The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  He led them through a gate in the wall that Nubia did not remember and towards a stepped pathway that she did.

  ‘Remember we were littered up this hill,’ Nubia whispered to Lupus.

  He nodded and pointed towards a peacock wandering among the pink- and red-blooming rhododendron bushes.

  As they topped the last few steps, the Golden House came into view. A long row of gilded columns blazed in the late sunshine and the reflecting pools seemed filled with molten gold. To the right, Nubia saw that dozens of pavilions had been erected on the green grass. Slaves were fixing torches in the ground, ready to be lit at dusk. A banner straight ahead read LVDVS AVREVS and one further away LVDVS IVLIANVS. She also saw signs that read LVDVS GALLICVS and LVDVS DACICVS.

  Fronto led them straight on, between two reflecting pools. Nubia saw that these were no longer occupied by flamingos and herons, and the water lilies had been removed. As they passed between the golden pillars of the colonnade they came into a large courtyard. Nubia remembered running across it in pursuit of an assassin half a year before. Then it had been grassy. Now it was covered with sand.

  A few men were sparring on the sand and one man was repeatedly striking a wooden post with his sword.

  ‘Most of them will be at dinner,’ said their guide. ‘This way.’

  Fronto led them into a high barrel-vaulted room off the exercise area. It was dim in here but torches burned in wall-brackets and Nubia immediately saw three long tables. The gladiators sat eating from red clay bowls.

  Lupus pointed and Nubia cried, ‘There he is!’

  The boy whose arena name was Prometheus sat near the end of one table, hunched over his bowl, not talking to any of the men around him.

  ‘Jonathan!’ Nubia and ran towards him. ‘Jonathan, you are alive!’

  The boy slowly looked up.

  Nubia had intended to hug him, but his cold expression stopped her short. ‘Jonathan? What is wrong?’

  ‘You’ve made a mistake,’ he said. ‘My name isn’t Jonathan. It’s Ira.’

  Nubia glanced uncertainly at Lupus. He looked as stunned as she felt. Nubia wished Flavia were here. She would know what to say and do.

  Everyone at the tables had stopped eating and Nubia felt all their eyes upon her.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ A dark, stocky man came into the dining room. ‘Ira, you know I don’t allow –,’ His eyes opened wide as Titus’s soldier clinked forward. ‘Fronto! What’s wrong?’

  Fronto stepped over to the shorter man and growled something in his ear.

  ‘Oh, all right, then. Carry on,’ he said to Fronto. Then he turned to Nubia. ‘I’m Rotundus, the lanista here. Just ask me if you want any information.’

  ‘I would like to talk to that one,’ said Nubia politely in a voice which did not seem to be her own.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘May I speak of privately?’

  He nodded. ‘Take them to your room, Ira.’

  The boy’s chair scraped on the concrete floor as he stood.

  ‘Come on then.’ His tone was curt and he did not look back at them as he walked out of the high vaulted room.

  Nubia and Lupus followed Ira out of the refectory and across the practice area. The sun had dropped behind some trees and cast long blue shadows on the sloping lawn. The sand slipping between Nubia’s sandalled toes was cool and soft. A man hitting the post stopped to stare at them as they passed.

  ‘Give the poor palus a break, Attius,’ said Ira without looking at him.

  Attius laughed and resumed his practice.

  Nubia watched Ira. He seemed completely at home in this strange world of men and weapons. He was like Jonathan. And yet he was not like Jonathan.

  They followed him into another vaulted room. Its walls and ceiling were lavishly decorated with frescoes in blue, black, yellow and cinnabar red. But the furnishings were spartan: eight simple cots with small tables at their heads and chests at their feet.

  Ira sat on a cot and gestured for the others to do the same. Nubia sat on the cot next to him but Lupus remained standing.

  ‘Why are you here?’ said Ira, in a flat voice.

  Nubia glanced at Lupus and swallowed.

  ‘We think you are dead,’ she whispered. ‘And we miss you very much. Especially Tigris. So when Rumour whispers that you might be alive we all come to find you. Jonathan –’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ he said. ‘My name is Ira. Jonathan is dead.’

  Nubia stared at him. Had they all made a terrible mistake? Was this boy not Jonathan?

  ‘Ira,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Today Flavia is nearly devoured by hippos, crocodiles and bears, Lupus turns informer, and I swoop down from the very top. So please be telling us how Jonathan died!’

  He lifted his eyebrows in surprise, and this time Nubia saw a brief flicker of amusement in his eyes. Now she knew he was Jonathan.

  He must have seen the certainty in her face because he dropped his head.

  ‘Jonathan threw himself off the Tarpeian Rock. Or maybe he died of an asthma attack while training to be a gladiator. I don’t know. But he’s dead.’

  There was a pause. Nubia glanced at Lupus, who was looking at Jonathan with huge wounded eyes.

  ‘Jona – . . . Ira,’ said Nubia gently. ‘We know what you are doing last month. It was accident, wasn’t it?’

  His head jerked up and Nubia saw that her words had broken some barrier. Hope gleamed in his eyes.

  ‘Jonathan,’ Nubia persisted, ‘it doesn’t matter if you set the fire. Don’t you want to be free? Don’t you want to go home?’

  It seemed to Nubia that as she pronounced that last word, the hope in his eyes died like an ember in the snow.

  He stood and looked down at her. ‘I told you,’ he said – and his voice had become cold again, ‘Jonathan is dead. Now go away.’

  Nubia felt numb as she and Lupus followed Fronto along the colonnade of the Golden House. To her right, beyond the dark looming bulk of the amphitheatre, the angry red sun seemed to be shrinking rather than setting, as if its blood was draining into the horizon.

  Presently ropes blocked their way and they saw that couches had been laid out between the gilded columns and the reflecting pools up ahead.

  Dozens of muscular men reclined on these couches. They all wore short cream tunics with a dark vertical stripe from each shoulder to hem. All were bathed and perfumed and their muscular oiled bodies gleamed like ivory, oak, mahogany, and ebony. Longhaired slave-boys attended them and behind the barrier of the pools dozens of men and women stood gazing at them.

  The gladiators were eating, but they might have been on stage. The torches were being lit and off to one side musicians banged tambourines and blew buzzy double reeds.

  As they walked past the audience on the other side of the reflecting pools, Nubia saw that most of the observers were rich and highborn. One man, a grey-haired senator, had bent over and was murmuring in his son’s ear, pointing first at one gladiator, then at another. It seemed to Nubia that there were many more women than men. Most wore their pallas pulled up over their elaborate hairdos.

  ‘Do these people also have gladiator balls?’ Nubia asked Fronto.

  Fronto looked startled. Then he laughed. ‘No. But like you, they have an interest in gladiators. Some are buyers. Some want a close look at who they’re betting on. Most of the ladies just like to look, though one or two might go to a gladiator’s tent.’ His smile faded and he spat. ‘That’s why these women hide their faces with their cloaks. They are supposed to be respectable. A few are even married.’

  ‘There is Taharqo.’ Nubia’s heart was pounding. ‘May I speak to him?’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘Afraid not. That’s not the way it’s done. You’ll have to stand opposite him and catch his eye. After he’s eaten, he’ll come to you. If he’s interested.’

  Lupus pointed at the group of women waiting opposite Taharqo’s couch and he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fronto. �
��Pantherus is very popular with the girls. Looks like you’ll have to wait your turn, young lady.’

  But Nubia didn’t have to wait at all.

  As soon as Taharqo caught sight of her, his face broadened into a smile, he slipped off his couch and splashed through the reflecting pool towards her.

  ‘Little sister!’ he said in their language. ‘I thought I saw you today sitting in the Emperor’s Box. And now look, here you are!’ He hugged her and even through his soft tunic and bandaged chest she could feel his heart beating. Nubia held him tightly. It was really him. Her beloved oldest brother. Alive.

  There were so many things she wanted to say to him. So many questions. So many laments. So many recollections. The emotions seemed to rise up in her like a wine poured into a too-small jug and they spilled over as hot tears.

  ‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘It was a terrible thing. Terrible.’

  For a long time Nubia’s brother held her, until her tears finally subsided.

  Then he held her out at arm’s length and smiled down at her. Nubia was suddenly aware of all the people around them: Lupus, Fronto and half a dozen curious women, staring at them and watching them in the twilight.

  Lupus held out his grubby handkerchief. Nubia took it and blew her nose and smiled at Taharqo.

  ‘This is my friend Lupus,’ said Nubia in Latin.

  ‘I am honoured to meet you,’ replied her brother in good Latin. Then he looked at a pretty young woman standing beside Lupus. ‘And who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oooh!’ The girl gave a gasp of excitement and took a step closer. ‘My name is Chriseis and I think you’re wonderful!’ Nubia saw that she had lovely green eyes, creamy skin, and a curvy figure.

  Taharqo winked at Chriseis. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said in Latin and turned back to Nubia.

  ‘My next combat is in three days,’ he said in their own language, catching her cold hands in his warm ones. ‘Will you come again?’

  ‘Taharqo,’ said Nubia. ‘I have a gladiator ball. You can be free.’

  ‘You what?’ he dropped her hands as Nubia fished in her coin pouch.

  His eyes opened wide. ‘Oh! A lottery ball! You won a lottery ball?’

  Nubia nodded and tears of joy welled up in her eyes. ‘And the gods granted that I could choose a gladiator. I can choose you, Taharqo. You can come home with me to Ostia. You can be free.’

  Taharqo threw back his head and laughed. ‘Free?’ he said. ‘Free?’

  He stepped forward, caught Chriseis round the waist and pulled her close. The girl squealed and gazed up at him in naked adoration.

  ‘Free of pretty girls like this one?’ continued Taharqo in their own language. ‘Free of the best food I’ve ever eaten? Free of a bedroom with painted walls, a pouch of gold after every game and my own private slave to massage me? Free of the adulation of the Roman people? Dearest little sister, why would I want to be free?’

  ‘Don’t cry, Nubia,’ said Flavia from her bed. ‘Or you’ll get me started again.’

  Nubia and Lupus were back at Senator Cornix’s household, sitting on chairs in the girls’ lamplit bedroom. Flavia was tucked up in bed with Tigris. It was dark outside, but Sisyphus had tried to brighten the room with so many lamps that the sweet smell of olive oil filled the room. He had just brought in another.

  ‘Look,’ said Flavia. ‘Here’s Niobe with your dinner. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something.’

  Senator Cornix’s cook – a silent slave-woman – handed Lupus a beaker of fermented milk and placed a tray of cold meats and salad on Nubia’s lap.

  ‘Poor Nubia,’ said Sisyphus, perching on Flavia’s bed. ‘Your lottery ball might have bought the freedom of two people dear to you. But neither of them wanted it. How ironic.’

  ‘I think I can understand why Taharqo refused,’ said Flavia, stroking Tigris’s head thoughtfully. ‘What would he do if he wasn’t a gladiator?’

  Sisyphus nodded sadly. ‘And the life of a gladiator can be very seductive.’

  Flavia leaned back against her pillows and stared up at the flickering ceiling. ‘But why doesn’t Jonathan want to be free?’

  Nobody answered so she answered her own question.

  ‘I’m certain now,’ she said slowly, ‘that Jonathan did start the fire.’

  Lupus put down his beaker and gave her his bug-eyed look.

  ‘It’s the only explanation,’ said Flavia, sitting forward. ‘It fits all the clues. The rumour that a boy with curly hair started the fire. The fact that Jonathan is so hard, and calls himself Ira. That he chose Prometheus for his arena name. Think about it. The fire killed thousands of people. I think if I’d done something so terrible I’d want to change my name and forget my past.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Nubia, and Flavia noticed she had hardly touched her food. ‘Why would Jonathan do such a terrible thing as set the fire?’

  ‘Remember the last thing that happened before Jonathan ran away?’ said Flavia. ‘The Emperor professed undying love to Jonathan’s mother and then yelled at Jonathan to get out?’

  They all nodded.

  ‘Jonathan must have been so angry at Titus – and so hurt about his mother – that he went up to the temple on the Capitoline Hill and set the fire.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Nubia slowly, ‘Jonathan is not even knowing his mother is home in Ostia. Maybe he thinks she is still living in palace with the Titus.’

  ‘Great Neptune’s beard, Nubia!’ cried Flavia. ‘You’re right! The last thing Jonathan saw was Titus knock his father to the ground and tell his mother he loved her. He might not even know his parents are together again.’

  ‘Maybe if we tell him, he would want to be Jonathan again.’

  ‘Or maybe not,’ murmured Flavia and gazed sadly down at Tigris. ‘If you had killed thousands of people, would you want your parents to know?’

  Nubia looked at Tigris’s hopefully panting face and began to weep again.

  ‘You three,’ said Sisyphus gently, ‘have had quite a day. I know I have. It is an hour past sunset and long past your bedtime. I advise you to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. As for you, young lady,’ he said to Flavia. ‘I’m giving you the last of Senator Cornix’s sleeping potion. You need to spend the night sleeping, not worrying.’

  Jonathan woke up sweating. He had been having the fire dream again and his heart was thumping.

  The film of sweat on his skin had turned cold and he shivered and pulled his thin blanket round him like a cloak. Then he got up from his cot and went out of the vaulted room to breathe the night air. A wall-torch flickered somewhere behind him and threw his strange faint shadow far ahead of him.

  How had he come to be back here at the Golden House, where half a year ago he had first discovered his mother was alive?

  Was he dreaming?

  Was he dead?

  The full moon’s silvery light made the frescoed designs on the high walls look black and grey. Like Nubia’s Land of Grey. Like the underworld.

  If only he could turn back the hours and undo what he had done. If only he could go to the underworld and bring back his mother. If only he could die to save her.

  He stepped out into the sandy practice area and looked up at the full moon, rising silver to her zenith. There was something about that moon. Something special. It nagged at the back of his memory but he couldn’t find the answer.

  He heard a soft chanting. A phrase, a response, coming from somewhere to his left. Frowning, he moved silently back into a high corridor and saw the flickering bar of light beneath a door.

  He stood outside, holding his breath and listening. From inside a man’s voice repeating a phrase his father often recited: ‘This is my blood, shed for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, think of me.’

  Then he remembered. It was not merely the moon that was special. This night was special, too. It was Passover.

  Jonathan pushed open the door and entered.

  Three startled faces turned towards Jon
athan. One was Exactor, a bankrupt tax-collector who had sold himself to the school and fought as a Thracian. The other two were ex-slaves. One was a hoplomachus called Alexamenos and the third man was a Judaean who also fought as a Thracian. Jonathan couldn’t remember his name.

  ‘Ira,’ said Exactor with a guilty look. ‘What are you –?

  It was a small room – one of the smallest in the Golden House – and the three men sat cross-legged on the floor by a table. The only objects on the table were half a bread roll and a ceramic cup of wine, which gleamed ruby red in the lamplight.

  ‘The Lord’s supper,’ whispered Jonathan and looked at them in amazement. ‘You’re Christians.’

  Alexamenos smiled at Jonathan and nodded. ‘Would you like to join us, Ira? Are you a believer?’

  Jonathan paused and thought.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Not any more.’

  Then he slowly turned and walked out of the room.

  Nubia slipped into the deep, dreamless sleep of emotional exhaustion. Near dawn she rose out of this welcome oblivion to somewhere near consciousness.

  She knew she was dreaming when she saw Jonathan on top of a sun-bleached hill. But she couldn’t stop the dream from playing out before her. Apart from Jonathan, there was nothing on the hill but thorns and thistles and a large flat stone. Suddenly a man in long black robes appeared. He had ropes in his hands. The man said something to Jonathan, who nodded and lay on the hot stone. The man bent over him and bound his feet and wrists.

  In Nubia’s dream, the man gently pushed Jonathan’s head back to expose the vulnerable throat. Then the man took something from his black robes and as he lifted his hand Nubia saw the flash of a blade.

  Just as the man brought his knife down, Nubia woke up.

  * * *

  PROGRAMME OF EVENTS

  INAUGURAL GAMES DAY III

  TO BE HELD AT THE NEW AMPHITHEATRE

  ETRUSCAN DANCERS

  A HUNT OF HOUNDS AND EXOTIC BEASTS

  EXECUTION OF A CRIMINAL

  in which an arsonist will die

  reenacting the torment of Prometheus

  COMBAT OF NOVELTY GLADIATOR PAIRS