As he set out along the dusty, moon-washed road, he allowed himself a moment of self-pity. His friends would never really know what it felt like not to have a tongue. They would never know how dry his mouth was every morning, how every bite threatened to choke him, how humiliating it was to sound like an idiot each time he tried to speak.
The little bay mare moved slowly up the silver road, her hooves muffled by the thick layer of dust and by the soporific creak of frogs in the marshes to his right. Lupus was tired. The warmth of the night and the rhythmic pace made him drowsy. He allowed his head to droop onto his chest.
For a moment he dreamt there was something hot and wet and alive in his mouth, choking him, suffocating him. Lupus woke with a start, his heart thumping against his ribs. It had only been a dream, and he breathed easier, raised his waterskin and squirted some water into his tongueless mouth.
After a mile or two, a low ground mist began to swirl around the mare’s legs and her nostrils flared as she caught a whiff of something unpleasant. He smelt it, too: the faint scent of bad cheese and sulphur. Lupus was wide awake now.
The moon painted the road and shrubs in silver, but the shadows in the oaks on the hillside to his left were inky black. A single oak tree by the side of the road seemed to stretch out its branches towards him, like twisted grasping arms. Despite the warm night, Lupus shuddered. He sensed the mare’s unease, too.
Suddenly a head emerged from the mist at the side of the road.
Lupus stared in horror. The creature had horns and evil yellow eyes, but apart from that it was invisible. Was it a wild animal? Or some kind of demon?
Terrified, the mare reared up with a squeal and pawed the air with her hoofs. Lupus felt himself slipping from the horse’s back and as he fell towards the stony ground he cried out for help.
Then darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.
In his vision he sees a man healed of demons.
The prophet puts his hand on the man’s head and speaks the Name with authority. Dark shapes twist and coil out of the man’s belly and slither away into the dry grasses, they fall from his neck and shoulders like leeches burnt with flame, they detach themselves from his scalp and whirr up into the sky like locusts. Exhausted, the man collapses onto the earth, as one dead. Presently the sobs of relief and the tears of regret show that he is still alive.
Jonathan was the first to see Lupus limp into the courtyard of the Endymion Tavern at dawn the next morning.
‘Lupus! What happened?’ Jonathan hurriedly stuffed his cloak into his travelling basket and ran to his friend. Nubia and Aristo were just leading the horses out of the stables. They ran to Lupus, too, and Flavia followed them.
‘Behold!’ said Nubia softly. ‘You are covered in wounds.’
Lupus hung his head and did not reply. His mare – still saddled – was last out of the stables. Now she came up to Lupus and snorted softly, almost apologetically.
‘Let me have a look,’ said Jonathan to Lupus. ‘Let me see your arms.’
Lupus dutifully held out his arms. His face was grubby and tear-streaked.
‘These are just scratches,’ said Jonathan. ‘They should heal quickly. We just need to sponge them regularly with vinegar.’ He looked around for the innkeeper.
‘Did you fall off the horse?’ asked Flavia.
Lupus nodded miserably.
‘You’ll have some bad bruises then,’ said Jonathan. ‘I can try to find some wall-nettle to make a paste which I can put on the places that hurt.’
Lupus shrugged.
‘What possessed you to go out in the middle of the night?’ asked Aristo. ‘There are robbers and wild animals and potholes which could trip up your horse . . . Is that what happened?’
Lupus continued to stare at the hard-packed earth of the courtyard.
‘Did you try to see prophet who heals?’ asked Nubia softly.
‘Of course!’ cried Flavia. ‘That’s where you went.’
Jonathan felt a pang of guilt; he should have guessed.
‘Did you see him?’ asked Nubia. ‘Was he there?’
‘It’s obvious he never reached him,’ said Jonathan.
‘Oh, poor Lupus!’ whispered Flavia.
Lupus gave her a ferocious glare, then jerked his head towards the road, as if to say: Let’s go.
‘What?’ said Jonathan. ‘No vinegar for your scratches? No wall-nettle paste for your bruises?
Lupus shook his head and used the edge of the water trough to climb onto the little bay mare.
Jonathan sighed and mounted his own horse. He was beginning to wheeze again and the voice was back, reminding him that all these bad things were his fault.
*
They left Heracleia as the sun was rising, and a short time later passed a flock of long-haired black goats. Some of the goats stopped and stared up at them with malevolent eyes: yellow with a black slit for a pupil. Nubia shuddered and was surprised to hear Lupus give a bitter laugh.
The morning was still relatively cool and the flat river valley seemed like a paradise to Nubia. The landscape was a patchwork of emerald-green vineyards, silver-green olives and pale-gold barley, punctuated here and there by the tall dark flame-shaped cypress trees, with a backdrop of lavender foothills and blue mountains beyond. The road was new, built in Vespasian’s time, but they preferred to use the dusty verge of the road. That way they could easily pass a slow-moving wagon and let fast-riding imperial messengers through. Also, Nubia knew that with unshod hooves the horses preferred the soft verge to the metalled road.
At noon they crossed the River Maeander, a wide, slow-moving river with lush reeds and grass on either side. An hour later they crossed it again.
‘This river is famous,’ remarked Aristo, ‘because it winds back and forth like a snake. I suppose you could say it meanders along.’
Nubia nodded and smiled at him. Then she looked at Flavia. Usually, a fact like this would interest her. But Flavia, Jonathan and Lupus were all staring miserably ahead. It hurt her heart to see her friends unhappy and she wished there was something she could do.
She pulled her flute out from beneath the neck of her tunic and began to play a cheerful song, but this attracted the attention of a farmer and his slaves in a slow-moving cart, and Aristo frowned and motioned for her to stop.
‘We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves,’ he said, when the cart was out of earshot. He gave her a sad smile. ‘And your music is unforgettable.’
When they stopped mid-afternoon to pick sun-warmed grapes from the roadside vines and drink warm sweet water from their gourds, Nubia saw her friends revive a little. But as soon as they mounted their horses they fell back into their miserable silence. Nubia gently kicked Tarquin with her heels, so that he trotted forward to ride abreast with Aristo.
Her tutor rode very well and she felt a sudden surge of pride and longing as she looked at him. The column of his neck was as smooth and flawless as bronze, and there was something about the curve of his cheekbones and his eyelashes that made her heart hurt. She longed to reach out and touch his face.
‘What is it?’ he gave her his heart-stopping smile.
‘You ride very well, too,’ she said shyly.
‘Do you want me to tell you why?’ he asked, with a quick sidelong glance. ‘How I learned to ride in Corinth when I was eight?’
‘Yes,’ said Nubia softly. ‘Tell me everything about your growing up.’
For the rest of her life, Nubia would remember the first time she saw Ephesus. They had crested a mountain and the city lay below them, two or three miles distant. From here it looked like a scattering of coloured tesserae at the foot of golden hills. A river flowed to the north of the city walls, into the sea. A man-made channel connected a harbour to this river, just where it met the sea. A ship was sailing up the canal to the harbour even as she watched.
In the foreground, the pine-covered mountain slopes glowed emerald green in the late afternoon light. Birds were singing, the breeze was
cool, the soft air smelt of dust and incense. The pulsing of the cicadas was like a heartbeat. There was a presence here: a sadness mixed with joy, a poignant hopefulness. Unaccountably, Nubia’s eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Do you feel that?’ she said.
‘Feel what?’ grumbled Flavia. ‘I can’t feel anything. Especially not my bottom. It’s numb.’
Nubia glanced to her right, towards Jonathan and Lupus. Both looked tired and miserable.
‘I feel it,’ said Aristo, pulling up his grey mare on her left. ‘This place is special.’ He turned to look at Nubia. ‘It feels like . . . coming home.’
And she saw that his eyelashes glistened with tears.
As they rode down out of the pine-clad mountains toward Ephesus, a honeybee buzzed around Lupus’s face. He swatted angrily.
‘Don’t harm that bee,’ said Aristo.
Lupus grunted: Why not?
‘It’s a symbol of Ephesus. The goddess Artemis is worshipped here, and her followers are called “bees”. Also, Ephesus is famous for its thyme-flavoured honey. Finally, according to legend, some bees led Prince Androclus to this place.’
Aristo looked expectantly at Flavia, but she remained silent.
‘Who was Prince Androclus?’ asked Nubia.
Lupus saw him give Nubia a grateful glance. ‘Androclus was a prince of Athens, an Ionian.’
‘What is eye own knee on?’
‘The Greeks from Athens were descended from a man called Ion,’ said Aristo. ‘And called themselves Ionians. Several of them left Athens and came to colonise this part of Asia: henceforth known as Ionia. Androclus was one of those who set out to found a new city. One legend says that the Muses, disguised as bees, led him here. Another story says that a fish and a boar led the way.’
‘A fish and a boar?’ At last Flavia’s interest was aroused.
‘Yes. An oracle had told Androclus that a boar and a fish would show him where to settle. One day he and his men arrived on the banks of the Little Maeander – the river to the north of the city – and found the natives roasting freshly-caught fish over open fires.’
‘All this talk of honey and boar and fish is making me hungry,’ said Jonathan.
Lupus nodded his agreement.
Aristo pointed towards the city lying before them. ‘As Androclus and his band of men approached the people cooking their catch, a piece of fish fell off its spit, scattering sparks from the fire and setting a nearby bush on fire. Out of the bush burst a wild boar, terrified by the flames.’
Lupus gave a grudging snort of laughter.
‘Androclus speared the boar on the slopes of Mount Coressus, and he and his men feasted on it. And so,’ concluded Aristo, ‘they knew this place was ordained for them.’
The bee was still buzzing around Lupus’s head but something more ominous had caught his attention. They were nearing the first tombs outside Ephesus now, and two crosses stood facing each other on either side of the road.
The one on the right still bore the mouldering remains of its victim. Even from a distance Lupus could see the body had been picked at by birds and wild animals. The feet were still nailed in place but both lower leg bones were missing.
Lupus grunted and pointed at the other cross. It was empty.
‘Behold, one is empty,’ said Nubia, echoing his thoughts.
‘It’s against the law to take a body off the cross,’ explained Aristo. ‘The point of such punishment is that nothing remain of the body and therefore of the victim’s memory. That poor wretch’s relatives probably took him down under cover of night, in order to give him a proper funeral.’
They were passing between the crosses now, close enough to read the signs scrawled in Greek with red paint. Above the grisly remains, a plank stated: RUNAWAY SLAVE.
The sign over the empty cross read: ATHEIST
‘What does that mean?’ asked Nubia.
‘An atheist is someone who doesn’t believe in the gods.’ Aristo glanced at Jonathan. ‘He was probably a Jew, or – more likely – a Christian.’
‘But they believe in a god,’ said Flavia.
‘They don’t believe in our gods,’ said Aristo. ‘I mean the Greek and Roman gods, and most importantly the imperial cult.’
‘Is that a crime?’ asked Nubia.
‘It’s considered subversive. Mind you, the Jews have been living here in Asia for centuries and the Romans allow them to worship according to their laws. Until recently the authorities included Christians in the same category. But recently many Jews argue that Christianity is not just a sect of Judaism, but a separate religion.’ He looked at Jonathan. ‘Your father told me that.’
Lupus shuddered. He could still see the dark stains of blood on the empty cross, where the nails had pierced the man’s wrists and heels.
They entered Ephesus as the sun was sinking over the Aegean, making the water an expanse of molten bronze. The dome of the sky was very high and the sea breeze ruffled their hair and tunics. Flavia’s limbs were aching and her stomach was upset, so they stopped at the first inn they found, a small hospitium inside the Magnesian Gate, near a large nymphaeum on the southern side of the street. While Nubia made sure the horses were comfortably stalled and Aristo negotiated the price of a room with the innkeeper, Flavia went straight to the latrine. After some time she made her way back to the main part of the hospitium and found the boys in a cool, thick-walled room which gave onto a vine-shaded courtyard. There was a long low sleeping platform on one side of the room, with mattresses spread out on it. Flavia lay down on the mattress nearest the door; it was made of cloth and very firm, but more comfortable than the straw mattresses they had encountered so far.
She was just dozing off when Aristo’s voice startled her awake. Nubia was beside him, her bath-set in her hand.
‘I’ve paid a few local urchins a reward if they can tell me where Mindius is, and if Bato has arrested him. We should have an answer in an hour or so. In the meantime, I suggest we visit the public baths next door and have a nice soak before dinner. Until we find out where Mindius is, there’s nothing we can do.’
An hour in the bathhouse had made Jonathan feel clean and relaxed. For the moment the voice was silent. Back at the hospitium, dinner was being served. Lupus was fast asleep in their room, but its door gave onto the cool evening courtyard so Jonathan was not worried about his friend sneaking out again. Nubia was tossing crumbs of bread to some friendly sparrows. Flavia was still subdued; she had barely touched the gustatio of cheese and pickled onions. A slave had lit the torches in their wall brackets, and they were just beginning the prima mensa – a barley gruel with chunks of unidentifiable meat – when the innkeeper’s wife came into the courtyard. She was followed by two soldiers flanking a thin man with a pockmarked face.
She stood scowling at them with her hands on her hips. Then she pointed. ‘That’s them,’ she said. ‘That’s the ones named on the notice in the Upper Agora. They’re dressed as boys, but I think those two are girls.’ She pointed at Flavia and Nubia, then swivelled her outstretched arm towards the bedroom where Lupus was sleeping. ‘The youngest one is asleep in there. Now, where’s my reward? Where’s my four thousand drachmae?’
The market basilica of Ephesus was a magnificent structure of marble and granite, with an inlaid floor and lofty columns. But the cells at its back were dark and damp. Jonathan was already wheezing by the time the official ushered them into a small cell with an earth floor and a ceiling so low they had to crouch to enter. The jailer’s flickering torch briefly showed a pile of dark rags in one corner of the cell, perhaps a former prisoner’s bedding. Jonathan’s nose told him another corner had been used as a latrine.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into darkness.
Jonathan sank slowly to the beaten earth floor. He felt the damp, cold stone against his back and pressed his herb pouch to his nose.
‘This is a disaster,’ he muttered to himself.
‘For once, you’re right,�
�� came Flavia’s voice. Jonathan could tell she was trying not to cry. ‘Things could hardly get any worse.’
‘Will they crucify us?’ whispered Nubia.
‘No,’ came Flavia’s voice. ‘I mean, I hope not.’
A thin rectangle of dark blue at the far end of the cell must have been a window letting in a little starlight. As Jonathan’s eyes adjusted, he could dimly see Flavia and Nubia with their arms around each other. Lupus had curled up miserably in his woollen cloak, too exhausted even to grunt.
‘How did the innkeeper’s wife know who we were?’ said Flavia. ‘Nubia and I were dressed as boys.’
‘Maybe the fact that you kept calling each other “Flavia” and “Nubia”?’ wheezed Jonathan. ‘We should have adopted pseudonyms.’
‘What is soon oh dim?’ asked Nubia in a small voice.
‘Pseudonym,’ sighed Flavia, ‘is Greek for “false name”, often one which will mislead people.’
‘We could call Flavia “Placida”,’ said Jonathan sarcastically, ‘because she’s so meek and obedient.’
‘Yes,’ came Flavia’s retort. ‘And we could call you “Hilarius”. That would fool everybody.’
‘If you want to mislead people,’ muttered Jonathan, ‘why not call me “Sanus”? Because I think I’m going mad.’
‘Why do you think you are going mad?’ said Nubia softly.
For a long time Jonathan didn’t answer. Then he said. ‘Since we left Egypt, I’ve been hearing a voice in my head.’
‘Is it your god?’ asked Flavia.
‘Definitely not. If anything, it’s the opposite. It’s evil.’
‘You are hearing an evil voice?’ asked Nubia. ‘When no person is there?’
‘Yes. I know it’s inside my head but sometimes it’s like someone talking to me.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Flavia. ‘That’s not good.’
‘I know.’
‘What is the voice saying?’ asked Nubia.
‘REJOICE!’ came a deep raspy shout.
Flavia and Nubia screamed, Lupus grunted in alarm, and Jonathan cracked his head on the ceiling as he jumped up.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 245