The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  Flavia gave her friends a significant glance and wrote on her wax tablet: Fulvia. She was the one who took Cicero’s severed head on her lap and stabbed his lifeless tongue with a hairpin.

  When Lupus read what Flavia had written, he began to choke on a quail’s egg. Flavia had to slap him hard on the back.

  On the couch opposite Aufidius pushed himself up on his elbow. ‘What’s wrong with the boy? Will he be all right?’

  Lupus hacked and coughed, then looked up with wet eyes and nodded.

  Flavia explained: ‘Sometimes food just goes down the wrong way.’ She looked at Glycera. ‘Tell me, domina,’ she asked brightly. ‘Where did you get the Eye of Nero? It’s wonderful.’

  Glycera fished out the emerald and looked down at it. ‘It is wonderful, isn’t it? I found it in the Temple of Apollo a few months ago, just after we arrived here.’

  Aufidius gazed at his young wife affectionately. ‘I really shouldn’t have allowed it. The plebs loved to admire it. I’ve recently had several clients requesting that I put it back on public display.’

  Casina stretched out her arm. ‘May I try it on, domina?’ she asked.

  Glycera’s pretty smile faded. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. But I never take it off. Never.’

  Casina’s smile faded, too, and she let her arm drop back onto the couch. ‘You never take it off?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Not even in the baths?’ Flavia couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Not even when I go to the baths,’ said Glycera, fondling the gem. ‘Not even when I go to sleep at night. I never, ever take off Nero’s Eye.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to make stealing the emerald more difficult,’ said Flavia later that night. ‘If Glycera sleeps with it on.’

  The four friends had all congregated in the girls’ lamplit bedroom to discuss their plans for acquiring the emerald.

  A slow grin spread across Lupus’s face and he began to write on his wax tablet. They all bent closer to watch:

  I VOLUNTEER TO TRY TO GET IT, wrote Lupus. I COULD SNEAK INTO HER BEDROOM TONIGHT AND—

  ‘Lupus!’ gasped Flavia, and gave his hand a mock slap. ‘You naughty boy!’

  Lupus nodded and they laughed.

  Then Jonathan grew serious. ‘Even with your sneaky skills, Lupus, I think this will be difficult. We’ve got to come up with another plan.’

  ‘I have plan,’ said Nubia shyly.

  Flavia turned eagerly to Nubia. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Now we know what it looks like.’

  Flavia frowned at Nubia. ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Remember this morning when we enter city? We see glass emeralds? You say we could not make pretend emerald because we do not know what it looks like—’

  ‘And now we do!’ cried Flavia. ‘So we can have a replica made!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nubia. ‘Then we take away real emerald and put glass one looking exactly like Nero’s Eye in its place.’

  Lupus touched the tip of his forefinger to the tip of his thumb, an orator’s gesture meaning ‘excellent!’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ agreed Jonathan.

  ‘That way,’ said Flavia. ‘We only need the real emerald in our possession for a few moments, just long enough to replace it with the duplicate. A jeweller might be able to tell the difference, but I’ll bet Glycera won’t be able to. And when she eventually does, by then it will be too late.’

  Lupus held up his wax tablet.

  I CAN MAKE DRAWING TO SHOW JEWELLER EXACT SHAPE AND SIZE.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Flavia. ‘All we need to do now is find someone who can make a replica. That means we’ll need to come up with enough money to pay for the gold chain and clasp.’

  ‘Where will we get that much money?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘If I have to,’ said Flavia grimly, ‘I’ll make Uncle Gaius loan us some. Then, once we’ve got the replica, all we need to do is find a way to make Glycera give us Nero’s Eye for an hour or so.’

  Jonathan shook his head. ‘That’s going to be difficult,’ he sighed. ‘She said herself: she never takes it off.’

  ‘Difficult,’ said Flavia, ‘but not impossible.’ She thoughtfully tapped her ivory stylus against her bottom teeth. Abruptly she stopped tapping and looked at them with bright grey eyes. ‘Eureka!’ she cried. ‘I’ve got it!’

  After a sumptuous breakfast the next day, Narcissus and his troupe spent the morning rehearsing at the theatre where they would perform in five days time.

  Finally, as the gongs clanged noon, Narcissus clapped his hands. ‘Well done, everyone,’ he said. ‘Be back at the Governor’s by the eighth hour; we’re invited to dinner again.’ He smiled around at them all. ‘In the meantime, I think we deserve an afternoon at the baths. I hear the Forum Baths are the best. They have a women’s section, as well as a men’s, and apparently they serve good snacks there, too.’

  Flavia turned to Jonathan and said under her breath. ‘You and Nubia hurry to the glassmakers’ quarter. See if you can find someone to make a replica. Say it’s for a friend.’

  Then Flavia turned to the youngest of them: ‘Lupus, give Jonathan your drawing of the emerald, then go back to the procurator’s house. If anyone asks, say you want to take a nap. But nose around and see what you can find out. And if Glycera’s there, you can spy on her.’

  Lupus nodded happily.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ whispered Jonathan.

  ‘I’m going to see if I can get Narcissus to add a new dance to our programme,’ said Flavia. ‘One in which we need the emerald for a prop!’

  Flavia ran to catch up to Narcissus.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Where are the others? Aren’t they coming to the baths with us?’

  Flavia shook her head. ‘They’re going back to the procurator’s villa for a little nap. They’re still very tired from the desert journey.’ She took a breath. ‘May I ask you something?’

  He narrowed his kohl-rimmed eyes at her. ‘What?’

  ‘You know we only have four plays and you were saying it might be nice to have a fifth.’

  ‘It’s a little late for that now,’ he said, tossing his tawny mane.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to perform a dance which has something to do with one of the procurator’s ancestors? Now who was it he mentioned at dinner last night?’ Flavia bit her lower lip and stared up at the pure blue sky and pretended to think. ‘His uncle was in the court of . . . Now who was it?’

  ‘Nero,’ said Narcissus drily. ‘It was Nero.’

  ‘What a brilliant idea!’ cried Flavia. ‘Why don’t you do a dance portraying the Death of Nero?’

  Narcissus raised one eyebrow. ‘Did I just have an idea?’

  ‘Yes, I think you did! You told me the plebs like to watch famous people die. Who better than Nero? Also, he was cruel to the procurator’s ancestor. You could draw out Nero’s death. Make it very horrible and dramatic.’

  ‘We already have the Death of Antonius and Cleopatra.’

  ‘And of Actaeon,’ said Flavia. ‘It could be a theme.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ He turned to say something to Casina, walking on his other side, and they laughed.

  ‘I think you’d be a wonderful Nero,’ said Flavia, pressing on. ‘You have blond hair, like him, and you’re about the same age as he was when he died. Thirty.’

  Narcissus tossed his long hair again. ‘I’m only twenty-eight,’ he said, then added: ‘Of course, I could play a person of any age: from a teenager to an old man.’

  ‘Of course you could,’ said Flavia. They were approaching the Forum and would soon be at the baths. She needed to convince him as quickly as possible if they were to write and rehearse an entire pantomime in four days.

  ‘The emerald!’ she cried, as if the idea had just come to her.

  He stopped and turned to her in annoyance.

  ‘What about the emerald?’

  ‘Glycera’s necklace used to belong to Nero. We could u
se it as a prop in the pantomime.’

  ‘What pantomime?’

  ‘The Death of Nero! You could wear the emerald during the dance. The governor was saying the people wanted to see it. Well, this will give them a chance.’

  Narcissus glanced at Casina and Flavia thought she saw him lift his eyebrows in a quick, small movement.

  ‘Actually,’ he said. ‘That might not be such a bad idea. The Death of Nero.’ He seemed to weigh the words as he spoke them. Then he gave his head a little shake. ‘There’s only one problem. I don’t know anything about the death of Nero. Only his last words.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Flavia. ‘I could do the research for you. I’ll bet the procurator has some books about Nero somewhere. I could even write it!’ she cried. ‘Nubia could compose the tune and I could write the words.’

  ‘His last words were very good,’ murmured Narcissus: ‘What an artist dies in me!’

  Flavia could see he had almost taken the bait. What more could she offer? The emerald had been her most tempting worm.

  They were passing the basilica and her nose caught the faint whiff of urine. The beggar was sitting in the same place he had been the day before: at the foot of one of the columns. Suddenly she had a flash of pure inspiration.

  She caught Narcissus’s arm and when he turned to look at her she said, ‘We might not know much about Nero’s death.’ She turned and pointed toward the beggar. ‘But he does. He was an eyewitness!’

  ‘Salve!’ said Flavia politely to the beggar. Narcissus and his troupe stood behind her. ‘Are you well?’

  The beggar rattled his copper beaker. It had the same tiny coin in it as the previous day.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ asked Flavia. ‘I was here yesterday. I gave you our last sestertius and you told me where my Uncle Gaius would be. You were right. Thank you!’

  The beggar gave her his toothless grin, and rattled his beaker.

  Flavia turned to Narcissus. ‘May I have a coin?’

  Narcissus rolled his eyes and folded his arms, but Hanno fished in his pouch and gave her a quadrans.

  ‘Thank you, Hanno,’ said Flavia. She dropped the coin in the beggar’s cup and crouched before him. ‘Remember yesterday? You told us you were with Nero when he died?’

  The beggar’s smile faded. But he gave a small nod.

  ‘Can you tell Narcissus here about it? We want to do a pantomime.’

  The beggar looked up at Narcissus and smiled again. ‘I like pantomime,’ he said in his hoarse, cultured Latin. ‘I like you.’

  ‘By Apollo!’ breathed Narcissus, and glanced at Flavia. ‘His accent is as good as the Governor’s.’

  Flavia nodded at him. ‘Told you,’ she said, and smiled at the beggar. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Mendicus. They call me Mendicus.’

  ‘Please, Mendicus,’ said Flavia. ‘Tell us about Nero’s death.’

  ‘No, no,’ muttered the beggar, shaking his head. ‘Mustn’t think about that. Mustn’t talk about that.’

  ‘Why not? Tell us.’

  ‘Too much blood. That nice man died. I tried to stop him, but he cut me.’ Mendicus stretched out his scrawny left arm and they all saw the raised pink scar of a knife wound. ‘See? See where they cut me? Here. And here.’ He thrust his forefinger through his beard towards his throat.

  ‘By Hercules!’ Narcissus squatted beside Flavia and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Were you really with Nero when he died?’

  The beggar nodded and rolled his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘What were his last words?’ said Narcissus. ‘Nero’s last words before he died . . .’

  ‘It hurts,’ said Mendicus. ‘Ow, it hurts.’

  Narcissus laughed, ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Mendicus,’ said Flavia, ‘do you remember Nero’s emerald? It was—’

  Narcissus stopped Flavia with a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let him describe it,’ he said, and turned to Mendicus. ‘If you really knew Nero, you’ll know what his emerald looked like. Describe it.’

  Mendicus shook his hooded head. ‘Blood, blood, blood. Everywhere blood. It hurt. He asked me to try it, to see if it hurt. I wouldn’t, so he cut me. I cried. Couldn’t help it. Wanted to be brave. But it hurt. It did.’

  Narcissus rose to his feet. ‘He’s mad. Anyone could have cut his arm. He could have done it to himself. Come on. Let’s get to the baths.’

  Flavia turned desperately back to the beggar. ‘Mendicus! Tell Narcissus. If you were Nero’s secretary you must have seen the emerald. Tell us what it looked like.’

  The beggar pursed his lips and drew his eyebrows forward in an expression of extreme concentration. ‘Green,’ he said at last. ‘It was green.’

  ‘Everybody knows emeralds are green,’ snorted Narcissus. ‘I want more.’

  ‘Seeing-thing,’ rasped Mendicus. ‘For the gladiators.’

  ‘Seeing-thing?’ echoed Narcissus.

  ‘Yes! Seeing-thing for the gladiators! Big, green, smooth. So smooth.’ The beggar made a jabbing motion towards his right eye. ‘Put it here. Sharp. To make sharp. Sharp as a knife. It hurt. I cried. Blood everywhere. Red not green, red not green, red not green. Ow, it hurts.’

  ‘Wool fluff! He’s talking utter wool fluff.’ Narcissus scowled at Flavia. ‘You might have mentioned he was madder than Orestes.’

  Nubia and Jonathan were walking along a narrow street in the multi-coloured light of the dyers’ quarter. Overhead, the African sun shone through billowing sheets of red, blue, yellow and green cloth, tinting everything beneath them in jewel-like colours. Skeins of coloured wool hung in rainbow rows, more shades and tints than she had ever dreamed of.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Jonathan, then sniffed: ‘Nubia, come over here.’

  She went to where he stood by a low wall and looked down to see dozens of circular clay pits in the ground, each big enough for up to six men standing waist deep. The pits were filled with liquid: brown, mustard yellow, white and red.

  ‘Those are the tanners,’ said Jonathan, resting his forearms on the low wall. He pointed with his chin. ‘Look! That’s where they wash the skins before they treat them. And there! That’s where they leave them to dry.’

  Nubia inhaled, and then coughed. ‘Alas!’ she said. ‘The odour.’

  ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ said Jonathan. ‘That’s because they use urine and bird droppings and who knows what else. This is bigger than the tannery in Rome, where I used to . . .’ His words died away and Nubia glanced at him. She was astounded to see him weeping. He hid his face in his hands and as his shoulders shook, she patted his back.

  Presently he pulled a handkerchief from his belt pouch and blew his nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of Miriam.’

  ‘Smell of urine and bird droppings?’ said Nubia with a little smile.

  He laughed through his tears. ‘No. Not that. When I was younger, we lived in Rome. Sometimes she let me come shopping with her. On sunny days, she always made a detour through the dyers’ quarter. She loved to walk under the dyed pieces of cloth hanging out to dry and look up at the sun shining through and watch our tunics change colour.’

  He blew his nose again and for a moment they watched the tanners at work. Presently he turned and continued down the multi-coloured street. Nubia hurried after him.

  They passed quickly through half a dozen markets. The spring afternoon was deliciously warm and the cane-awnings overhead tiger-striped the narrow streets with golden sunshine. Soon they heard the tapping and banging of the coppersmiths from up ahead.

  ‘We’re getting close,’ said Jonathan over his shoulder. ‘The man said the street of the glassblowers was just past the street of the coppersmiths.’

  ‘It should be near city gate,’ said Nubia. ‘We pass through on first day.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jonathan. ‘Look! There they are.’

  They emerged from beneath the striped shade of the cane aw
ning and approached the familiar tables of glassware in front of their workshops. Glass beakers and cups sparkled in the sun: amber, brown, red, dark blue, and the most common colour: a pale, watery blue-green. They passed a dark doorway just as a man opened the furnace doors and Nubia felt a huge wave of heat. Another open door showed her a glassblower with an orange blob of molten glass at the end of his tube.

  ‘We need to find one that does green glass,’ said Jonathan.

  Nubia nodded and scanned the stalls. Then she pointed to a table outside a corner workshop. ‘Behold! That glass is being colour of emerald.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Jonathan, picking up a mould-blown beaker of emerald glass. He held it up to the sun. ‘It’s exactly the colour of an emerald.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said a short, clean-shaven man in good Latin. ‘May I help?’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Jonathan politely, ‘Are you a glassmaker?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I am Vitrarius.’

  ‘Can you make glass which looks like an emerald?’

  ‘Right before you.’ The man indicated signet rings with what appeared to be an emerald gem in a gold setting.

  ‘Very impressive,’ said Jonathan, ‘but I need a specially-made piece.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever heard of an emerald called the Eye of Nero?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Vitrarius. His heavy-lidded eyes gave him a sleepy look.

  Jonathan took a deep breath. ‘We were wondering if you could make a duplicate? It’s for a friend’s birthday,’ he lied.

  ‘Everyone has heard of this emerald,’ said Vitrarius, and he gave an apologetic shrug. ‘But I have never seen it. And now it is too late. It has been removed from public view.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’ve seen it. And we have a drawing.’ He extended Lupus’s wax-tablet, which showed both a life-sized front and side view.

  ‘Ah!’ The glassmaker’s eyes were no longer sleepy. ‘Ah!’

  ‘What is it?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘This!’ cried the glassmaker. ‘It is in the shape of a lentil, or “lens”. This shape is very exciting. Tell me, is this the actual size of the emerald?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exact. But why is the lentil-shape exciting?’