The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  ‘Put on your best clothes after,’ called Narcissus after them. ‘And it wouldn’t hurt to wear a little make-up, either. I’ll meet you back here in an hour and a half.’

  Two hours later, a small black boy guided them into Cydamus.

  Flavia and her friends looked round in wonder as they passed through the arched gate of the town. Everything seemed to be made of dough: houses, courtyards, arches, deep square windows – some appearing so soft that she was tempted to touch it. When her fingertips encountered stuccoed mud brick, rough and hard, she was almost disappointed.

  Everything was connected in this doughy town. This arch merged into that house and the walls bulged out into benches at ground level. Here was a long covered street, like a zebra-striped square tunnel with a bright section beneath a light well and then a dark patch where the sun did not reach, then bright, then dark, and so on. And there was another covered side street, dark except for the bright arch at the end and the silhouette of a turbaned man who stood framed for a moment, and then was gone.

  Palm trees rose up from hidden courtyards. The doors of the houses were made of palm wood. Even the roofs of the street were made by laying palm fronds over date-palm trunk beams, then covering this with mud. It was almost chilly on this March evening, but Flavia knew these tunnel streets would be deliciously cool in the blazing heat of July and August.

  Presently they reached a house with double doors and the boy led them inside. Like the rest of the town, it was made of dough-coloured brick, but its plan was almost Roman: rooms off a large central courtyard, and in the centre of this courtyard, a well.

  It was in this courtyard that they were to perform the pantomime. The elder was a jolly fat man named Ipalacen. He greeted them, then he and his sons and other village men happily crowded the courtyard to watch. Women and children lined the balustrade of the flat roof above.

  On a raised wooden platform which seemed made for the purpose, Narcissus danced the story of Diana and Actaeon. For the first time, Flavia and her friends played the music. The performance went well, and was enthusiastically applauded with shouts from the men and ululation from the women.

  Afterwards, they filed into a high-vaulted dining room for dinner. Flavia had borrowed one of Casina’s long tunics, of a blue so pale it was almost white. She had lined her eyes with black kohl and shaded her eyelids with blue stibium. She felt clean and refreshed. And ravenous.

  Feeling eyes on her, she glanced up to see the village elder smiling at her. She smiled back politely. Ipalacen was a fat, cheerful man in his fifties, with dark brown skin and a grizzled beard. He wore a pink turban and matching gown, and had thrust a curved dagger into his emerald-coloured sash. He raised his plucked eyebrows at her and gestured towards a large bowl in the centre of the carpeted earth floor.

  ‘Please,’ said a brown-skinned Phoenician with a small goatee. ‘Our esteemed elder asks you to sit and eat. I am Bodmelqart, your translator,’ he added.

  Flavia nodded her understanding and sat between Nubia and Jonathan. Lupus, Narcissus, Casina and the two musicians sat on her left. Ipalacen took up a position on the floor to her right, beside Jonathan. Instantly a small black boy ran to stand behind the elder, and began to wave a goat-hair fly-flap. Bodmelqart joined them too, and three of Ipalacen’s sons completed the party. They were swarthy young men in their mid-twenties with narrow eyes and bad teeth.

  Flavia frowned at the large bowl before her. It was full of a glutinous, slightly translucent porridge of some kind, studded with chunks of pink meat. Flies were crawling on it. Ipalacen and his sons dug into it with their right hands, and used three fingers to form it into balls. They then dipped these balls into little bowls of sauce.

  Flavia was not sure she liked the grainy, glutinous texture of the porridge, but she was hungry, and knew it would be impolite to refuse. So she awkwardly used the fingers of her right hand to form a clumsy ball and tasted it. Barley? No: millet. It was flavourless so she dipped her second ball in some sauce. It tasted like some sort of date paste mixed with olive oil and pepper. That made it a little more palatable. She tentatively tried one of the pink chunks of meat. It was slightly acrid and greasy. She could not identify it.

  Beside her, Ipalacen used the tablecloth to wipe his greasy mouth. He said something to Bodmelqart, who turned to Narcissus.

  ‘The esteemed elder says he greatly enjoyed your show.’

  ‘Please thank your esteemed elder,’ replied Narcissus.

  ‘The esteemed elder asks if you enjoy the lizard.’

  ‘The lizard?’ said Narcissus.

  ‘Our food. Is great delicacy.’

  On Flavia’s right Jonathan gagged and she had to pat him hard on the back.

  ‘Yes,’ said Narcissus. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘He wonders,’ continued Bodmelqart, ‘how much you would ask for the tambourine player?’

  Flavia looked up sharply from trying to form a ball of millet.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Narcissus.

  Bodmelqart nodded and smiled, revealing a gap where his front teeth should have been. ‘The esteemed elder would like to buy from you the blonde one.’

  Narcissus glanced at Flavia and laughed. ‘Oh, she’s not a slave.’

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ said Bodmelqart after a brief exchange. ‘He says you are very clever at bargain. He says he will offer you one hundred thousand sesterces.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Narcissus and stared in wonder at Ipalacen. Then he composed himself. ‘I am sorry but I cannot sell the tambourine-player. Flavia Gemina is a freeborn Roman girl. Also, she is extremely bossy and would give your esteemed elder a headache.’

  Bodmelqart explained this to Ipalacen, who smiled at Flavia as he crammed a crumbly ball of porridge into his mouth. A fly was crawling on his rubbery lips, and as he pushed in some stray crumbs, the fly went in too. Flavia stared in horror as he chewed and swallowed. Without taking his eyes from her, Ipalacen said something in his glottal language.

  This time Bodmelqart addressed Flavia directly. ‘He says he has never seen a girl with grey eyes and hair the colour of camel fur. He says you are very desirable. He says if he cannot buy you, then he would like to marry you.’

  Flavia tried not to choke on her millet porridge. ‘What did he say?’ she said.

  Bodmelqart beamed. ‘Our esteemed leader would like to marry you.’

  Beside him, Ipalacen dabbed his greasy chin and nodded enthusiastically.

  Flavia resisted the impulse to run screaming from the room. Instead, she took a deep breath and turned to the fat man in the pink turban. ‘I’m sorry,’ she spoke slowly and clearly, ‘but I’m too young to marry.’

  Bodmelqart translated this and Ipalacen roared with laughter, spraying bits of food back into the communal bowl. He said something to Bodmelqart, who translated: ‘Oh, no. Our esteemed leader says you are not too young. You are just right.’

  Flavia tried to keep her features composed. ‘Please tell him I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I have taken a vow of chastity. A solemn vow to the goddess Diana.’

  From a nearby room came the piercing scream of a little girl. Narcissus, Lupus and Jonathan all leapt to their feet.

  ‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Bodmelqart. ‘A member of the esteemed elder’s family is merely unwell.’

  ‘May I help?’ asked Jonathan. ‘My father is a doctor.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Bodmelqart a moment later. ‘Our esteemed leader would be most grateful if you could look at his little one.’

  A second piercing scream came from the room next door, then the sound of a girl crying.

  Jonathan looked at the translator. ‘Please take me to her?’

  ‘Now?’ said Bodmelqart. He looked around and opened his palms to the ceiling. ‘But we are in the middle of a banquet.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Jonathan. ‘Flavia? Would you like to . . . assist me?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ said Flavia and shot him a grateful look. ‘Yes, please.’

 
Bodmelqart rose and explained the situation to Ipalacen, who scowled and pushed out his fat lower lip like a petulant child.

  Flavia followed Jonathan and Bodmelqart into the next room. There were half a dozen brown-skinned young women and girls sitting on a divan around the wall. Three of them held babies. In the centre of the room an old man with a tattered white beard sat on a threadbare carpet. A girl of about nine or ten sat facing him. She was crying.

  Bodmelqart gestured towards the girl. ‘Her eyes are infected. It is common ailment here. Our medicine-elder applies special salve. But she does not work very well.’

  Jonathan squatted beside the girl and brushed away the flies. Gently, he examined her eyes. Flavia saw that her left eyelid had brown paste on it. Her right eyelid was red, and swollen almost shut. The medicine-elder reached out and dipped his calloused thumb in a small bowl of brown paste on a goatskin beside him. Other medicinal items were arranged on the skin: a monkey’s head, dried lizards, fragments of ostrich egg and what appeared to be the eyeballs of goats or sheep.

  Jonathan quickly examined the doctor’s supplies, then said to Bodmelqart: ‘Please ask him which of these ingredients your medicine-elder puts in the salve.’

  ‘The usual,’ said Bodmelqart, after a brief exchange with the bearded man. ‘Powdered ostrich egg and antelope horn mixed with lizard blood and salt, all bound together with goat fat.’

  As he spoke the medicine-elder thumbed some of the gritty brown paste onto the girl’s right eyelid. He was not gentle and the girl screamed again, though she remained perfectly still, submitting to his treatment.

  ‘Oh, the poor thing!’ Flavia turned to Jonathan. ‘Doesn’t your father have something better than that for eyes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan grimly. He turned to Bodmelqart. ‘Tell him to try some saffron with ground copper flakes in a solution of acacia gum and vinegar.’

  Bodmelqart related this to the medicine-elder, who grumbled a reply, gesturing angrily at his goatskin of potions.

  ‘He says saffron is very expensive. Even for our esteemed and wealthy elder.’

  Jonathan turned and marched back into the vaulted dining room. Flavia and Bodmelqart hurried after him.

  Jonathan halted in front of the fat man and looked down at him. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘You must give her proper salve. I know it’s expensive, but you must use saffron. Otherwise your daughter could lose her sight.’

  Instead of translating, Bodmelqart laughed. ‘No, no, no, young man,’ he said, brushing away a fly. ‘She is not the daughter of our esteemed elder. She is his wife number four.’

  Flavia pleaded stomach-ache and asked if she could spend the night in the caravanserai, but they told her the gates were already closed for the night.

  ‘Marauders, you understand,’ explained Bodmelqart. ‘But your sleeping quarters are only a little way from here. If you are tired then I will ask a boy to take you.’

  Narcissus glanced at Flavia and then at their host. He rose to his feet. ‘I think we should all be going now,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a long day. Thank you, sir, for your hospitality.’ He nodded politely to Ipalacen.

  They all left shortly after, another little black boy leading. By torchlight the streets were ominous and frightening, the black tunnels leading off them like paths to the underworld.

  ‘That poor little girl,’ said Flavia to Nubia, who was walking beside her. They were at the front of the group, close behind the boy with the torch. ‘Can you imagine being married to that horrible fat man?’ Flavia shuddered, then jumped with fright as a hand patted her back. It was Narcissus, giving her his most charming smile.

  ‘Flavia,’ he said, slipping an arm around her shoulder. ‘How would you like to pay for your trip without performing for us, and earn a few thousand sesterces as well?’

  Flavia stared at him. He was very handsome, but his breath smelt of rancid lizard-meat. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘That fat elder was willing to give me a hundred thousand sesterces for you,’ he whispered. ‘What if I were to pretend to sell you to him, collect the money, and then later you could come and join us at a pre-arranged spot and we could make a hasty escape? I’ll split the money with you,’ he added.

  ‘No,’ hissed Flavia. ‘That’s a terrible, awful, repulsive idea. No pre-arranged spot and no hasty escapes!’

  Narcissus sighed and released her shoulder. ‘I suppose it’s not such a good idea. Too bad. A hundred thousand would have been useful.’

  The next morning the four friends hurried to the caravanserai as soon as the town gates opened. There they found Macargus and Assan loading the camels’ baskets with fresh supplies of dates, millet, and skins of olive-oil. Jonathan and Lupus were about to help the camel-drivers fill the water-skins when Narcissus hurried up.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Macargus. ‘I don’t like this place.’

  ‘Do not be in such a hurry,’ said the leader. ‘We must replenish our water.’

  ‘Now,’ said Narcissus. ‘I have a bad feeling about this place.’

  ‘Very well,’ sighed Macargus. ‘There is another oasis two days from here. We can take on water there.’ He signalled to his drivers.

  Within a quarter of an hour, the caravan was on the move and by mid-morning the town of Cydamus was only a memory. Once again, the barren desert landscape stretched from horizon to horizon.

  The ground was split with frequent shallow gullies, but it was not too stony, and the camels made good progress. Once Macargus shouted a warning and held up his hand. He led the caravan off to the right and Jonathan saw what he had avoided: a deadly cleft in the desert, like a grinning mouth a yard or two wide and twice as deep, but so narrow that you could not see it until you were almost upon it.

  As the day grew brighter, Jonathan pulled a fold of his brown cotton turban right over his eyes. He looked around with interest. The fierce desert sun illuminated everything with such brilliance that even through the cloth of his turban he could still see everything clearly. He could see the shrubs below him and a few flat-topped acacias on the northern horizon. He could see the camels up ahead, and the camels behind. He could even see a distant line of black riders approaching from the east.

  ‘What’s that?’ he called out to Macargus, who was riding at the front of the caravan as usual. ‘Another caravan?’

  Macargus turned to look back and his cheerful expression turned to one of alarm.

  ‘I don’t know,’ shouted the caravan leader. ‘They’re coming from the direction of the town.’ He called to Assan and pointed them out.

  ‘Run!’ bellowed Narcissus, when he saw the dots on the horizon. ‘They’re slave-traders! Someone warned me about them last night. He said if they caught us they’d kill us men and take the girls and children as slaves.’

  On the camel ahead Flavia and Nubia clutched each other in terror.

  ‘Run!’ repeated Narcissus. He closed his papyrus parasol and used it to strike his camel hard on the rear.

  At the head of the caravan, Macargus wheeled his camel and began moving back along the line, whipping camels and uttering a shrill ululation. The creatures sensed his urgency and began to speed up. Jonathan and Lupus were almost pitched off their mattress-seat as their camel lurched forward into a bouncing trot.

  Jonathan glanced back to see Flavia and Nubia clutching one another. Behind them, the merchants of the caravan were crying out to their various gods; he was surprised to hear one of the cloth merchants calling out to the God of Israel.

  Now Macargus was galloping back up along the line of trotting camels. ‘We cannot outrunning them!’ cried Macargus, his voice jolted by the motion of his camel. ‘We just taken on full load of provision. And all camels are bloat with water.’

  ‘If they catch us, we’re dead!’ cried Narcissus over his shoulder. ‘They’re armed and we’re not.’

  ‘I am having armed,’ said Macargus, and he pulled his sword from his scabbard. It was curved, with a wickedly s
harp edge. ‘And so is Iddibal.’

  ‘There are only two of you,’ shouted back Narcissus, ‘and at least half a dozen of them.’

  ‘How long . . . until they catch up . . . with us?’ wheezed Jonathan as Macargus came abreast of them. Excitement always made his asthma flare up.

  ‘Quarter of the hour,’ said Macargus, glancing back at the approaching riders. ‘Maybe little bit more.’

  ‘Then I have an idea,’ said Jonathan. ‘But we’ll need . . . a large sheet of beige or brown cloth . . .’ His chest was growing tighter but he managed to add: ‘And we’ll all have to work quickly.’

  Jonathan crouched in the sand behind a small bush and tried to relieve the tightness in his lungs by breathing from his herb pouch. He looked at his camel trap with satisfaction. One of the cloth merchants had supplied him with a canvas awning. They had stretched this over a narrow gully, then weighted it with rocks and sprinkled it with grey sand to make it look like the desert floor.

  He glanced over his shoulder and grunted in satisfaction. The merchants and his friends were riding northwest as if for their lives. The trap lay directly between them and the approaching riders. If the slave-traders kept on in the same direction they would fall into the natural pit. If the trap failed, it was up to them.

  Jonathan had collected a little pile of sharp rocks to share with Lupus, who lay on the hot earth beside him. He and Lupus each wore a belt made from a leather sling, so they were ready. Narcissus lay in the dust on the other side of Lupus. He clutched a bejewelled ceremonial sword that he had borrowed from one of the merchants.

  Jonathan raised himself up on his elbows. On the other side of the covered gully crouched Macargus and his wicked curved sword. Iddibal was supposed to be with him, but Jonathan could not see him. Perhaps he had gone forward for a better view.

  The pursuers were closer now, and he could see there were only four of them, not a dozen as Narcissus had said. The leader seemed to be a heavy man in a pink turban and caftan. Behind him rode three slimmer men in black. All four rode dark camels.