Agathus went to one of these tables, removed his linen shoulder bag and carefully let the poisoned wreath slip out so that it lay on top of the others.
Jonathan needed to think, he needed to buy time. ‘The great fire fifteen years ago,’ he whispered. ‘The one that destroyed Rome in the days of Nero. Was that your people, too? I mean our people?’
‘No. Though I wish it had been. And I wish they had burned Rome to the ground. If they had, Jerusalem might still be standing.’ Agathus folded the linen bag and put it under one arm. Then he extended his lamp horn and moved towards the base of the huge statue. ‘There should be a secret door here at the side of the base,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll fill the space with oily rags, wait until Titus and all the priests are at the altar, light it, and leave by the priest’s door at the back. It’s probably hidden behind that curtain. When the flames take hold it will be as if Jupiter himself started the fire. And if my calculations are correct, it will occur just as Titus is pressing the garland onto his head.’
‘Agathus! Vengeance is the Lord’s. Not ours. You can’t play at being God!’
‘You talk to me about playing God?’ Agathus had found the opening in the base of the cult statue: an almost invisible door which had no handle but swung open when it was pushed. ‘You tried to orchestrate not only your parents’ reunion, but that of Titus and Berenice! You know as well as I do that sometimes God needs a little help. Now, boy, are you with me or against me?’
‘With you,’ Jonathan lied.
While Agathus stooped to peer through the doorway, extending his uncovered candle to see inside, Jonathan moved silently back to the small marble table against the wall. The silver libation jug would not make a very effective weapon, but a strong blow might knock Agathus unconscious. He slowly put down his lamp horn and grasped the jug. Maybe he could still prevent the prophecy from coming true.
Agathus had found an amphora of olive oil for replenishing the oil-lamps and some rags used for cleaning. He had put down his lamp and now he was bending over, pouring the oil onto the heaped rags.
‘Good,’ he grunted as he poured, ‘this is perfect.’
Two silent steps took Jonathan back to the base of the cult statue and before Agathus could turn, he lifted the silver wine jug and brought it down as hard as he could on the back of the man’s head.
‘Ow!’ said Agathus, turning angrily. ‘That hurt!’
‘Oops!’ said Jonathan, and quickly raised the dented jug to hit Agathus again.
Agathus snarled and caught his wrist, held it with an iron grip, then began to twist Jonathan’s entire arm.
Jonathan cried out and felt his knees bend. The silver jug clattered to the floor. Agathus still held the heavy amphora in his right hand. Before Jonathan was brought to his knees, he instinctively used his downward motion to lunge forward and butt Agathus in the stomach with his head.
‘Oof!’ cried Agathus, and as his grip loosened slightly, Jonathan sliced his left arm round and hit him as hard as he could in the back of the knees. It was a trick Lupus had taught him. And it worked. As if his legs had been cut from under him, Agathus went down with a grunt, losing his grip on both Jonathan and the amphora. The big clay jug rolled away in a grinding semi-circle and Jonathan heard the thick oil gurgling onto the marble floor.
Jonathan struggled to his feet, lunged for the silver jug, grasped it and turned to strike Agathus again. But that iron grip clasped his ankle and Jonathan felt his foot jerked from underneath him.
The marble floor came up fast, struck him hard in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs and the silver jug from his hand. Jonathan saw his only weapon spin across the marble floor and heard it clatter against the base of the huge statue.
He fought for breath, cursing his feeble lungs for the thousandth time
Agathus loomed over him, glaring down from under his bushy eyebrows.
‘You foolish boy. Didn’t you wonder why I brought you up here with me? Berenice has finally vowed revenge on Rome, Titus and your mother. She wanted you to be the instrument of your mother’s death. And to live with the knowledge of it.’
Jonathan raised himself up on his elbows and stared up at Agathus in horror.
The old man pulled a knife from his waistband.
‘And my mistress told me that if you resisted,’ he said grimly, ‘I was to kill you myself!’
Nubia dreamt that Jonathan was lost in a desert.
Ever since the night the four of them had swum with dolphins, Nubia had felt a bond deeper than friendship with Flavia and the boys.
And deep in her dream she sensed that Jonathan was in fear of his life.
She tried to wake up so that she could tell Flavia, but her eyelids were too heavy. The sun in the dream-desert was beating down on her with such ferocity that she feared her blood would boil.
She tried to call to Jonathan, to tell him to come back to his friends. Together they could find the oasis. And cool shade. And water. But without each other they would die.
Jonathan writhed away from the swiftly flashing knife and kicked out with his legs. With a terrible ringing noise, the knife struck the marble floor inches from where his chest had been a moment before. This was no game. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst his ribs. He pulled himself wildly across the floor, terror squeezing his chest.
Some instinct told him Agathus was about to strike again, so he rolled away and this time found himself by one of the small tables. Grasping its curved marble edge, he hastily tried to pull himself up. But the table toppled over and Jonathan fell down with it.
Agathus jumped back as silver dishes and oil-lamps crashed to the floor, the sound echoing in the vast space above them. One of the wicks was still alight and a pool of oil on the marble floor suddenly flared up yellow. A flame snaked across the marble floor and ignited the rags Agathus had been soaking a few moments earlier.
Agathus took a step towards Jonathan and his cloth-wrapped shoe flew out from under him. He had slipped in the growing pool of olive oil.
As Jonathan rose to his feet he saw a tongue of fire flicker towards Agathus who was up on his elbows now, staring in horror at the flames, and scrabbling backwards, trying to get away.
He did not see the burning rags behind him. They ignited his sleeve and at the same instant flames licked the hem of his long tunic.
‘Help me!’ Agathus screamed. ‘Help me!’
He tried to tear away his flaming cloak, but now his tunic was on fire too.
Jonathan stood gasping for air and watching helplessly as Agathus ran towards the curtain at the back of the cella. The screaming man tried to pull it down, tried to smother the flames. But he only succeeded in setting the curtain on fire and now Jonathan saw the flames leap up and up to illuminate the hollow ceiling of the temple.
Jonathan turned and ran out of the cella, through the forest of columns and down the temple steps.
‘Help!’ he tried to cry, but it only came out as a wheeze. ‘Fire!’
At the foot of the dark steps he tripped and fell. Sobbing for breath, he struggled to his hands and knees, then slowly looked up to see a figure moving down the steps after him. A figure engulfed in flames.
Jonathan rose, turned and stumbled through the darkness. As he veered to avoid the dark shape of the altar he collided with a man in a long tunic. It was the priest or one of his assistants.
‘Fire!’ gasped Jonathan, pointing. ‘Fire!’
Now other people were coming, one of them with a leather bucket of water, another shouting at Jonathan to ‘Get the vigiles! Quickly! At the bottom of the hill.’
Jonathan nodded, started towards the steps, then turned to look back. The central door of the temple was a dim glow with dark shapes moving in and out. The priests were wholly intent on saving their god and his temple.
And so that last terrible sight was Jonathan’s alone: the sight of a man in flames staggering to the cliff edge and stepping deliberately over.
The deep c
langing of a gong on the hill behind him had alerted the vigiles and Jonathan met them halfway. They wore thick tunics and heavy boots and brandished ladders and spades, leather buckets, and heavy woven mats for beating out fires. There were so many of them coming up the steps that Jonathan had no choice but to turn and let himself be carried back up the hill with them. As the firemen ascended they were joined by others. A senator from one of the houses on the lower slopes, side by side with three of his slaves. Two cartdrivers who had just entered the River Gate and had abandoned their animals and cargoes to help.
Others heard and came to help and so a growing crowd of them swarmed up the hill.
Although no more than ten minutes could have passed, when he reached the summit again Jonathan saw the temple’s central door was a brilliant yellow rectangle. The flames inside were burning fiercely.
Suddenly something attacked the lead fireman. Something that hissed and flapped. The big man screamed and staggered back. ‘It bit me!’ he cried.
Then there was another, and another. Their flapping wings created a breeze Jonathan could feel on his face and their honking filled the night air.
‘By all the gods!’ cursed one of the firemen. ‘It’s the sacred geese!’
‘Drive them back, man! We’ve got to put out that fire before all of Rome burns!’
‘I can’t touch them! They’re sacred.’
‘Stuff that!’ growled a burly man and stepped forward into the geese. There was a crack among the honking and he screamed. ‘My arm! It broke my arm!’
‘Give me your torch!’ cried someone and swung a fiery arc towards the geese. But Rome’s protectors were brave birds and by the time the geese had retreated, the sky above the temple was orange. It was obvious even to Jonathan that a few buckets of water and woven mats would not douse this fire.
‘Not again!’ one of the older vigiles muttered to his friend. ‘They only just finished rebuilding it after the last fire.’
‘Men!’ cried their leader. ‘The fire’s taken hold. We might as well try to put it out by spitting on it. We have to stop it spreading to the other temples now!’
‘It’s too late, sir!’ One of the vigiles pointed to where three poplar trees had burst into flame. Sparks from the burning temple must have reached them. Above the fire’s angry roar Jonathan heard a huge crash. The roof of the temple slowly collapsed and a fountain of flames gushed up, licking at the black heavens and throwing up sparks and drops of fire.
The chief firefighter shouted above the roar. ‘Men! The wind shifted half an hour ago. It’s coming from the southeast! We have to warn people to the north of the city. Down! Go back down! Warn those who live near the Saepta, the Campus Martius, the Subura and the theatre district. Bang on doors, shout in the streets, tell people to douse their roofs with water. Other vigiles should be alerted by now but they’ll need your help. And may the gods preserve us!’
‘Nubia? Wake up! Were you having a bad dream? Nubia? Oh no, you’re burning up . . . Doctor Mordecai, Doctor Mordecai. Help! Come quickly! Nubia’s eyes look strange. And I don’t think she knows who I am!’
When Jonathan and the firemen reached the bottom of the Capitoline Hill they saw what they had feared.
At least a dozen buildings at its base were already ablaze, two of them tall apartment blocks.
People had emerged from their homes and were running to and from the street fountains with buckets of water. Others were hurriedly packing their belongings onto carts. The cinders and sparks floating down from the temple were taking hold.
The firemen pounded through the streets of Rome, banging on doors and shouting warnings. The warm wind moaned in the eves and roof-tiles above them. Then someone found a trumpet and its piercing blare woke the dogs of Rome. Somewhere a donkey was braying and roosters began to crow. Everywhere people screamed and shouted.
But soon another sound drowned out the moaning wind and blaring trumpets and barking dogs. It was the thunderous, incessant roar of the fire which had taken hold and which now threatened to devour Rome.
Lupus found Nubia sitting up in bed. She was looking around the dark room in terror and crying out in a strange language.
As Mordecai rose from her bedside, the flickering lamplight threw his huge trembling shadow onto the wall of the room.
There was a look of deep concern on his face, and Flavia – hovering nearby – was in tears.
‘She’s burning up with fever,’ said Mordecai. ‘I don’t think she recognises us.’
‘What can we do?’ cried Flavia.
‘I think I must make her vomit,’ said Mordecai. ‘Lupus, bring my medical bag. It’s in my room by my bed.’
Lupus nodded, sprinted across the courtyard and was back a moment later. He had brought a clean chamberpot with him.
‘Good thinking,’ said Mordecai. Lupus held the lamp close while the doctor rummaged in his bag, then measured out a draft. Flavia sat on Nubia’s bed, holding her friend’s hand.
But Nubia showed no sign of recognition. She stared at Flavia in terror, then cried out pitifully in her own language.
‘Doctor Mordecai, please!’ whimpered Flavia. ‘Help her!’
‘Drink this,’ said Mordecai. He bent over Nubia but she shrank back in terror as his shadow fell across her.
‘Here, let me!’ Lupus heard Flavia whisper soothing words, as she sometimes did to Scuto, and saw her gently bring the beaker to Nubia’s mouth.
Nubia sipped, then coughed and spat out the liquid.
But Flavia persisted and Nubia drank.
Suddenly Nubia bent forward and began to be sick.
Lupus was at the bedside in an instant, holding the bowl out to catch the vomit.
Flavia held her friend’s head steady while Lupus gazed in dismay at the liquid pouring into the bowl. It was black.
Presently Nubia finished heaving and lay back on the pillow, her face beaded with sweat.
Flavia mopped her friend’s forehead with a cool cloth and presently Nubia opened her eyes. ‘Flavia?’ she whispered. ‘Lupus?’
Flavia sobbed and threw her arms round Nubia’s neck.
‘There, there,’ said Mordecai. ‘Don’t choke her. She’ll be fine now but she needs to sleep.’
Lupus caught Flavia’s hand and tugged. He needed to show her something important. She rounded on him but something in his expression must have warned her, for she looked up at Mordecai.
‘She’ll be all right,’ said Jonathan’s father wearily. ‘Look, she’s already asleep.’
Flavia gave her sleeping friend a yearning look but followed Lupus out of the bedroom. Still holding her hand he led her to the iron frame of an ivy-covered pergola. He clambered up it and from there onto the roof. He glanced back once and grunted when he saw that she was still following him.
Presently they straddled the heavy, curved tiles on the apex of the roof; from here they could look out over almost all of Rome. Lupus pointed in the direction of the Palatine Hill.
In the garden of the house next door a cock crowed, convinced that dawn was breaking. Lupus knew Flavia had made the same mistake because she frowned.
‘The sun shouldn’t be rising over there,’ she said, ‘that’s the west . . .’ And then he saw that she understood, for she turned her horrified eyes on him.
‘It’s not the sunrise,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s fire! Rome’s on fire!’
Of the hour that followed Jonathan remembered only snatches.
He remembered banging on doors, crying out warnings, trying to breathe. People ran down the narrow streets, their shadows thrown before them by the lurid glow of the fire that lit the sky. One family ran past with their hands pressed over their ears to shut out the terrible roar. Two slave-girls carried their sick mistress on a pallet and a young man bore an old man on his back. Jonathan saw a pigeon take flight with its wings on fire.
The floating threads of black soot reminded him of Vesuvius, and he suddenly knew what he must do. Stopping at a crowded street fountain he m
anaged to soak his handkerchief before he was jostled aside. He tied it over his face, so that it covered his nose and mouth. The water in the fountain was warm from the drops of fire that fell hissing into it, so he pushed forward again and splashed himself until he was soaking wet.
Someone screamed in his ear, and he turned to see a wall of fire rearing up over the roofs of the tenement houses and then breaking like a wave, the flames rushing like water through the narrow streets. He ran with the masses in a blind panic, until he saw an old man trampled underfoot. Then he broke away from the crowd and turned down a dark, narrow alley. But a tongue of flame pursued him, as if it had a mind of its own, following whether he swerved right or left and only withdrawing when he stumbled and fell headlong. Sobbing with relief Jonathan struggled to his feet and ran on.
Smoke filled the streets now, and although he wanted to drink great gulps of air his lungs received only sips. Jonathan knew he would not survive without his medicine. So he turned and stumbled in the direction of the nearest place where he could be sure of finding ephedron. Towards the Tiber, and Snake Island.
For three days the fire burned, entirely consuming the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the temples around it. Below and to the north of the Captoline Hill, the fire also destroyed the temples of Neptune, Serapis and Isis, together with the Saepta, the Baths of Agrippa, the theatres of Balbus and Pompey. It consumed so many sacred buildings that the rumour spread: the disaster must have been caused by one of the gods.
‘Boy! Wake up!’ said a man’s voice in a harsh whisper. ‘You don’t want to scream like that; you’ll frighten the little ones.’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 94