes huge.
‘Mordecai?’
He nodded and smiled.
‘But you look so different . . . Where’s your beard? You . . . Dear God!’ She dropped her head in her hands. ‘I knew this would happen.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘I never wanted you to see me. Please go away!’
‘Susannah, I know what you’ve been through.’ He took a step towards her. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Can I forgive you?’ She lifted her face and Jonathan saw that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘I should be begging your forgiveness. You were a good man. A good husband. And I betrayed you.’
‘Susannah,’ he took another step towards her, ‘please forgive me for not taking you with me when I left Jerusalem.’
‘I refused to go.’
‘And I let you refuse . . . I think part of me suspected that you loved someone else. I was a coward. I wasn’t willing to fight for you. I’m so sorry, Susannah. Sorry for what you had to endure. It must have been awful.’
‘It was my own fault.’
‘Still, it must have been terrible for you.’
The tears that had been brimming spilled down her cheeks. ‘It was,’ she was still speaking in Hebrew, ‘the disease, the famine, the crucifixions . . . I watched my parents slowly die of hunger. And there was nothing I could do. Oh, Mordecai, I’ve never felt so helpless.’ Jonathan held his breath as his father eased his medical bag from his shoulder to the floor and moved towards her.
‘Susannah,’ he said. ‘My dear wife. It’s over now. You’ve atoned for your sins.’
‘Can God really forgive me?’
‘Yes.’ He stopped in front of her.
‘And can you?’ she whispered.
‘I forgave you long ago,’ he said softly, and opened his arms.
‘Oh Mordecai!’ She moved forward, weeping, into his embrace.
Jonathan’s father had bent his face to kiss the top of her head and his words were muffled.
‘Kiss her properly,’ muttered Jonathan to himself as a great foolish grin spread across his face. An intense happiness was flooding his heart. His plan had worked. All they had to do now was—
‘YOU!’ cried a man’s voice, full of fury.
Jonathan whirled to see a figure standing in the corridor behind him.
It was the Emperor Titus.
Titus stood in the corridor a few paces from the open doorway, his square face flushed with anger.
‘How DARE you!’ the Emperor roared.
He was not addressing Mordecai, who stood with his arms around his long-lost wife.
Nor was he addressing Susannah, who had not pulled away from her husband’s embrace.
The Emperor was glaring at Jonathan.
‘How dare you bring your father here against her wishes and mine!’
‘Forgive me, Emperor! I mean Caesar . . . I thought my mother might be ill. I thought—’
‘Liar!’ cried Titus, moving swiftly forward. He gripped Jonathan’s ear, pulling him roughly out from behind the door and into the room. Then he pushed Jonathan down onto the floor at Susannah’s feet.
‘This is your doing. Apologise to your mother!’
Jonathan found himself on hands and knees. The rough edges of the mosaic floor had cut h
im, and his hands left smears of blood as he wiped them on his cream tunic and struggled to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, mother.’ He could not bring himself to look at her.
But he looked up when Titus addressed his father. ‘And you! You have abused my hospitality, Jew,’ he said. ‘I conferred citizenship upon you, opened my palace to you, entrusted the life of my daughter to your care . . . And what do you do? You make love to my consort.’
‘Your what?’ Susannah stared at Titus, aghast.
‘She may be your consort,’ said Mordecai in his accented Latin. ‘But she is my wife.’
‘Impudent!’ Titus drew back his hand and with a powerful blow he knocked Jonathan’s father to the floor. ‘I could have you beheaded in an instant,’ he said. ‘She is not your wife. She is a slave. My slave. And I say you will not have her!’
Mordecai struggled to his feet, one side of his face red where he had been struck.
He was shaking but he deliberately presented Titus with his other cheek.
Titus furiously raised his hand, then let it drop. His shoulders slumped.
‘You love her, too, don’t you?’ said Mordecai quietly.
‘No, Mordecai,’ said Susannah. ‘It’s not like that. Please tell him, Titus. Tell him we’re just friends. Tell him you don’t love me.’
‘Of course I love you!’ Titus cried, rounding on Susannah. He was still breathing hard, but his face was losing its angry flush. He gazed at her. ‘What did you think? I’ve tried to pretend, to convince myself that I come to you for advice, for support . . . But seeing you in his arms like that made me realise.’ He took her hands in his. ‘Susannah, I love you more than anything in the world. I believe you are the only good thing that has ever come into my life.’
‘No,’ said Jonathan, raising both hands and taking a step back. ‘You can’t love her. You’re just friends. You told me so. That’s why I sent for Berenice.’
‘You WHAT?’ cried Titus.
‘And it was a good thing you did,’ came a woman’s voice from the doorway. ‘Now I finally know the truth.’
Jonathan turned his head. A dozen people had gathered in the corridor, no doubt attracted by the Emperor’s shouts. Three guards, the two long-haired slave-boys and Titus’s steward Agathus. Flavia, Nubia and Lupus were there, too; they must have followed him. And standing in front of this small crowd, filling the doorway, were his uncle Simeon and a woman in a green silk stola. The woman folded her arms and gave Titus a withering look.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 91