‘Who are –?’ she started to say but he cut her off.
‘I do so hope you’re flying to London, we’ve got so much catching up to do. I simply can’t remember the last time I saw you – absolutely ages,’ he shouted, kissing her on both cheeks before linking his arm through hers and leading her in a wide sweep round the two men. ‘Sorry for the abrupt arrival but you may’ve been about to have unwanted company,’ he said under his voice as they hurried along through the slow-moving herd of passengers grazing in front of the airport shops.
‘Thanks. You mean those two by the security post?’
‘Yes, and there were two more in the queue behind you. We thought for one horrible moment you were going to make a run for it.’
‘Is that the royal “we”?’ she asked in a weak attempt at humour. Her new friend made no answer and steered her out of sight along a service corridor towards a door marked with a red and white Ingresso Vietato sign. He opened the door with a swipe card, only releasing her arm once they were inside.
‘No, I’m not alone, it’s just that we weren’t expecting any of them to turn up behind you like that. Nearly caught us on the hop: it was the pair by security who were our biggest concern.’
Flora stopped and turned to look at her rescuer. ‘If it’s not an indelicate question, why are you disguised as a scarecrow? And seeing as you’ve probably just saved my life, might I at least know who I should be thanking?’
He treated her to a smile and a shake of the head. ‘One question too many, Miss Kemble. I could give you a name but firstly it wouldn’t be mine and secondly it wouldn’t mean anything to you. As for the scarecrow routine as you put it, the idea was to make me look like an archaeologist: from what I’ve seen of the ones on TV I think I’ve got the look down to a T, though I say it myself.’
Flora looked at him, unable to hide a look of amusement as the adrenalin drained slowly from her system. ‘I’m a palaeographer actually, not really a proper field archaeologist.’
‘Yes, I know that, but none of us knew what one of those looked like so we settled for archaeologist. I thought the socks and sandals were a good touch, don’t you?’
Flora smiled at him. ‘It’s very realistic, believe me.’
‘The AISI boys thought it was hilarious,’ he said, leading her further along the windowless corridor.
‘Who are the “AISI boys”?’ asked Flora.
‘L’Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna – that’s the Italian domestic intelligence agency: they’ve got people here too. Anyway, the last thing I wanted was to look like what I am: far better to make them think you had a chance encounter with an old chum.’
‘And if you won’t tell me who you are, I presume it’s no good asking what you are?’ Flora asked.
‘Like I said, I’m a friend of Giles Smith’s and he’s very concerned that you get home safely.’
***
In a bar in Naples, Elvis answered his mobile phone. ‘The London flight? Good. How many? Three?’ he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘She must have had interesting news for them then. We’ll speak with her.’ He rang off and nodded in satisfaction to the heavily-built bald man sitting opposite.
Chapter Twenty-three
Rome AD 64
‘Shhh, don’t make so much noise,’ Josephus hissed at Giora.
‘Well I can’t see a bloody thing.’ In the darkness beneath the wooden seating of the Circus Maximus, the disembodied voice was the only sign that his companion was still there. They crept forward, feeling their way over and around the web of beams that supported the tiered grandstand above their heads.
Josephus looked upwards: between the curving rows of seats, the stars of the constellation of Draco, winding its tail around the Great Bear, looked close enough to touch.
Although night had fallen long ago, the heat of the day radiated back at them from every solid object. A breeze from the south east had sprung up but its stifling breath only made things worse.
Edging round a brick pillar they neared their goal. In front of them, a sliver of light shone through a gap in the wooden boards forming the back wall of a row of shops, warehouses and workshops clustered under the high point of the grandstands. Barely daring to breathe, Josephus crouched down and peered through the crack into the cooper’s workshop. ‘What can you see?’ asked Giora. Josephus motioned to him to be quiet. The interior was lit by a series of flickering oil lamps and he counted: twenty of them, all men and seated in a semi-circle facing the speaker. Standing on a barrel, and with his back to Josephus, an elderly man was speaking in heavily-accented Latin. He could only catch the odd word but the topic of his address left no doubt.
Josephus stood up and motioned for Giora to follow. ‘It’s him all right,’ he whispered. They stole along a narrow alley separating the cooper’s workshop from the neighbouring building, home to a lamp oil seller according to the sign. At the corner they stopped and waited, peering into the darkness and straining to catch the merest sound – anything that would suggest the presence of look-outs. Finally, Josephus, satisfied that the coast was clear, tapped his companion on the shoulder and they made their way through the shadows to the front of the building. ‘Now,’ he whispered and Giora cupped his hands to his mouth, giving the owl hooting signal for the Praetorian Guard detachment to move. Then they saw them: thirty men, each armed – like Josephus and Giora – with the army’s standard-issue short stabbing sword; ideal for close-quarter action.
Without breaking stride, a team of four guardsmen carrying a short ram used by the Vigiles for breaking into burning buildings, smashed down the entrance, and with a yell, the rest of the squad poured through the breach. To Josephus, this was familiar territory: as with Andreas in Patras and Nathanael Bar Talmai in Albanopolis, he’d done the detective work and now it was up to the professionals to do the physical side of the job. However, the Christians had other ideas. Well drilled, two of them pulled swords from under their cloaks and hustled the speaker, now clearly identifiable as Peter, towards the rear door of the workshop. Those still standing after the Praetorian’s first assault also drew weapons and stood in a single rank, defying the soldiers to take them on. For a moment, the officer commanding the detachment hesitated but then, leading the charge, hurled himself at the Christians. Screams filled the air. Lamps, the cooper’s tools and half-finished barrels were scattered left and right as the battle raged.
Suddenly, Giora grabbed Josephus’ arm. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘They’re getting away.’ All the Roman soldiers were fully occupied fighting for their lives, so with no time to explain, Josephus and Giora ran back down the alley and into the darkness beneath the grandstand. Light now streamed from the open door and ahead of them, lit by the flames of a fire from a fallen oil lamp, were three figures: two taller men were half carrying, half dragging the third, their progress hindered by the maze of struts and girders below the seats. Swords drawn, the two Judeans advanced and were nearly on them when one of the Christians turned and saw their pursuers silhouetted against the light.
They charged on, Josephus calling out into the darkness behind him as though summoning the Praetorians to his aid. Expecting the two Christians to run and abandon the elderly preacher to his fate, they received an unpleasant surprise when instead they turned on them, swords drawn.
Josephus had no combat experience and while struggling to remove the gladius from its sheath, he got the hilt tangled under his belt. He heard rather than saw the downward rush of his opponent’s sword, and with a thud, the blade bit deep.. Josephus fell sprawling on his back. For a moment he wondered if he’d died and why, if he was still alive, he felt no pain. He looked up to see the blade embedded in one of the diagonal bracing struts and the Christian sawing up and down on the hilt to get it free. To his left, Giora and the other Christian were fighting over the same sword. Seizing his chance, Josephus rolled over, got up onto one knee, finally managing to disentangle his sword which he grasped with both hands. The Christian bore down on him, his
sword blade glinting in the reflection of the fire which now engulfed the workshop. In panic, Josephus drove his weapon upwards. He thought he’d missed and was about to die when the sword-tip seemed to meet a slight resistance. It was only as the figure looming over him pitched forward onto its face, snatching the weapon’s hilt from his hands, that he realised he’d run the man through.
Just a few feet away, Giora was losing and Josephus tugged at the sword to try and release it from the dead Christian’s body. At last, with a nauseating sucking sound, the blade came free. Twice Josephus made to strike but held back for fear of hitting the wrong target. At last he saw his opportunity and swung the blade horizontally at the man’s neck. This time, he felt the blade slice through flesh and stop as it hit something more solid. The two figures span away from each other, Giora falling backwards and the Christian lurching away into the darkness.
To Josephus’ horror, Giora lay motionless. His eyes were half open and staring straight ahead. Illuminated by the light of the fire raging twenty yards behind them, Josephus could see that his face, neck and the front of his tunic were drenched in blood. He threw his arms around his friend’s neck and sobbed. ‘Oh, Giora, please forgive me. Oh, God, what have I done.’ He pressed his face hard against Giora’s, matting his own hair with blood. Suddenly he felt movement and drew back. Giora’s eyelids flickered.
‘I don’t know what you’ve done, but my head hurts. Here, help me up, would you.’
‘Giora! You’re alive,’ shouted Josephus in delight, putting his hands either side of Giora’s face. ‘I thought I’d killed you. Look at all this blood.’
Groggily, he sat up and felt himself over for damage. Then he blinked and squinted, trying to bring Josephus’ tear-stained but beaming face into focus. ‘You know,’ he said after running a hand over his head. ‘I don’t think it’s mine. Whatever you did, I think you got him.’
‘Can you walk?’ Josephus asked.
‘I think so.’ He pulled Giora to his feet and they stumbled on past the dead Christian and away from the flames which had now spread to the woodwork of the grandstand above them. They had only gone a few paces when Josephus noticed movement off to their right; crouching behind a wooden pillar and trying to lose himself in the shadows was a hunched figure.
‘Stay here,’ he told Giora and, unsheathing the gladius, moved towards the man whose name had haunted him for so many years.
Peter cowered, trying to back further into cover. ‘Please don’t harm me,’ he said in Latin as Josephus stood over him, levelling the sword at his throat. ‘I am but a humble servant of the Lord and I bring a message of love to all mankind –’
The reply which came in Aramaic cut him off short. ‘A bit late for that, Simon Kefas, you two-faced old bastard. It’s a pity you didn’t think about “love for all mankind” when it came to my father.’
Peter’s mouth dropped open at the sound of his Aramaic name. ‘Y-your father? I haven’t harmed anyone’s father. I’m a man of peace…you’re making a mistake…you must have me mixed up with someone else, my name’s Peter.’
In his peripheral vision Josephus could see that Giora had joined him. He nodded in the old man’s direction. ‘Funny how memory fades with old age, isn’t it, Giora?’ Turning his attention to Peter once more, he said, ‘Then let me give you a clue. Does the name Yeshua Bar Yosef mean anything to you? The one you people now call “The Christ”? The man you loved so much that you had him killed. Remember now?’
Peter stared at him in disbelief. ‘Why do you take the Messiah’s name in vain? Who are you?’
‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ said Josephus, dragging him to his feet and pinning him against an upright, the tip of the sword now inches away from Peter’s throat. ‘I’m his son.’
‘But that’s not possible.’
‘Oh yes it is,’ said Josephus, his voice becoming a snarl. ‘There are two ways it can have happened: either my mother was already pregnant when you people had him murdered by the Romans or alternatively he came back to life, as you would have the gullible believe, so perhaps he fathered me then. Which do you think, Peter? And do please be quick because I’m in a hurry to cut your guts out.’
Giora placed a hand on Josephus’ shoulder. ‘No, not that. Not here. Nero wants this one alive.’
Josephus lowered the sword. ‘You’re right. I’m sure he’s got something far slower and painful in mind after all the trouble his fairy stories have caused.’
Peter shook himself free and glared at Josephus. ‘The Lord is merciful and forgives all. Remember your teachings, young man. If you’re who you say you are, you should know better than to threaten your elders on the basis of a distorted version of events that happened nearly thirty years ago.’
‘You were a liar then and I see nothing’s changed,’ he said, grabbing him by the scrawny throat. ‘Nero wants you alive and if I have anything to do with it, your death will be even more harrowing than the one you had inflicted on my father. But at least there’s one consolation.’
‘What’s that?’ Peter asked.
‘That when you’re dead and the dogs have eaten their fill of your mangy carcass, people will have more sense than to believe in any superstition based on your worthless life.’
The southerly wind drove the flames ever closer and, pushing their captive ahead of them, they rejoined the detachment of Praetorians outside the stadium. Of the original twenty who had been listening to Peter, only six had survived and three of the soldiers were dead. Four others were having their wounds tended by an army surgeon. ‘I see you got him then,’ said the commander. ‘What happened to the other two?’
‘Back under that lot,’ said Josephus, indicating the blazing grandstand.
‘I don’t fancy the Vigiles’ chances of putting that out in a hurry,’ said the commander.
‘And I don’t fancy your chances when the emperor finds out how it started,’ replied Giora.
‘Unless of course we tell the truth. Just like you always do, eh, Peter?’ Josephus said. ‘We tell him the Christians started it on purpose. After all, it’s just the kind of thing they’d do.’
Driven on by the wind, the fire raced through the buildings on the eastern end of the Palatine hill. Soon, the entire city was in pandemonium and the air rang with the screams and shouts of desperate Romans, some throwing furniture and valuables from upstairs windows while others frantically piled their belongings onto handcarts, all desperate to get away. In the confusion, Peter tried to escape so Giora tied his hands behind his back, keeping a tight grip on the free end of the rope and treating him to a cuff around the head. ‘You were lucky, Bar Yeshua,’ Peter said to Josephus, his face contorted with rage. ‘Phasis is far from Rome and our friends there few in number. Take my word for it, once the Lord’s elect hear of this, your days will be numbered.’
Josephus grabbed the rope and hauled it up behind Peter’s back, causing him to bend almost double. ‘All our days are numbered, you old fool. Have you forgotten everything you learned?’ he said. ‘You’re an apostate, a liar and a murderer. My father was a good man: an aristocrat and a scholar, a man whose boots you weren’t fit to lick. Now move!’ he shouted, giving Peter a vicious kick up the backside.
It took them over an hour to cover the few hundred yards from the Circus Maximus to Nero’s private apartments, their progress hindered by the blaze that had now spread to the buildings at the eastern end of the palace complex itself. Giora handed Peter over to the custody of the Praetorian Guard commander while Josephus set off to report in person.
‘So the first of the seven stars has fallen,’ said the emperor, his face lit by the inferno which raged almost directly beneath the balcony on which he leant. ‘You must be feeling very pleased with yourself, Josephus.’
‘My only hope is that you are satisfied with our work, sir, and that you’ll continue to give it your support.’
‘Oh of course I will,’ said Nero, still with his back to Josephus, unable to tear his eyes away from the
spectacle of the fire. ‘I haven’t had so much fun in years. And you say the Christians started it deliberately?’
‘Yes, sir. Peter himself gave the command.’
At last, Nero turned round to look at him, leaning against the marble balustrade, everything around them suffused with the glow of the flames. ‘Seneca was right about these people. They tell me only six of his followers survived. Is that true?’ Josephus nodded. ‘Seems such a pity; I always think mass executions are so much more fun. What do you think best fits the crime, the arena or crucifixion?’
‘It’s not for me to say, sir,’ replied Josephus, anxious not to overplay his hand. ‘But given that Peter was responsible for having my father scourged and then crucified, well, it seems only fitting –’
‘That he should suffer the same fate.’ Nero clapped his hands. ‘I think that accords perfectly with Roman justice at it’s most merciful – a splendid idea – would you like to watch? You can even hammer the nails in if you like.’
‘I’ll pass if I may, sir. I’m a little squeamish.’
Nero shook his head. ‘You Jews never cease to amaze me. The man was responsible for your father’s death, you’ve been hunting him for years and now you don’t want to take part in his punishment? Still, each to his own I suppose, but you’ll be missing a treat. Now tell me, who’s next on the list?’
‘Paul.’
‘Ah yes. Paul.’ said Nero. ‘Proculus tells me that if it hadn’t been for the crew of a Black Sea Fleet liburna, you wouldn’t have made it home because of Paul.’ Without waiting for Josephus’ reply, the emperor turned on his heel and wandered distractedly in through the doors as though searching for something he’d forgotten but couldn’t quite remember what it was. Moments later he returned, carrying a lyre. ‘Are you familiar with The Sack of Ilium, Josephus?’ he asked.
The Seven Stars Page 24