Lupus grunted and squirmed until she felt his fingers take the oyster shell carefully from hers. Awkwardly, he began to saw at the vine binding her hands.
As Lupus worked away at her bonds, Flavia told Jonathan her theory about how the murder had been committed. She wasn’t sure he was listening, but she knew if she kept talking she could keep the panic at bay. She had just finished explaining about how stingray poison was deadly if treated with cold water, when Jonathan cut her off.
‘Why did you come here?’ he said angrily.
Flavia looked over at him in surprise. ‘To save you.’
‘I’m not asking you why you came here to Alba Longa.’ Jonathan’s chains clinked as he shifted a little. ‘I’m asking why you came back to Italia after I told you not to follow me. I told you it would be dangerous. So why did you come?’
‘To help you,’ said Flavia in a small voice. ‘To see home. To clear our names.’
‘I told you I would try to do that. Now you’ve ruined everything.’
Flavia felt Lupus stop sawing the vine.
‘It’s what we do,’ she said. ‘We solve mysteries. We’re trying to prove Domitian killed his brother. We needed more evidence.’
Behind her, Lupus resumed work with his sharp oyster shell.
‘That’s what I thought,’ wheezed Jonathan. ‘You don’t really care about people. All you care about is solving mysteries.’
‘But Jonathan, the Truth is important. It helps people.’
‘Who says?’
Flavia was speechless.
‘Who says the Truth . . . is always good?’ persisted Jonathan. He was wheezing.
‘Jonathan, if we can prove Domitian killed Titus, then the senate will appoint a better man: Flavius Sabinus. And then the world will be a safer place.’
‘Who’s to say . . . the man they appoint . . . will be better than Domitian?’ wheezed Jonathan.
‘Because . . .’ Flavia spluttered, ‘Because anybody would be better than Domitian. He’s evil. He made us kiss his feet. He killed his brother. He’s probably going to molest Nubia and to throw Aristo to the lions, and if Lupus doesn’t cut this vine soon he’s going to kill us, too.’
Nubia sat in an upper room of Domitian’s Alban Citadel weeping tears of joy and anguish. Joy, because Aristo loved her, and anguish because now he was going to die. And now she wanted to die, too.
She heard the squeak of a door opening behind her and a man’s voice said: ‘Undress.’
Nubia turned around. The man was wearing a patrician’s tunic rather than a black one and his face was in shadow, but she thought she recognised him from the banquet.
‘Did the emperor not tell you to put on a gold shift and to paint your face?’
Nubia sniffed and nodded.
‘I can hear you sobbing and I’m guessing you have not done so.’
Nubia frowned through her tears. She was still wearing the black tunic. Couldn’t he see that?
‘Domitian sent me,’ said the man, ‘because I am blind.’ He stepped forward and she saw that his heavy-lidded eyes were clouded. He had a short, blunt nose, a cleft chin and pockmarked skin. His face was devoid of humour or kindness. Nubia shivered.
‘My name is Messallinus. Lucius Valerius Catullus Messallinus. This is Domitia’s dressing room. Do you see the wooden chest?’
Nubia nodded.
‘Answer me!’
‘Yes,’ stammered Nubia.
‘Go to it.’
Nubia stood and went to a gilded cedarwood chest. The lid was open and it was full of shifts and stolas in jewel-coloured silks.
‘The emperor wants you to dress in gold, to match your eyes. Find something suitable and put it on, or I will do it for you.’ His voice sent a chill through her and she remembered Jonathan saying that a blind man named Messallinus had enjoyed whipping him.
Nubia searched through the clothing and found a simple gold shift.
‘Have you found it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put it on.’
Although he claimed to be blind, Nubia turned her back to the man. She tugged off both tunics and hastily slipped on the gold shift. It was gossamer light and silky smooth.
Nubia used the brown tunic to dry her tear-streaked face.
‘Put on the gilded belt and sandals,’ said Messallinus.
Nubia rummaged among the silky tunics until she found a belt in the form of a gold snake. It took her a moment to realise that the clasp was the mouth of the snake biting the tail. She put it on. The gilded sandals were under the table. She sat on the couch. They were a little too big so she laced them up tightly.
‘Now go to the table,’ commanded Messallinus. ‘Put colour on your lips and cheeks. And make up your eyes in the Egyptian style. Blue or green for the lids and black eyeliner around. Can you do that?’ His voice was cold. ‘Or shall I do it for you?’
‘I will do it,’ stammered Nubia.
The window was near a small west-facing window, and a beam of slanting sunshine fell on a selection of gold, silver and ivory hairpins, making them glitter. A silver one was particularly long and sharp.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked, as she applied some shimmering coral powder to her lips.
‘Almost.’ Nubia carefully took the silver hairpin from Domitia’s table and slipped it into the neck of her tunic, between the bandages binding her breasts. Then she stood up and turned to face the blind man.
‘Now I am ready.’
Nubia emerged blinking into the brilliant afternoon light.
Surrounded by a crowd of courtiers, Domitian stood on a lawn that glowed like chrysolite. He looked up as Nubia and Messallinus approached.
‘Ravishing,’ he said. ‘You look ravishing, as I knew you would.’ He had changed into a purple toga but still wore the dark-leafed garland.
Domitian held out his hand. ‘Come.’
She took his hand and kept her face impassive, a trick she had learned when she had first been enslaved, two and a half years before.
‘We don’t even have to leave the grounds of my villa,’ he said. ‘There is a charming theatre at the other end of the terrace.’ In the harsh light of day, she could see his face was powdered in an attempt to cover some spots on his chin. He also wore a beauty patch on his forehead. She knew such patches were the latest fashion among high-class men and women, but she suspected it covered a boil or a wart.
‘Walk with me,’ he said. ‘The theatre is not far.’
They began to walk along a path between low box hedges, splashing fountains and flowerbeds in different shapes. The sea glittered far to the west, and a soft breeze carried its scent.
Nubia’s heart was full of a terrible fierce joy. Aristo loved her. He had said it in front of everyone, and she had seen the passion in his eyes. But now he was going to die. Before she could tell him she felt the same way. Before they could experience one kiss. Before they could share one embrace.
She reached up her free hand and quickly touched the place where she had hidden the silver hairpin. It was safe. She allowed herself a secret smile of triumph. She would not give Domitian the pleasure of making her watch Aristo die. She would kill herself first.
Nubia entered Domitian’s private theatre by means of a hidden corridor beneath the cavea. He had sent most of his courtiers ahead and stopped for a moment in the dim corridor to adjust the folds of his purple toga. For a moment Nubia considered running away, but she could see two guards at the opening, silhouetted against brilliant daylight. On the frescoed wall behind Domitian, a satyr seemed to be laughing at her plight.
Then Domitian took her hand and led her blinking out into the brilliant daylight. She felt like Persephone on the arm of Pluto, emerging from her six months in the Underworld.
Every seat in the small marble theatre was taken, mostly by men. They had risen to their feet and were applauding, and Nubia saw many of them were looking at her. She scanned the faces hopefully, especially those in the rows closest to the front. She saw
some of the men from the banquet. But Flaccus was not there, and Ascletario was nowhere to be seen, either.
Now Domitian was guiding her to the front seats and she saw a large marble throne with griffin armrests. To her relief, he indicated that she should sit on a footstool; the throne was obviously meant for him alone.
Nubia sat trembling at the emperor’s feet, anxiously scanning the stage and its backdrop for some sign of Aristo. She did not see him, or anyone else, but she saw that the circular part of the theatre below the stage – the orchestra – had been covered with sand and fenced off to make it an arena. The fence was not high, but guards stood every three paces, and they held spears and nets.
Now that she was sitting still with time to reflect, another strong mixture of emotions swept over her. Elation that Aristo loved her. Helpless despair that he was to be thrown to the beasts. Loathing of the Romans for their love of blood sports. She was also aware of the sharp pin hidden in her breast band.
She took a deep breath. She wasn’t afraid of death – she knew where she was going – but she was afraid of dying. Would it hurt? Would a single pin in her heart even kill her?
Behind her, the theatre erupted into fresh cheers as a man walked out onto the stage above the arena. It was one of the men from the banquet, the one who had tackled Aristo. Most of Domitian’s courtiers looked the same to her, but this one was recognizable by his long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘It is my honour,’ said Ponytail, ‘to welcome you to this intimate show for our new emperor. The emperor has much to do; he has already spent three mornings granting amnesty and wiping tablets clean.’ More cheers. ‘In the weeks to come he will rebuild temples and restore altars. He will repair aqueducts and pipe water to thirsty places. He will reduce taxes and increase benefaction.’ This last statement got the biggest cheer of all. ‘But today,’ continued Ponytail, ‘he craves your indulgence in a small private celebration of his accession to the seat of power.’ The man glanced quickly down at a sheet of papyrus. ‘In a short time we will have two pairs of gladiators to fight for your pleasure. But first, for your amusement, a battle of strength and grace. All the way from Crete, your new emperor presents Theseus and the Bull!’
Nubia’s heart was pounding so hard she thought she might be sick. They were going to match Aristo with a bull.
The crowd gasped as an enormous bull burst into the sandy orchestra beneath the stage. Nubia was so close that she could see the bull’s eyes, long-lashed and bloodshot. She could smell his fear and rage and she could hear him perfectly: his deep grunts and snorts. The bull was so big, so angry. How would Aristo ever defeat it?
The crowd cheered as a long-haired youth in a sky blue loincloth vaulted over the wooden barrier and did a backflip. Nubia almost fainted with relief. It was not Aristo.
She had never been this close to such a contest; she was only feet away, close enough to see the concentration in the young man’s dark eyes and the sheen of oil on his slim torso.
The bull pawed the sand, then charged the acrobat called Theseus. He let it come and at the last moment he stepped casually aside, leaving less than a handsbreadth between him and the massive creature. The crowd gasped, and applauded. Again the bull charged, again the youth let him thunder past, this time turning his back to the furious creature and smiling at the crowd with his kohl-lined eyes.
For a few moments, Nubia forgot everything else. The battle of boy and beast was enthralling. The youth avoided each charge with a different manoeuvre: he knelt, he twirled, he did a backflip.
Now Nubia could see that the bull was tiring, and she knew the youth could see it, too: there was a slight change in his expression. Although he was still smiling, his eyes narrowed a fraction in concentration. The bull charged and this time the youth took a deep breath and then ran towards it. Nubia gasped as the boy grasped the bull’s horns and did a high somersault over the charging beast, twisting in the air and landing lightly on the sand a moment after the bull thundered past.
Nubia was on her feet cheering and clapping. So was every man in the theatre, Domitian included.
They remained on their feet and cheered as the youth did it again, and again. On his fourth jump the acrobat seemed to do the impossible: he landed lightly on the bull’s back and rode him around the arena. The boys’ arms were outstretched and his long dark hair flew behind. He wore a huge smile of triumph. The crowd was wild with delight. Nubia was cheering and clapping, too.
Suddenly she felt hands on her shoulders, turning her, and Domitian was pressing his full wet lips against her mouth. He released her before she could protest and she whirled away in horror.
For a moment Nubia stood breathing hard, overcome with fear and revulsion. Then, with trembling hand, she reached into the neck of her tunic. Before she killed herself, she would kill him. While the crowd was still distracted and cheering, she would drive the silver pin deep into the pulsing artery of his thick and loathsome neck.
‘Titus Flavius Domitianus!’ came a woman’s imperious voice. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Nubia started, and the pin fell onto the marble step at her feet. She turned to see a middle-aged woman in a tall, elaborately-curled wig.
‘Domitia?’ said the emperor. His smile stiffened as he addressed his wife. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were in Rome.’
The crowd was still applauding and Domitia gestured towards the arena. ‘I think your attention is required.’
‘What?’ said Domitian. He turned just in time to see the acrobat cut the throat of the kneeling bull and then raise a bloody knife triumphantly aloft. Nubia saw the blood gushing from the bull’s severed throat, and the dying animal gasping its last. The panting boy wiped the knife on the bull’s back, replaced it in its sheath and smiled up at the emperor.
‘Oh,’ said Domitian. ‘Yes, of course.’ He held out his hand and one of his courtier’s put a small but heavy leather pouch in his palm. Domitian tossed the bag of gold to the youth, who caught it deftly and bowed. Then Domitian took a proffered wreath and spun that to the boy. The boy caught the wreath and placed it on his head. The crowd cheered as he did a backflip onto the stage, then disappeared through a door in the scaena.
Without a pause, three dwarves ran onto the stage, while attendants used hooks to drag the bull’s body out of the arena.
‘Who is this?’ said Domitia, looking Nubia up and down. ‘Why is she wearing my clothes?’ She bent down and picked up the silver hairpin. ‘Why is she using my hairpins?’ She glared at Domitian. ‘What did I tell you last week?’
‘It’s not what you think,’ stammered Domitian. ‘My dear, I knew you were coming and I . . . er . . . I planned this especially for you.’
‘What? You planned what?’
Domitian turned away from her and patted his right hand, like an orator motioning for silence. He was saying something in Ponytail’s ear. The courtier nodded and went to the chief guard at the perimeter of the arena. Nubia saw them exchange words and then the guard disappeared backstage.
The crowd was applauding the three dwarves, who had just finished their juggling act.
And now Ponytail was stepping back on stage.
‘Please welcome our empress Domitia!’ he cried. ‘Straight from the Palatine Hill.’
The crowd cheered. The Empress turned and bowed, then sat on Domitian’s throne and pulled him downbeside her.
‘For you, O exalted one,’ bellowed Ponytail, ‘your princeps and emperor has prepared a special amusement: Aristo and the Beast!’
In the mouth of the Emissario, Lupus had almost cut through Flavia’s bonds when someone parted the screen of tendrils to enter the vaulted chamber. Lupus immediately dropped the shell and wriggled around to see who it was. Beside him Flavia hurriedly did the same.
Two men stepped into the green gloom of the Emissario vault on Jonathan’s side of the channel.
As they came closer, Lupus saw that one of the men wore a long grass-green caftan.
It was the Egyptian astrologist, Ascletario. The other man wore a toga over the tunic of a patrician, with its two vertical blood-red stripes. He held a whip in one hand and a plate of food in the other. Ascletario’s hand was on the patrician’s elbow; he was guiding him. As they came closer, Lupus saw the milky film on the man’s unseeing eyes.
Lupus’s blood grew cold, and he exchanged a worried look with Flavia. He knew she was thinking the same thing: the patrician was the blind man called Messallinus who enjoyed whipping Jonathan.
‘Good afternoon, Jonathan,’ said Messallinus. ‘It’s dinner time again. What will you have today? Cold chicken, apples and bread? Or the whip?’ Messallinus made a gesture with his chin and Ascletario moved forward to unlock Jonathan’s manacles. He darted an apologetic look at Lupus and Flavia. Lupus glared back.
Jonathan slowly stood up, wincing and rubbing his raw wrists. He was wheezing a little.
‘Ox tread on your tongue?’ said Messallinus to Jonathan. And to Ascletario: ‘Tie him to the wheel.’
Ascletario pulled off Jonathan’s tattered tunic and turned him to face the sluice gate. Then he began to bind his hands to the horizontal iron wheel that raised and lowered the grille.
Jonathan was now bent over awkwardly, wearing only a grubby loincloth. Lupus swallowed hard as he saw the weals on Jonathan’s back. Some were still bloody.
When Ascletario finished tying Jonathan’s hands, he backed away and stood behind the blind man.
‘All you have to do to get the dinner,’ said Messallinus, ‘is to tell me the truth. Not lies. The truth.’
Lupus heard Jonathan mutter something under his breath.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 267