Jonathan opened his eyes to see a strange face peering into his. He had been having a terrible nightmare. His heart was pounding and his body covered in sweat. He lifted his head from the hard pallet and looked around. His scalp felt cold.
It was night and he was in a courtyard full of sleeping figures, many of them children. Dark columns surrounded the courtyard and flickering torches showed a statue at its centre: a statue of a bearded god with a staff.
‘Were you dreaming about the fire?’ asked the priest, with a tired smile. ‘It’s over now. It’s almost under control.’
Jonathan reached up to touch his head. It felt strange. His fingertips encountered stubble.
‘We had to shave your head,’ said the priest. ‘Some of the children we’ve taken in have head lice. It’s the only way to contain it.’
‘Where am I?’ asked Jonathan, his heartbeat slowing to normal.
‘You’re in the abaton of Aesculapius. The dream-court. We’ve had to take in the overflow, and we’ve let the children stay here. There’s nowhere else for people to go.’
Of course, thought Jonathan, and let his shorn head drop back onto the straw pallet. The dream-court. The place where sick people come to sleep so that the god can visit them in their dreams, taking the form of a bearded man or a snake to heal them of their diseases.
Abruptly he remembered the nightmare that had made him cry out.
In his dream he had not seen Aesculapius or a snake or a dog.
He had seen his mother holding a clay jar in her hand. A jar with a garland of flowers painted on it. A poisoned garland like the one Agathus had prepared for Titus.
In the dream, his mother had lifted the jar to her lips and drained it. Then the bottle had slipped from her fingers and she had fallen slowly to the ground.
Jonathan knew with a terrible certainty that the dream was true.
His mother had drunk his potion and now she was dead.
‘He’s not here,’ said Flavia, ‘and this was the last place on our list. I thought I was so clever, using our imperial passes to get in, but now . . . I can’t think where else to look.’
She and Lupus stood in the middle of Berenice’s bedroom and stared around. The room had been stripped of everything apart from the bed’s wooden frame.
‘It looks like she’s really left this time,’ said Flavia and Lupus nodded his agreement.
SHE EVEN TOOK THE ARK he wrote on his tablet.
‘If it really was the ark of the covenant,’ said Flavia. ‘It was probably just her clothes box. Maybe she won’t try to kill Jonathan’s mother any more now.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said a little girl’s voice behind them.
‘Rizpah!’ Flavia cried. ‘We thought you had the fever!’
‘I did. But I’m better.’
The little girl didn’t look better to Flavia; she looked terrible. Her skin was so translucent that Flavia could almost see the veins running beneath it. And there were dark smudges under her eyes.
‘Rizpah, Jonathan’s missing. Have you seen him?’
‘No,’ said Rizpah. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Not since before the fire.’
‘Then he must have heard the news and run away,’ said Rizpah, her pink eyes filling with tears.
‘What news? What are you talking about, Rizpah?’
‘His uncle Simeon is dead. He died of the fever last night.’
‘Oh!’ cried Flavia. ‘Poor Jonathan. He loved his uncle.’
‘Simeon was kind to me,’ said Rizpah miserably. ‘And he was going to be my stepfather. But that’s not all.’ She looked up at them with eyes even redder than usual. ‘Jonathan’s mother is dead, too.’
Flavia looked at Lupus in horror, unable to speak, and then back at Rizpah.
Rizpah tried to keep her voice steady as she said, ‘Titus says the fever took her, too, but everyone is whispering that she was poisoned.’
‘Please,’ said Jonathan to the guard at the slaves’ entrance of the Imperial Palace.
He stood in the familiar porch with its marble benches and columns, but he did not see any of it.
‘I need to get in,’ said Jonathan to the guard. ‘I may look like a beggar but I promise you I know the Emperor. I want to see if . . . everybody’s all right. I have to tell the Emperor some important news.’
The guard laughed. ‘Even if I did believe your story – and I don’t – the Emperor isn’t here. He’s gone with the funeral procession.’
‘Funeral procession?’
The guard nodded. ‘His girlfriend. The Jewess. She died three days ago, the day the fire started. It’s supposed to be a secret, but everyone knows.’
‘Berenice?’ Jonathan managed to say. ‘Berenice is dead?’ And he silently prayed: Please let it be Berenice.
‘Not her. She’s gone home. It was the other one. Susannah, I think her name was.’
Jonathan stared at him, and although he had already known it, a cold numbness began to spread outwards from his heart.
‘Rumour is,’ the guard leaned forward, ‘that she didn’t even die of the fever.’
The guard must have taken Jonathan’s stupefied look for interest.
‘The doctors say,’ he continued in an exaggerated whisper, ‘that she was murdered. A poison that made it look as if she had the plague. What will they think of next?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What will they think of next?’
‘This is terrible,’ whispered Flavia. ‘Why did we ever come to Rome?’
They were back at Senator Cornix’s house on the Caelian Hill. Flavia and Lupus and the senator’s eldest son Aulus were sitting beside Nubia’s bed. It was noon, and the sky above the courtyard outside was cold and grey.
‘We come to Rome because Jonathan sends a letter,’ said Nubia weakly, propped up on her cushions. She had lost weight and her golden eyes looked huge in her face. ‘He only wants his mother and father to be together.’
‘But now his mother’s dead,’ said Flavia, ‘and his father is grief-stricken, and he’s gone . . . maybe even . . .’ She looked up at Aulus, her twelve-year old cousin, a thin, serious-looking boy with a long face and brown hair. ‘You said your father and Sisyphus have gone to check the names of the dead?’
‘Yes.’ Aulus was slouched in his chair twiddling a brass stylus. ‘But Flavia,’ he glanced up at her, then quickly down.
‘Yes?’
‘Father says there are hundreds of bodies in the Campus Martius too badly burnt to be identified and that there may be thousands more whose bodies we’ll never find because they were completely destroyed by the flames. Even if Jonathan is dead, we might never—’
Lupus slammed a wax tablet onto the bedside table with such force that they all jumped. He glared at Flavia and Aulus for a moment with red-rimmed eyes, then shoved back his chair and went out of the room and across the courtyard towards the front of the house.
Flavia picked up the wax tablet. It was hers, with her notes from their search for Jonathan. She read what Lupus had written at the bottom:
HE’S NOT DEAD
AND I’LL PROVE IT’
Flavia looked at Nubia. ‘I should go and help Lupus look for him,’ she said. ‘If I go now I might be able to catch him. Aulus, will you stay here with Nubia?’
He nodded. ‘That’s about all I’m fit for,’ he said. ‘I think I’d pass out before I reached the bottom of the hill.’
Flavia was hurriedly pinning on her blue palla when Bulbus appeared in the bedroom doorway.
‘Imperial messenger here, Miss Flavia. He says your presence is required on the Palatine Hill. You, Nubia, Lupus and Doctor Mordecai. The Emperor wants to see you all immediately.’
‘Dear God, what have I done?’
Jonathan sat at the foot of the ruined Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. He rested his head in his hands and stared down at marble steps scorched by the heat of the flames. Behind him lay the great shattered head of Jupiter. It had fallen from its wooden body and
rolled out through the central doorway of the cella. Its nose had broken off and its painted eyes gazed impotently out over Rome.
‘Dear God,’ Jonathan whispered. He dug his fingernails into his cheeks and pulled until it hurt. ‘This time it really is my fault. My fault that Agathus died horribly. My fault that all those people died in the fire. My fault that mother is dead. What have I done?’
Presently he saw his hands were wet with blood where he had scratched his cheeks.
Somehow the sight of his own blood calmed him. He lifted his head and looked out over Rome, still smouldering in a thousand places. The dirty yellow sun had retreated behind a grey cloak of clouds, and it was cold now. It was a still day, with no wind, so the threads of smoke from smouldering fires and morning offerings rose straight up into the grey sky.
Grey sky, grey buildings, grey smoke, everything grey except for the blood-red roofs. A cold, grey world which held no promise of hope.
Jonathan stood and wiped his bloody hands on his tunic.
He stared for a moment at the shattered head of Jupiter, twice as tall as he was but just as hopeless.
Slowly he turned and walked towards the Tarpeian Rock. The rock from which they threw traitors. The rock from which Agathus had leapt.
When Jonathan reached the edge he looked down. Below him the rocks were dirty, jagged and ugly. A black and tan raven was picking at something among them.
Standing there on the cliff edge, Jonathan tried to pray. But no words came. If only he had prayed before, on the night of his father’s birthday, instead of taking matters into his own hands. Instead of playing God.
As he gazed down at the stomach-churning drop, he suddenly remembered the words Agathus had quoted:
‘The way to freedom is over a cliff.’
Then the raven below him cawed its harsh cry: ‘Cras! Cras! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!’
And Jonathan remembered that for Prometheus there was no easy death, but an unending punishment in which each tomorrow brought new torment.
The long-haired slave-boy named Bigtha led Flavia and Mordecai to a part of the Imperial Palace they had never seen before. Presently he scratched at gilded double doors.
‘Come,’ said a voice and they stepped into the private quarters of the Emperor.
Titus, wearing a white woollen tunic and leather slippers, stood warming his hands over a brazier. He looked up as they entered and Flavia thought his face looked tired, almost thin.
‘Doctor Mordecai, thank you for coming. Have you had any news of Jonathan?’
‘No.’ Mordecai’s shoulders slumped. ‘I thought perhaps you had.’
‘No,’ said Titus. ‘But I have alerted all my vigiles. We’ll find him if he’s . . .’ The Emperor did not finish his sentence. Instead, he heaved a deep sigh.
‘There is some good news,’ said Titus. ‘In the past day there has not been a single new instance of fever reported. It seems the gods have finally taken pity on us.’ He turned to Mordecai. ‘I’m so sorry I lost my temper with you last week,’ he said. ‘It’s my headaches. They’re getting worse . . . I have decided to take the tonic you recommended.’
‘Good,’ said Mordecai bleakly.
‘And I’m sorry I drove Jonathan away. Afterwards, I . . . My own mother died when I was only a boy. I still remember the terrible ache and how I prayed to the gods. I vowed to give them anything if they would bring her back. How soon we forget what it’s like to be a child.’ He looked around. ‘Where are Lupus and Nubia?’
‘Nubia’s recovering from the fever,’ said Flavia, ‘and Lupus is out looking for Jonathan. But we left word at Senator Cornix’s house, telling him where we are. In case he gets any news . . .’
‘I have something to tell you,’ said Titus.
He went to the arched window and stared out through the iron stars which barred it.
For a long moment he was silent. Then he spoke: ‘I dislike politics. I hate the games men play, the pretence, the lies. I prefer to say what I think, to charge straight ahead . . . I suppose it’s because I’m a soldier at heart, not a politician. But sometimes even honest soldiers need to lie.’ He turned back to them.
‘Berenice is a passionate, proud and jealous woman. I have wounded her many times, but when I publicly told Susannah I loved her, I believe that was the worst. She has now left Rome – for good, I hope – but I believe she still has an agent somewhere in the palace. Such a proud woman will not forget such an insult. In the past I have not been able to look at a girl without finding she has been banished or branded. Imagine what Berenice would do to Susannah, to whom I professed undying love.’
‘My wife is dead,’ said Mordecai heavily. ‘What can Berenice do to her now?’
‘Nothing,’ said Titus with a weary smile. ‘Nothing at all.’ He turned and moved towards a door, rapped on it twice with his knuckles, then turned back to them.
‘That is why I had to kill her.’
‘You!’ gasped Flavia. ‘You killed Jonathan’s mother?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Titus.
The door behind him opened and a veiled woman moved into the room. The filmy veil was black, like her long stola. Flavia could vaguely see the smudges of eyes and mouth in the face behind, but nothing else.
The woman raised her hands and pulled the veil away from her face.
Flavia gasped.
It was Jonathan’s mother.
‘Susannah!’ Mordecai staggered, reached out, and gripped Flavia’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘You’re alive! But how can this be?’
‘At first we thought she had died,’ said Titus, taking Susannah’s hand. ‘But my physician said she was merely in a deep trance, brought on by some draught.’ He turned to her. ‘You say Jonathan gave it to you?’
Susannah nodded. ‘I take it on day Jonathan disappears,’ she whispered. ‘To help me sleep.’ She looked very pale, but even more beautiful than ever, thought Flavia.
‘It gave me an idea,’ said Titus. ‘If Berenice thought Susannah had died and no longer had a hold on me, then she would more readily obey me if I sent her away. My plan worked. Berenice was convinced. She meekly took the last of her possessions and left Rome the day the fire started. My agents say she is back in Brundisium where she will no doubt wait for the beginning of the sailing season. Meanwhile, Susannah should be safe from any acts of revenge as long as Berenice believes her to be dead.’
‘And if someone discovers the truth?’ said Mordecai, whose eyes had not left Susannah’s face. ‘In a palace of a hundred slaves and a thousand intrigues . . .’
‘That is indeed a problem. If Susannah remains here, even in hiding, there is a very great risk of someone finding out. But that would not happen in Ostia, where no one knows of Susannah’s existence.’
Susannah and Mordecai both looked at Titus in surprise.
‘That’s right,’ he said, releasing Susannah’s hands. ‘I ask you to leave Rome, my dear. You may either return to Ostia with your husband or I will send you to any part of the world you like, give you a new name, a new identity. The decision is yours.’
Susannah looked at Titus with gratitude, bowed her head, then turned to Mordecai, whose eyes had never left her face.
Flavia saw that Jonathan’s father was trembling. Once in the forum she had seen a runaway slave standing before his master with the same expression on his face, knowing the man had the power of life or death.
‘I will go home with my husband,’ said Susannah softly. ‘If he will take me back.’
Mordecai closed his eyes for a moment and lifted his face to the ceiling. Then he nodded at Susannah and held out his hand. She moved to take it, and they embraced.
As Flavia watched them she felt a strange tightness rise up in her throat – a complex mixture of joy and sadness. Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes.
‘Oh, Jonathan!’ she whispered to herself. ‘Why aren’t you here to see this?’
Mordecai and Susannah were still holding hands and talki
ng to one another in low tones when there came a soft scratching at the door.
‘Quickly, Susannah!’ said Titus in a low, urgent voice. ‘Get back in the inner room. Nobody must know you are still alive.’ He waited until the door closed behind her. Then he said, ‘Come!’
Lupus stepped into the room, his ash-smudged face streaked with tears. Ascletario the astrologer was close behind him.
Lupus moved slowly towards them and opened his hands as if he were bringing an offering to some shrine.
Mordecai took the scorched rings with a cry and Flavia felt a chill of recognition. Although they were blackened she saw that one had a gem inscribed with a boar. The other was set with a ruby.
Flavia knew the rings belonged to Jonathan.
‘Please to note . . .’ said Ascletario, ‘there is a rumour that a boy set the fire at the Temple of Jupiter.’
‘A boy?’ Flavia whispered.
Ascletario nodded his narrow head. ‘A boy with dark curly hair and a bruised face. The priests saw him running away afterwards, as the fire took hold.’
‘Then he might still be alive?’ asked Mordecai in a voice hardly more than a whisper.
Ascletario shook his head.
Flavia swallowed hard; her throat felt too tight.
Ascletario continued, ‘The priests on Snake Island . . . someone brought them a boy’s body – not recognisable. And please to note . . . please to . . .’ Tears began to run down Ascletario’s thin cheeks. He covered his face with his hands and his thin shoulders shook.
Lupus’s hand was trembling but he wrote with grim determination on his wax tablet. Then he held it up for them to see:
THEY FOUND RINGS ON BODY.
IT MUST BE JONATHAN.
*
As an imperial scribe mounted the rostra in the forum, a crowd began to gather. Soon there were hundreds of faces gazing expectantly up at him.
A greasy rain had doused any smouldering fires but the stench of scorched wood and burnt flesh still hung over the city. The paving stones of the forum were cold and slippery.
‘Going to tell us who set the fire?’ cried a bald butcher in a bloodstained apron.
‘Will we get compensation?’ shouted a woman with dyed yellow hair and a powdered white face.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 95