‘You’re her son?’ blurted out Flavia.
Postumus nodded and sat on the other end of the bench, beside Glycera. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘Glycera is my step-mother. My own mother died when I was born. But no son,’ he added, ‘could ask for a better mother.’
Flavia put the next part of her plan into effect a short time later, during dinner.
Glycera was not dining with them – she had decided to eat with her children – but Aufidius gave Flavia the perfect opening when he said: ‘My wife tells me that you are writing a pantomime.’
Narcissus looked up at Flavia in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Flavia. ‘I’m writing about the Life and Death of Nero.’ She watched the governor carefully to see what his reaction would be.
‘Ah,’ Aufidius smiled politely and signalled the slave to serve him more lamb. ‘My wife thought you might want to write about Octavia. A great heroine of hers, you know.’
‘Yes, Octavia is very interesting, but, sir,’ Flavia paused to give her words a more dramatic effect, ‘I’ve found a man who witnessed Nero’s death. Right here in Volubilis.’
‘By the gods!’ cried Aufidius, looking up sharply. ‘An eyewitness to Nero’s suicide? Tell me who.’
‘His name is Mendicus. Or that’s what he calls himself. He used to be one of Nero’s scribes.’
‘And what is he doing here in Volubilis?’ asked Aufidius.
Flavia hesitated and Jonathan said, ‘He’s a beggar.’
Aufidius stared at Jonathan open-mouthed.
Lupus slipped off the dining couch, grabbed a silver wine-cup and sat at the foot of a column framed by the wide door of the triclinium. He pulled the back of his tunic over his head and adopted the exact pose of Mendicus.
‘By Jove!’ cried Aufidius. ‘He’s not that wretch in the hooded cape who sits outside the basilica?’
They all nodded.
‘Extraordinary,’ breathed Aufidius. ‘I occasionally drop him a copper.’ He looked up at them in wonder. ‘And you discovered his identity on your second day here?’
‘On the first actually,’ said Flavia, flushing with pleasure.
‘You wouldn’t recognise him now,’ said Jonathan.
‘Why not? What’s happened?’
Jonathan grinned. ‘Lupus and I took him to the baths this morning. Got the barber to shave him and de-louse him and treated him to a half-hour massage.’
Lupus rose from the foot of the column and pointed to his tunic and sandals.
‘We bought him a brand-new tunic, as well,’ explained Jonathan. ‘And sandals.’
‘And we’ve rented him a room at Triton Tavern,’ added Flavia. ‘All meals included.’
‘Edepol!’ exclaimed the governor. He turned to Narcissus. ‘And you knew about this?’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Flavia quickly. ‘Narcissus remembered that your uncle served in the court of Nero and he thought Nero’s death would amuse you.’
‘Capital!’ cried Aufidius. ‘What a wonderful idea. I should love to see the Death of Nero portrayed on stage. Much better than Cleopatra. My wife doesn’t think much of her, you know.’
For a moment, Narcissus sat frozen with his mouth hanging open, then he recovered himself and forced a smile. ‘Perhaps we could perform both stories,’ he said stiffly.
‘And Narcissus had another brilliant idea!’ said Flavia brightly.
‘Oh?’ said the proconsul, his face alight with interest.
‘If your wife doesn’t mind, that is.’
‘I don’t see how she could object to anything you might ask,’ he looked from Flavia to Narcissus and back. ‘What is your request?’
Flavia took a deep breath. ‘Narcissus was wondering,’ she said, ‘if we could borrow “Nero’s Eye” for half an hour, for the performance. After all, it used to belong to Nero and perhaps the plebs would like to see it in a dance about him.’
Flavia held her breath and watched the governor. Everything depended upon his answer.
In the triclinium of the governor’s villa it was quiet enough to hear a toothpick drop.
Then the procurator clapped his hands. ‘What a brilliant idea!’ he cried. ‘Putting “Nero’s Eye” in a play about Nero! And although it would only be on show for half an hour, it would give hundreds the chance to see it. I have been feeling guilty,’ he added, ‘for taking it out of circulation. This is the perfect solution. Well done, Narcissus! Well done.’
After dinner, Flavia asked Aufidius if she and her friends could go for a short walk.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But take one of my Ethiopians as a torchbearer and bodyguard; it’s getting dark. Perseus!’ He snapped his fingers and immediately one of his jet-black slaves appeared.
‘Yes, master?’ said Perseus.
‘Accompany these children wherever they want to go. See that no harm comes to them.’
Ten minutes later, Flavia stopped in front of Calypso’s Caupona and turned to Perseus. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘If we get into any trouble I’ll give you a signal.’
‘What signal, miss?’ asked Perseus politely.
‘I’ll scream.’
‘Very good.’ The Ethiopian suppressed a smile. Clasping the torch in both hands, he adopted the pose of a sentry outside the tavern door.
The bead curtain clattered as Flavia led her friends into a dim, smoky space filled with the raucous babble of men, the exotic music of a local group of players and the clacking of a castanet dancer. As soon as Flavia and her friends appeared, the room went quiet for a moment. Flavia strode confidently forward. ‘Stay close to me,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Safety in numbers. Act like you belong.’
As the musicians struck up again and the woman resumed her rhythmic clacking, the men in the tavern began to speak, though not as loudly as before.
‘Hey!’ cried the innkeeper, pointing angrily. ‘You can’t come in here. We don’t serve children.’
The music stopped again.
‘We don’t want anything to drink!’ said Flavia imperiously, and wrinkled her nose at the sight of a little plate of roast locusts on one of the tables. ‘And we don’t want anything to eat, either.’
Beside her Lupus grunted and pointed. Flavia squinted through bluish clouds of lamp-smoke to see a man in a blue turban scowling at them.
‘Hello, Uncle Gaius,’ she said brightly, then looked around: ‘We know this place is popular with you beast-hunters,’ she said in a loud voice, ‘and that’s why we’ve come here. We’re looking for someone who’s good with animals.’
Beside her Jonathan held up a gold coin. ‘We’re looking for someone,’ he echoed, ‘who’d like to earn a hundred sesterces for an hour’s work.’
After a moment’s hesitation, half a dozen hands shot up.
Flavia turned to the nearest man. ‘What kind of animals do you specialise in?’
‘Leopards, lions, cheetahs. Cats of all descriptions.’
Flavia glanced at Nubia, who frowned and gave a tiny shake of her head.
‘Sorry,’ said Flavia. ‘Sounds a bit dangerous.’ She turned to another man and tried not to stare at his eye-patch.
‘And you?’
‘Rhinos and elephants,’ said One-eye.
Out of the corner of her eye, Flavia saw Nubia’s head shake again.
‘Sorry. Too big and pointy.’
‘Flavia,’ said her uncle sternly. ‘What are you doing?’ He sounded like the Uncle Gaius she knew.
Flavia offered up a silent prayer of thanks, but continued to ignore him, according to her plan. She turned to a cheerful-looking man in a saffron-yellow turban. ‘How about you?’
‘Monkeys and apes,’ said the man.
Flavia pursed her lips and nodded. ‘That’s a possibility. Stay right there.’
The man grinned at Gaius. ‘Your niece is a bossy little thing, isn’t she?’
Gaius nodded grimly. ‘And rebellious.’ His wooden chair legs scraped on the floor as he stood up. ‘Flavia, what are you doing?
’
Flavia brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered, ‘We need an animal to make a surprise appearance at the theatre in a few days. One that will cause people to panic, but only a little.’
Her uncle sucked his breath in through his teeth. ‘Panic is an unpredictable and dangerous thing.’
‘I know. That’s why we have to choose the right trainer, and the right animal. We only want a brief distraction, not pandemonium.’ She turned to an ugly-looking thug in a tiger-skin cloak. ‘What about you?’ she said. ‘What kind of animals do you train?’
‘Dik-diks,’ said Tiger-skin. ‘You know: those little bitty gazelles. I like them because they’re so cute,’ he added.
‘I have an idea,’ said Gaius, stepping forward.
‘No, Uncle Gaius,’ said Flavia airily. ‘You asked us to leave you alone and we will respect your request.’
Suddenly the castanet dancer appeared before them. She began to undulate and clack, and the band struck up an exotic tune with a strong beat.
Flavia covered Lupus’s eyes with her hands. ‘No, thank you,’ she giggled. ‘Too sexy.’
Lupus pushed her hands away, but now Gaius was standing between them and the castanet dancer.
‘No, Uncle Gaius,’ said Flavia patiently. ‘We don’t want your help.’
‘You always were a rebellious girl,’ he said, folding his hands across his chest. ‘Now it’s my turn to rebel. I’m going to help you whether you like it or not.’
When they returned from the tavern with Perseus, another of the ebony door-slaves bowed and said: ‘The illustrious procurator requests your presence. He says you will be amazed. Follow me.’
Nubia heard the music as they passed through the lofty atrium and into one of the garden courtyards. It became louder as they approached the triclinium and suddenly she found her heart was pounding. She only knew one person who could play the lyre so beautifully: her tutor Aristo.
As Nubia followed the others towards the procurator’s triclinium, she heard the unmistakable notes of Aristo’s lyre.
But it was a new song, one she had never heard him play before. And how could he be here, in the furthest outpost of the Roman Empire? And now she heard a man’s light, raspy voice, singing in Greek.
Her heart sank. It was not Aristo. But whoever was playing was one of the best musicians she had ever heard.
The ebony door-slave stood to one side, gave a little bow and gestured for them to enter. Nubia was the last into the room and she followed the amazed stares of her friends.
‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ Aufidius wore a wide grin. ‘I’m so glad you brought him to my attention.’
On a dining couch next to the governor sat a shaven-headed man playing a lyre. It took Nubia a moment to recognise the man playing so beautifully. It was Mendicus, the beggar of Volubilis.
The next morning, Flavia pretended to go with the others to the theatre to rehearse, but as soon as they had turned the corner, she asked Narcissus if she could run back to bring the last sheet of the libretto for ‘The Death of Nero’. She had finished it by lamplight the night before, and had the four sheets of papyrus hidden under her tunic, but she needed an excuse to escape for half an hour.
Narcissus coldly agreed; he was still angry with her for forcing him to learn a new pantomime in less than three days. She shrugged off his icy displeasure and as soon as he and the others were out of sight she made for the Eastern Gate.
Her uncle Gaius was waiting outside, as they had agreed the night before, and he led her to the pavilion of the Pentasii.
As they entered the tent, several men called out greetings to Gaius. He answered cheerfully and slapped one of them manfully on the back. He was wearing his blue turban, a very un-Roman blue-and-beige-striped caftan, and his strange little beard. She could hardly believe this was her grieving uncle.
‘There she is,’ he said at last, pointing to a wooden cage. ‘Nissa. Sweet as a kitten. Wouldn’t hurt a baby rabbit. Go on, you can stroke her.’
The lithe she-leopard stopped pacing in her cage, and regarded Flavia with large golden eyes. Flavia reached her hand through the wooden bars and tentatively stroked the big cat’s head.
‘Oh!’ cried Flavia, snatching back her hand. ‘She’s growling at me!’
Her uncle laughed. ‘She’s not growling. She’s purring. She likes you.’
Flavia cautiously extended her hand and stroked the cat behind her plush ear. ‘Oh, Uncle Gaius, she’s beautiful. And you think she’ll play the part? Panic without pandemonium?’
‘She’ll be perfect,’ he replied. ‘Look! She’s even been de-clawed. Unlike that creature.’ He indicated a leopard in the cage next door. This cat had cold green eyes and she was extending and retracting razor-sharp claws.
Flavia bent forward to see the label on the cage: ‘Ungula,’ read Flavia, and looked at her uncle wide-eyed. ‘That means “claw”!’
‘Correct. She’s the fiercest creature in this tent.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know what enrages her?’
‘What?’ asked Flavia.
‘She hates the sound of tambourines.’
‘Tambourines?’ echoed Flavia, and then gulped. ‘I play the tambourine.’
‘Well, whatever you do, don’t ever bring one in here. The man who caught her used to beat her with a tambourine. Until one day she killed him and ate him. They say that’s how she got her taste for human flesh.’
For the next three days they rehearsed ‘The Death of Nero’ morning and afternoon, with only a break at noon for a visit to the baths.
On the afternoon of the last day Jonathan showed Narcissus the apparatus that would raise him up for the finale of the Death of Antonius and Cleopatra.
Narcissus gave the rope an experimental tug and looked up at the lofty beam from which it hung. ‘So. This is safe? I won’t fall down?’
Jonathan nodded. ‘It’s safe. The old caretaker here told me they once used it to lower a four-horse chariot driven by the god Apollo. Not real horses, of course. And not the real Apollo. But it could easily support you. I’d bet my life on it.’
‘Then you wouldn’t mind trying it yourself?’
‘Of course not,’ said Jonathan, after the merest pause. ‘In fact, why don’t you go up and operate the winch? That’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow. You’ll see how easy and safe it is.’
Narcissus nodded and disappeared behind the scaena. Presently he reappeared on the highest level, three stories up. His face seemed very high and remote.
‘Do I just turn this handle?’ he called down.
‘Yes!’ Jonathan shouted back. ‘Do you see how you can flip the handle of the winch to lock it?’
‘Come on then!’ called back Narcissus. ‘Get on. Let’s try it out.’
Jonathan glanced at Flavia and the others. They were in the orchestra practising the comical, jolly finale from ‘Venus and Vulcan’. Their backs were to him and they were intent on their song.
Jonathan shrugged and eased himself onto the piece of canvas between two ropes that joined further up.
‘You’re Antonius!’ he called up to Narcissus. ‘You’re dying from a self-inflicted stab wound in your stomach. You’re in great pain. You stretch out like this and lift your hands up toward Cleopatra. That will be me wearing a mask. Whoa!’ he cried, as he felt himself pulled up into the air. ‘Not so fast! Not so fast!’
‘Sorry!’ called Narcissus, not stopping. ‘Am I going too fast? Is this too fast?’
‘Yes!’ yelped Jonathan. ‘Too fast! Slow down!’
Narcissus abruptly stopped cranking and Jonathan came to a jerking halt, swinging twenty-five feet above the stage. Narcissus leaned out of the window in the scaena and looked down at Jonathan. There was something in his gaze that made Jonathan’s stomach twist.
‘I think it’s all a bit dangerous,’ said Narcissus, his kohl-rimmed blue eyes gazing steadily at Jonathan. ‘What you’re doing, I mean.’
‘No,’ wheezed Jonathan. ‘It’s perfectly safe. Real
ly. Actors do it all the time . . . deus ex machina.’ His chest was tight. It was hard for him to breathe. Relax. He must relax.
‘What are you doing here?’ Narcissus’s voice was cold.
‘What?’
‘The four of you. Not related to one another. No adult supervision. Imperial passes around your necks. As soon as I saw those I knew you were more than you pretended to be. So, what are you doing here?’
‘We were looking for Flavia’s uncle!’ gasped Jonathan. ‘And now we’re doing a pantomime . . . Pull me up and I’ll . . . show you how easy . . . it is to get off.’
Down below his friends were still playing their jolly tune, oblivious.
‘Tell me again, Jonathan, what happens if I let go of the crank?’ asked Narcissus, almost casually.
‘No! Don’t do that! You don’t want to let go.’ Jonathan cautiously turned his head to look down and his stomach writhed. ‘If you do . . . I’ll fall down . . . go splat . . . make big mess . . . no show tomorrow.’
Suddenly he was falling. A heartbeat later he jerked to a stop.
‘Why did you come to Africa?’ asked Narcissus. ‘The real reason. The truth.’
‘I told you . . . We came to find . . . Flavia’s uncle.’ Jonathan could hear himself wheezing. ‘We’ve done that now . . . so if you’ll just . . . let me down now . . . we can all . . . go home.’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ said Narcissus. ‘Not until you tell the truth.’
‘Whoa! Stop!’ cried Jonathan, as he fell another half foot downwards.
‘Why is your bossy little friend so intent on me performing The Death of Nero?’
‘She thought it would please the governor,’ gasped Jonathan.
‘Is it something to do with that big emerald? Or with the rumours that Nero never died?’
Down below, the jolly tune had stopped. Jonathan cautiously turned his head. He saw five concerned, distant faces gazing up at them. Jonathan turned back to look at Narcissus. The dancer’s handsome face wore a smile, as if everything was normal. But there was a clear note of menace in his voice as he began to turn the winch. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘because by noon tomorrow, everything will have changed.’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 214