Casina was weeping and Narcissus was patting her back in a brotherly manner.
‘Oh, I wish we were home in Alexandria!’ sobbed Casina. ‘I hate the desert. I hate the sand and the wind and the flies and the heat and the cold.’
‘Shhh. Be brave. We’ll be in Volubilis soon,’ said Narcissus. ‘Just a few more weeks.’
Lupus crept a little closer and peeped out from behind a palm tree.
‘And then what?’ hissed Casina. ‘What happens if the procurator won’t pay you to perform for his festival? You’ve been telling everyone he invited you, when he didn’t. For all we know, he might hate pantomime.’
‘Shhh!’ said Narcissus. He glanced around to make sure they were alone, and Lupus pulled his head back behind the palm trunk.
‘He won’t hate pantomime,’ Lupus heard Narcissus say. ‘Nobody hates pantomime. If he won’t pay us, we’ll offer to do it for free. After all, we’ll be rich soon enough.’
‘What?’ whispered Casina. ‘You think the procurator will just hand over Cleopatra’s treasures? They probably don’t even belong to him. They probably belong to the SPQR.’
‘So we’ll have to prepare the citizens a little,’ came Narcissus’s voice. ‘That’s why we’re doing the Death of Antonius and Cleopatra.’
Lupus edged his head out from behind the palm trunk. Narcissus was holding Casina by her shoulders, at arms’ length. She was staring miserably at the ground.
‘As soon as the performance ends,’ continued Narcissus, ‘everyone will be full of pity and admiration for Antonius and Cleopatra. That’s when I’ll tell them who you are. They’ll demand the governor give you compensation and he’ll hardly be able to refuse. After all, the whole point of his festival is to gain the admiration of his subjects.’
‘I don’t care about riches,’ pouted Casina, and lifted her homely face towards his. In the silver light of the moon, Lupus could see her eyes were swollen with weeping. She sniffed. ‘All I want is you.’
‘And you have me.’ Narcissus pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Lupus’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Everyone knew Casina loved Narcissus, but nobody had suspected he liked her in return. He was so handsome and she was so plain. Now, with a little moan of pleasure, she melted into his arms. Lupus wrinkled his nose in distaste and turned to go, but Casina’s next words stopped him cold.
‘Would you love me,’ she said, ‘if I wasn’t the great-granddaughter of Cleopatra Selene and King Juba? If I was just an ordinary girl, without royal blood, would you still love me?’
‘Of course, my little gazelle,’ said Narcissus. ‘But you are Cleopatra’s descendant and you do have royal blood, and when you claim your heritage we will become powerful as well as rich.’
The next morning Lupus woke to the sound of music and the smell of camel-milk pancakes. He stared up at the infinite blue sky. Had he been dreaming last night? Was Casina really a descendant of the famous Cleopatra? Was Narcissus really planning to gain power by revealing her identity? But how? He had to tell the others.
He sat up and pushed away his blanket.
It was a glorious fresh morning in the oasis, with the tall palms throwing cool blue shadows across the sandy ground. Not far away, Flavia, Jonathan and Nubia were practising ‘Cleopatra’s Theme’ with Casina and the two musicians. Over by the well, Assan and Iddibal checked the camels’ feet for thorns and wounds. And further beyond, in a clearing among the palms he saw the merchants examining their goods and chatting together happily. They must all have been up for hours.
‘Good morning, Lupus!’ came a voice from behind him.
Lupus turned to see Narcissus squatting by the coals of last night’s fire with Assan’s iron pan.
‘I told them to let you sleep,’ said Narcissus. He was bathed and clean, wearing his sleeveless practice tunic. His long tawny hair was damp and his muscular body lightly oiled. ‘I’ve made you some breakfast.’ Narcissus flipped a pancake onto a mat of woven palm leaves and passed it to Lupus. ‘I told them you were the best pupil I’ve ever had and that I wanted you all to myself today.’ He gave Lupus his dazzling smile.
Lupus dropped his head to hide the flush of pleasure, and pretended to examine his pancakes.
‘Enjoy your breakfast,’ said Narcissus, giving Lupus’s hair an affectionate tousle. ‘I’ll be waiting over there when you’re ready to practise.’
As Lupus watched the dancer walk away, he decided he would investigate further before telling the others about Narcissus and Casina.
‘Narcissus isn’t my real name, you know,’ said Narcissus to Lupus later that day. ‘When I was young, my father claimed I was always looking at myself in the mirror. That’s why he gave me the nickname.’
Lupus nodded. He knew the myth of Narcissus, the youth who fell in love with his own beauty and lingered by the reflecting pond for so long that he took root and became a flower.
Narcissus turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘Scrape harder,’ he said. ‘You won’t hurt me.’
Lupus was standing on a fallen palm trunk, helping Narcissus scrape off. He pulled the strigil firmly down the dancer’s muscular back. It was satisfying to see the sweat and oil and dust come off, leaving a clean strip of smooth, tanned flesh. Lupus flicked away the residue and scraped again.
‘That’s better,’ said Narcissus. ‘Of course, good looks aren’t enough. Skill is the most important thing. Skill and talent.’ He glanced over his shoulder again. ‘And you, Lupus, have talent. I don’t plan to be a pantomime dancer much longer,’ he added. ‘But if I did, I’d take you on as my apprentice.’
Lupus gave his questioning grunt.
‘No,’ said Narcissus. ‘I won’t be a pantomime dancer for ever. There is only one thing that matters in this life. Power. Being a pantomime dancer brings you fame and public adulation. But it can’t bring power. I’m not Roman. My mother was from Germania and my father was an Alexandrian Greek. But I admire the Romans. They understand that power is good. They aren’t ashamed to crave it. Marcus Antonius, for example. He bet everything on one throw of the dice. He lost the throw – and his life – but if he’d won he would probably have become Emperor. What a glorious gamble! What incredible stakes! Imagine the world if Antonius had become Emperor instead of Augustus, and Cleopatra his empress rather than Livia.’ He paused and then said, ‘You heard us talking last night, didn’t you?’
Lupus stopped scraping.
Narcissus turned and fixed Lupus with his beautiful blue eyes. ‘I’m not angry. I’m glad you know, because I want you to throw in your lot with me. You have great skill, intelligence and daring. I could use you.’ He glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘I can’t tell you any more at the moment. Just this. I intend to go all the way to the top.’
Lupus felt his eyes grow wide.
‘That’s right,’ said Narcissus. ‘Emperor of the Roman Empire. There is no more powerful position in the world. And power is all that matters. I know it. Antonius knew it. Now you know it, too. The most important thing in life is not fame or adulation. It’s not land or money or jewels. It’s power. Because if you have power, all those other things will fall into your lap.’
Later, looking back on the journey, it seemed to Nubia that after all their bad luck the gods must have decided to grant them good fortune. The next month passed almost in a dream. Each day was very like the others; only the scenery changed. Nubia sometimes felt like a bug on an endless unrolling papyrus scroll. But she knew she would never forget the beautiful barren mountains or the acacia-studded savannah or the mystical Sand Sea.
In the course of their thousand-mile trek, Nubia learned to love camels even more. With their long-lashed, half-closed eyes and sedate rhythm, they were a constant reassuring presence. Their yawning groans became as comforting and familiar as Nipur’s whines and barks.
The caravan was usually up at dawn. Fuelled by little more than a handful of dates and diluted camel milk they were often on the move for eight or ten hou
rs a day. In the evening Narcissus and Lupus practised their dancing while the others did the little chores of the caravan. Jonathan often helped Assan skin a goat bought in a village, and the girls sat stiff-legged to plait cords of palm fibre, having looped one end around their bare toes.
Best of all was the time after dinner, when they sat around the fire eating dates and sipping sweet syrupy mint tea. This was when they practised their songs. Soon they knew a dozen different melodies by heart, and the words to as many songs.
Sometimes Hanno and Barbarus would play a duet, mixing the buzzy aulos and honey-sweet chords of the harp. Sometimes Casina would sing solo, her voice pure and haunting in the twilight. And sometimes Nubia and her friends would play their own music. Nubia had written three new songs, one for each of her friends: ‘Lost in the Desert’ for Flavia, ‘Sunset in the Sand Sea’ for Jonathan and a song called ‘Leaps and Tumbles’ for Lupus.
The Kalends of April came and went, and at last they reached the cedar-covered slopes of the Middle Atlas Mountains.
Finally, on the Ides, they stopped in a line on a ridge and gazed down over a vast green valley with a river running through it. The valley plain looked like a vast patchwork blanket, with yellow-green squares of winter wheat next to expanses of silver-green olive groves. In the centre of this fertile plain was a city of coloured marble and red-tiled roofs.
Even as Nubia looked, a stork flew by on their right, clacking his beak in greeting. They all watched the black and white bird become a speck as it sailed down and down towards the marble city. At last it disappeared.
‘A good omen,’ said Macargus, turning his beaming face back towards them. ‘For that city is our goal. That is Volubilis.’
As they began their descent towards Volubilis, Nubia thought she heard the distant cough of a lion.
‘Yes, there are many wild animals in these hills,’ said Assan. ‘That is why beast-hunters love this place.’
But later she heard the trumpet of an elephant. Like the lion’s cough, she could have sworn it came from the town rather than the slopes around them.
When they reached the outskirts of Volubilis, she discovered why. A large tent had been erected not far from a caravanserai outside the town gate. There were caged wild animals near the tent and an enclosure full of zebra.
‘Mnason!’ Nubia turned to look over her shoulder at Flavia. ‘I am thinking Mnason is here, having caught many beasts.’
‘I think you’re right, Nubia. He must have brought them for the governor’s games!’
‘No,’ said Jonathan, twisting on the camel ahead of them. He pointed. ‘Look at the banner flying over the tent. Mnason’s sign is an elephant. That banner has another symbol on it.’
‘Crown of five points with fish in centre,’ said Nubia, whose vision was the sharpest.
‘Five points!’ cried Flavia suddenly. ‘It’s the Pentasii!’ ‘The corporation of beast-hunters who set sail last December. The ones Uncle Gaius sailed with!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Our hunt is on again!’
But when she showed Gaius’s portrait to the young Numidian standing guard at the beast-hunters’ tent, he crushed her hopes with a single shake of his head.
At the caravanserai near the beast-hunters’ encampment, Flavia and her friends took their leave of Assan, Macargus and Iddibal, and of the twelve merchants. Nubia spent a long time saying goodbye to her dear camel Selene and when she finally rejoined the others, Flavia saw her friend’s eyes were brimming.
She caught hold of Nubia’s hand and together they followed Narcissus and the others through the Eastern Gate and straight into a covered market. After the peace and tranquillity of the caravan, the world was suddenly crowded, confused and noisy.
Someone was beating a drum somewhere, playing a strange urgent beat, and the sound assaulted Flavia’s senses, along with the whine of a grindstone and the shouts of stallholders. She smelled cumin, urine, singed hair and charcoal smoke. She saw tan-skinned Numidians, brown-skinned Arabs and ebony Africans crowding the narrow streets. She pulled the tail of her turban across her face to protect her from this sandstorm of the senses.
Even Narcissus, the sophisticated Alexandrian, was gawping like a goatherd on his first visit to the city. He led his little flock: Casina, Hanno and Barbarus. Flavia and her friends took up the rear.
They wove through the metallic cacophony of the Coppersmiths’ Market, the rainbow-coloured cones in the Spice Market and the pungent, tannic scent of the Leather Market. Presently they found themselves on the street of glassmakers. While Narcissus stopped to ask directions, Flavia looked around. One table had nothing but signet rings and Flavia realised the gems were made of glass rather than amethyst, sardonyx or ruby. Suddenly she had an idea.
‘Jonathan!’ she whispered, tugging his sleeve. ‘Look how realistic these glass gems are. If we can’t find Nero’s emerald, we could always get one of these glassblowers to make a replica.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Jonathan, ‘except for one small detail. We don’t know what it looks like.’ He turned back to examine the glass on display.
But Narcissus was commanding them to ‘Come this instant!’ so they hurried on, continuing through the covered markets of Volubilis.
As they finally emerged into the bright open space of the forum, Flavia ran to catch up with Narcissus.
‘Sir!’ she cried. ‘Remember I told you we were supposed to come on a merchant ship via Lixus? But it sailed without us?’
‘Yes?’
‘Our friend Taurus probably arrived weeks ago. With our luggage and money! Maybe he’s left a note asking us to contact him. May I go look at the notice board?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Especially if it means I get the money you promised me.’
He and the others followed Flavia to a board in the middle of the forum. Presently she turned away dejectedly. The notice board held no mention of Taurus, of anyone trying to contact them.
‘Come on,’ said Narcissus, consulting a piece of papyrus. ‘I think the Triton Tavern is that way.’ He pointed north.
Flavia sighed and followed him through a forum like Ostia’s, with the Capitolium on one side and the basilica on the other. Had the goddess abandoned them? Would they ever recover their possessions? More importantly, would they ever find her Uncle Gaius?
Flavia smelled the beggar before she saw him. The reek of urine filled her nostrils. Then a pile of clothes at the foot of a green column stirred. It lifted a hooded head and raised a copper begging-cup.
Flavia gasped, took an involuntary step back, then stared in horrified fascination at one of the most repulsive beggars she had ever seen. Beneath the greasy hood of his grey woollen cloak was hair so filthy and matted that it had separated into ropelike clumps the colour of chalk. His bloodshot blue eyes bulged with madness, and his sallow skin was stretched as tight as parchment.
‘Come on, Flavia!’ called Narcissus, already several paces ahead.
‘Wait!’ she cried back. ‘Can you wait a moment, please?’
Narcissus threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of frustration as she turned back to the beggar.
Flavia breathed through her mouth to avoid the smell. ‘Nubia,’ she said. ‘Can you loan me a coin? An as or a quadrans will do.’
Nubia dutifully searched in her belt-pouch. A moment later she fished out a large coin. ‘I only have sestertius,’ she said. ‘It is my very last coin.’
Before Flavia could accept the coin, Jonathan had snatched it from Nubia’s grasp.
‘Flavia!’ he cried. ‘This is Nubia’s last coin. This is our last coin.’
Lupus nodded his agreement.
At the foot of his column, the beggar stared up at them and rattled his beaker hopefully. Inside was the tiniest coin Flavia had ever seen, even smaller than a quadrans. It was hardly bigger than her little fingernail.
‘But my dream,’ said Flavia.
From several paces ahead, Narcissus called: ‘Come on, you lot! I want to find the Triton T
avern.’
Jonathan ignored him. ‘Flavia,’ he said, holding up the sestertius. ‘If you give this away, all our money will be gone. Here, Nubia, take back your coin.’
‘Jonathan!’ cried Flavia, ‘I thought your god tells you to give to the poor.’
Jonathan looked sheepish. ‘He does,’ he admitted. ‘But look at him. You can see the lice crawling in his beard. Like beasts in a thicket . . .’
‘Oh!’ cried Flavia, looking closer and then recoiling. ‘Oh! He’s seething with them.’
‘Why don’t we come back later?’ suggested Jonathan. ‘Bring him some food. Or a louse-comb.’
Flavia hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got to give him something now. The voice in my dream told me not to pass a beggar by.’
‘For the last time, are you lot coming?’ bellowed Narcissus.
‘Yes!’ cried Flavia. ‘We’re coming!’ She snatched the coin from Jonathan’s fingers, leant gingerly forward and dropped it into the beggar’s beaker. It gave a satisfying clang.
‘Thank you so much,’ rasped the beggar, in cultured Latin. ‘As your reward I will answer one question for each of you.’
They all stared down at him in amazement.
He grinned up at them, revealing a toothless mouth. ‘A humble beggar learns many things sitting in the forum all day.’
Flavia continued to gape. His voice was husky but his accent was that of a patrician. She turned to Jonathan. ‘He speaks cultured Latin!’ she gasped.
But Jonathan was not impressed. He folded his arms. ‘All right, Thicket-beard,’ he said. ‘If you know everything then why don’t you tell us the name of the current Emperor?’
‘Vespasianus,’ rasped the beggar.
‘Wrong!’ said Jonathan, and turned to go.
‘Full name: Imperator Titus Caesar Vespasianus Augustus. Better known as Titus.’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 210