“News travels fast.” Damian remained level with the boy. “Or was it the fat reward I offered?”
“Bring your coins,” the boy said. “Even if there wasn’t a reward, she doesn’t talk to men unless they pay her afterward.”
Damian nodded. “Your sister Livia is in the talking business, is she?”
“Especially with sailors,” the little boy said with straightforward innocence. “She must be good at sea stories, because they want her all the time to visit and talk.”
“Of course,” Damian said with equal seriousness. He straightened and winked at Jerome. “A good storyteller.” Damian gestured with his hand. “Lead the way.”
The boy trotted ahead of them.
Damian and Jerome had walked the perimeter of Portus Traiani, the inner harbor of Ostia, for only fifteen minutes after they had landed. This harbor, and Portus Augusti, the outer harbor with its lighthouse, were connected to the Tiber by a canal. Ostia itself was a mile farther down the river. One road led northwest from the inner harbor to Rome, another through the short stretch of coast that separated it from Ostia.
The harbor, despite its distance from the town, was a swarm of activity. It had relatively few apartments compared to Ostia but, for obvious reasons, had an abundance of hotels, brothels, bars, and market shops.
Both harbors together held upward of two hundred ships. Although Volusius had supplied them the name of the captain of the seafaring ship to which he had delivered John, it would have taken Damian days to go from ship to ship. He hoped it had not yet sailed, but feared that if he didn’t find it quickly, it might depart during his search.
The easy solution had been to wander into a couple of bars and spread the word that he would give a reward to whoever might lead him to the ship he wanted. And minutes later, the small boy had appeared from an alleyway.
Damian and Jerome now followed the ragged boy through the alley.
Damian wasn’t worried about a trap set for him by sailors looking to rob him of easy money. Not with Jerome beside him. He followed the boy with confidence, remaining aware of the twisting passages to be able to find his way back.
The alley was barely wide enough for Jerome’s shoulders. In perpetual shade, it was too narrow to be baked dry by sunshine and smelled of salt tang and fish and urine. Cats scurried beneath their feet. At least Damian hoped they were cats, because he’d never liked rats and would not like to find out they grew that big.
Abruptly the boy turned and scampered through a narrow archway that led to a courtyard behind an old apartment building. He pointed at a woman standing in shadow along the courtyard wall.
“Hello,” Damian said to her. He grinned broadly. “Livia. I’m told you have a wonderful way of telling stories.”
He believed it. While she did not smile, and there was nothing inviting or sensuous about her posture, she was a beautiful woman in a plain tunic. She had her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hide that beauty.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Livia said, glancing at the boy. “I never tell stories here. Only on ships.” To the boy, she said sharply, “Now go upstairs and wait for me.”
The boy dragged a foot.
“Go!”
When he was out of earshot, Damian moved closer to the woman. “Your son seems like a capable young man. You must be proud of him.”
“My brother.”
“As you say.”
She pushed strands of dark hair off her face. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s the way you look at him.”
“That’s why I never bring sailors here to—” she caught herself—“to tell stories.”
Livia straightened her hair again. Nervous. “I want triple what you’ve offered to learn about Atronius Pavo. I risk too much already in sending for you.”
Damian felt sympathy for her. The Roman world was not easy for a woman without a man. “If it’s worth it. Where is the ship?”
“Gone. But you could learn that from anyone.”
“And what can I learn from you that’s different?”
“Everyone in the harbor believes his brother drowned before the ship set sail. But he’s in Rome somewhere, waiting for ransom money. That alone should be worth what you have to pay.”
Her words were directed at Damian, but she had shifted her gaze to stare at Jerome in admiration.
“A magnificent man, isn’t he? And totally devoted to his wife and three young children. The only . . . um . . . stories he listens to are the ones told at home. But he can’t tell you that because pirates cut out his tongue.”
Livia continued to stare at Jerome, who kept his face, as always, devoid of emotion.
“When you say ‘his’ brother,” Damian said, “you mean Pavo’s brother.”
She shook her head, finally looking at Damian again. “Pavo is the magister navis. He, too, believes the brother is dead.”
“Whose brother then? And what ransom money does he expect?”
“They.”
“They?” Damian felt no impatience. Often it was like this as he gathered pieces of information.
“Cosconius Betto and his brother, Kaeso. It was part of their plan.”
“Brothers,” Damian repeated.
“Betto is the ship’s gubernator. He’s gone now, of course. To Alexandria with the ship.”
Gubernator. Sailing master. As captain, Pavo was essentially the man with authority. But without a navigator, the ship would never depart harbor.
“Betto and Kaeso,” Damian mused aloud to help himself remember the names.
“I’m a favorite of theirs,” Livia said. “Each, however, is jealous of my attentions to the other. In the afternoon before the ship left harbor, I—”
“When did it leave?”
“Saturn.”
Nearly two days at sea already, Damian thought with regret. “Continue. Please.”
“Kaeso had a room in a hotel. I was there with him.” She actually blushed. “Telling stories.”
“Of course.”
“Betto was at the door. I was forced to hide. I overheard Betto give Kaeso instructions. Kaeso couldn’t tell him to stop talking; otherwise he’d have to explain why.”
“Yes.” Damian had learned it didn’t hurt to be a pleasant listener.
“Betto expected that a man of great importance would be arriving to sail with them. Because—” Livia bit her lower lip, glancing upward as if searching her mind to recall the reasons—“because Pavo had insisted they would leave that night.”
“Night.” Ships never departed at night.
“When Betto told Pavo that the omens weren’t right and the sacrifices had not been made, Pavo said it didn’t matter. Betto told him that none of the paying passengers expected the ship to leave for days. Pavo said he didn’t want or need the paying passengers. That the Roman they were to take to Alexandria would make everything worthwhile. All of this Betto explained to his brother while I was hiding.”
“And their plan?” Damian wasn’t looking for a Roman but a Jew. Still, it was part of his nature to ask questions and part of his job to gather as much information as possible.
“That if this Roman was so important, it would be worthwhile to kidnap him at sea. And send for ransom. Enough to pay off their gambling debts. Betto said he could arrange it in such a way that he and Kaeso would never be suspected. And that if it looked like Kaeso had drowned, he would be able to escape the creditors demanding payment of his gambling debts.”
“How?”
“That’s when Kaeso suggested to Betto that they go to a bar for some beer. I’m sure he didn’t want me to hear the rest.”
“They left you alone.”
Livia nodded. “He didn’t come back. That evening, I heard that Kaeso had drowned. But already this morning I’ve received messages from Kaeso inviting me to see him in Rome.”
Men and their follies, Damian thought without any degree of righteousness, because he knew he was just as vulnerable to his own desires.
Whatever careful plans Betto had made were subject to the whims of fate simply because Kaeso wanted the same woman his brother wanted.
What puzzled Damian, however, was trying to decide if it had been John placed on the ship and that somehow Livia—and Betto and Kaeso—believed John to be a Roman important enough to kidnap at sea for a ransom demand, or if it truly had been a Roman on the ship and Damian was wasting his time looking here for John.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Damian asked.
“Not until I’m paid for all of this.”
“I’m not sure you’re telling the truth. After all, you make your living as a storyteller.”
“Don’t mock me,” she said. “I have a son. Should I want him to know who and what his mother truly is?”
“No,” Damian answered almost meekly. “But I’m not sure if what you’re telling me is worth that much. The man I’m looking for is not a Roman.”
“Oh.” She was casual. “It’s the Jew you want.”
“What!”
That was a mistake.
She easily understood his excitement. She held out her hand until he counted out all the coins she demanded.
“Tell me about the Jew,” he said.
“I went to the ship that night and waited nearby to watch. Thinking it might be worth money to know about a rich Roman stealing away.” She hefted the coins. “See, I was right.”
“The Jew.”
“Two men were brought aboard the ship. The first was wearing a hood. He said nothing and could barely walk. The other tried to help him. But they went too slowly, and Pavo kicked at both of them. Called the second one—the one without the hood—a stupid Jew.”
Two men, Damian thought with a degree of admiration for Volusius. When interrogated, the fox had left out the fact that he’d transported two men that night.
John, the Jew.
And a rich Roman worth kidnapping for ransom. Very interesting.
“Where can I find Kaeso?” Damian asked. That was the next logical step. With the ship long gone, Kaeso could answer questions. With, perhaps, Jerome’s persuasion.
Livia’s eyes shifted to the ground, then back to Damian. “How much is it worth to you?”
“I can’t tell you anything about Sophia,” said the teenage boy. “But just before noon of Saturn a man called at the gates to see Ben-Aryeh, the old Jew.”
In the orchard on the estate of Gallus Sergius Vitas, the boy, a slave, had difficulty focusing on Tigellinus and Helius. His eyes kept darting to his father, a few paces away. One rope had been tied to each of the man’s ankles. The other ends had been tied to the halters of two opposing oxen. Tigellinus stood between the oxen, holding a whip.
“Saturn,” Helius repeated. Vitas had attacked Nero at a dinner party the night before. Saturn, in the afternoon, Sophia had been sent an invitation to commit suicide. “What did this man look like?”
The boy gave a description that could have fit thousands, if not tens of thousands. He was unclear on what the man had been wearing and couldn’t recall anything unusual about his appearance.
“Why then,” Helius asked the boy, “do you remember this man?”
“I wondered if he had been sent by Caesar.” The boy swallowed. “Word about Vitas had spread among the slaves already. We didn’t know what would happen to us.”
Tigellinus nodded encouragement to the boy, holding the whip casually, as if he’d totally forgotten that the oxen were poised to pull apart the boy’s father.
“And?” Helius asked.
“The man held a scroll. I led him to the old Jew. Later, when the man left, he had no scroll.”
“The Jew kept it?”
The boy nodded again. He was trembling, on the verge of breakdown. This was exactly what Helius wanted. Fear would make it impossible for the boy to think clearly enough to lie.
“What else do you know about the scroll?” Helius asked.
This was far more important than Helius showed. Sophia’s grave, as Tigellinus had suspected, had been found empty. There had been a conspiracy then, people working in concerted effort to make sure both Vitas and Sophia escaped Nero. People with power. It was absolutely crucial that Helius discover who these people were, without Nero learning about any of it.
With all the slaves witnessing it, they’d already ripped apart one slave with the oxen. It had been enough for the teenage slave to burst forward from among the remaining slaves with the promise that he knew something about Sophia’s escape. After Tigellinus had tied the boy’s father to the oxen, only a few paces from the torn body of the first dead slave, Helius had been ready to begin his questions.
“If I tell you, you will untie my father, right?”
“I’ve assured you of that a dozen times,” Helius said. “Just tell me what you know about the scroll.”
“The old man read it in front of the messenger and said a few words.”
“Which were . . . ?” Helius felt it was like pulling the boy’s tongue to get him to speak. Maybe a pair of red-hot tongs would do.
“‘Not another ship. I hate ships.’”
Helius frowned. “‘Not another ship. I hate ships.’ Nothing more?”
“That’s all. Right after that, the messenger pointed at me and told the old man to be discreet.”
That was interesting, Helius thought. The messenger was more than a messenger, for he had known enough about the situation to give a warning.
“But I heard more.” The boy continued to stare at Tigellinus and his father. “Our master, Vitas, had been arrested by Nero,” the boy said. “All of us were afraid of what might happen next.”
That needed no explanation. The fates of slaves were tied to the fates of their owners.
“I climbed on the roof and got as close as I could,” the boy said. “In case there was something I could learn that would help all of us slaves.”
“And?”
“The visitor was telling the old Jew if he hated ships he could go to Corinth by road and then gave him instructions to find the road from here. But that was the end of their conversation.”
“You didn’t hear why the old Jew needed to go to Corinth.”
“Nothing else. It took me too long to get on the roof. The visitor left right after that.”
“Nothing else?” Helius said.
“Nothing else.” The boy seemed to relax now that he’d given up all he knew.
Helius had been looking for that—the relaxing of the boy’s body. He was, after all, an expert on interrogating people.
“You’ve done well.” Helius turned to Tigellinus. “Let’s see if we can find another slave to corroborate this information. We have no more use for the boy’s father.”
Tigellinus raised the whip.
“No!” the boy screamed.
“Go away,” Vitas groaned in his first moments of consciousness. The sun, hidden behind clouds, gave no hint at the time of day. But it was hot. Vitas guessed it to be the early part of the afternoon.
The person applying salve to his back ignored him. “While you were unconscious, I bathed your wounds in salt water.”
It was the Jew, John.
Vitas was flat on his chest and stomach, on a blanket on the deck of the ship. He flinched as a hand again softly touched his lower back.
“The captain has provided some wine mixed with myrrh,” John said. “It’s in the wineskin beside you.”
“Go away,” Vitas repeated. “I don’t want your help.”
“How can I stand by as you suffer?” John asked.
“You can’t understand my pain.” Vitas had woken from a dreamlike vision of Sophia. It had begun pleasantly, a memory of standing beside her on a ship much like this, returning to Rome from Caesarea. Only a few months after that journey, their life together had ended in a nightmare, at a dinner party with the emperor, when Nero reached for her hand with a leer. “I want to be left alone.”
“As you wish. But not until all your wounds are covered.”
> Vitas groaned again. He reached for the wineskin, a movement that sent searing pain across his back.
John reached the wineskin for him and tilted it to Vitas’s mouth. Vitas gulped it like water. Anything to dull the intensity of the pain that filled his consciousness.
“Only enough to ease the pain,” John cautioned as he applied more salve.
Vitas did not want to admit that it soothed him.
“What is your name?” John asked.
“Go away.” Vitas wanted to owe this man nothing. Wanted to share nothing of his anguish. All he cared about was returning to Rome to search for his wife.
“It is against the law for a Roman citizen to be scourged,” John said. “And given that the crew believes I’m your slave, all would have understood if you had ordered me to take your place.”
“Go away.”
“What are you afraid of, Roman? What makes you so determined to contain yourself against the world? to be the one so arrogant that you help others and refuse to be helped yourself?”
“Go away.”
“You are your own man,” John said. “You make your own destiny. Is that it? You need nobody?”
“Go away.”
“You think I am helping you because I owe you my life twice?”
“I think you are deaf. How many times need I ask you to leave?”
John’s laugh was gentle and good-natured. “Roman of the unknown name, I can guess you come from wealth and power. Months ago you defied Nero to save my life and the prisoners with me. Now someone has gone to great lengths to put you on this ship. This is not something to expect from a common man. Yet let me ask you something: how much is all your power and wealth worth when your life ends?”
“No philosophy,” Vitas said. He sighed as the warmth of his first gulps began to ease his pain. “I’ll take wine instead.”
“What’s your burden?” John said. “No matter how heavy, I can show you the way to ease it.”
“You’ll take my burden away. And you call me arrogant?”
“I can’t take your burdens. Of course, neither can your wine. But I know someone who can. He came from God and—”
The Last Sacrifice Page 10