The Seven Stars

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  ‘Like buried treasure, you mean?’ asked Flora. This raised a laugh and the tension eased a little. ‘And why not? You’re the experts, you tell me, but I don’t think that’s far off the truth. Somebody, somewhere in your country thinks these writings are capable of telling them something. What that something is, I don’t know yet, but they want to have it to themselves.’

  ‘Nice theory,’ said the supervisor, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his feet out in front of him. ‘Perfect for keeping yourself in a job. While you take the next ten years on Christ knows what daily rate decoding King Tut’s Christmas card list, we all sit around on our dumb asses watching in admiration. Is that the plan?’

  Instead of reacting how he’d hoped, Flora just laughed: at him or with him, he wasn’t sure. ‘If only I’d thought of that first,’ she smiled. ‘In case you’re wondering, I’m not getting paid for this. I have a day job, teaching and researching at the University of Oxford: term starts in a few weeks, I have a huge pile of documents to work through if I’m to help you and,’ she smiled at the supervisor once more, ‘I have better things to do than waste my time in an intellectual fencing match with an unarmed opponent.’ The barb found its mark. ‘I’m going to hand back to Special Agent Cohen, and unless there are any other questions, I’ll leave you with what I think is the most plausible theory. Your buyer is someone who sees a message in these works, particularly the encrypted ones, at a guess: a message that may not be there or one we haven’t found yet. If I find it, I’ll tell you and you’ll have your motive.’ Flicking the projector to the blank at the end of the presentation, Flora walked off the stage and resumed her seat next to Cohen. She noticed he’d gone red in the face and for a moment thought he was crying. Then she realised he was doing his utmost to suppress a fit of the giggles at his supervisor’s public humiliation.

  The mood of good humour was short lived. As Flora and Cohen left the room, they noticed the supervisor deep in conversation with the head of the Art Crime Team. ‘So what’s that all about?’ she asked as they walked back to the elevator.

  Cohen gave a resigned shrug. ‘At a guess, it’s my boss bitching like hell to get me back. With the exception of the head of the ACT, we’re only seconded for as long as they need us, or more usually, until they get fed up with our supervisors’ whining.’

  ‘And yours wants you back?’

  A double ring announced the arrival of the elevator. ‘It’s not so much about wanting me back,’ said Cohen, pressing the down button. ‘He fought like hell not to let me go in the first place. His clear-up stats for this year suck and stats are all this organisation rates you on.’ As they stepped out into the lobby, Cohen’s cell-phone began to ring. ‘That’ll be him now. You dropped me in some deep shit back there, you know that?’ He answered. ‘Yes, she’s with me right now.’ He looked at Flora and she saw his face go pale. ‘Shit! When? Fuck. Yeah, OK, I’ll tell her. We’re on our way down.’ He rang off. ‘Change of plan, Flora, we’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I was a bit brusque with him but –’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with my supervisor. He’s pissed off at you but it’s not that; I’ll tell you about it when we get to the basement.’

  ‘The basement?’ Flora asked, trotting along behind to keep up with his long strides. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘The garage and a paddy wagon with no windows for putting bad guys in. You’re going for a little ride as they say on TV.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Rome AD 65

  Josephus screamed again: begging, gasping, the last vestiges of resistance destroyed. The rope around his wrists was now looped over one of the roof beams, pulling his arms, which were still fastened together behind his back, upwards into a position of indescribable agony. The first time the two men hauled on the rope, his toes remained just in contact the floor but the pain in his shoulders was unbearable. Then, they pulled him clean off the ground, leaving him hanging for five minutes while he screamed.

  Ignoring the tears, the cries and the pleading, Paul nodded and the rope was slackened just enough for Josephus to take some of the weight off his shoulder joints and to get his breath.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ said Paul in a matter-of-fact voice and this time don’t lie to me or we’ll break your arms. ‘You’re going to die anyway, so it’s up to you whether it’s quick or whether we take our time over it.’

  ‘Please,’ sobbed Josephus. ‘I’ve told you everything. Vespasian’s helping me, Giora’s gone home and the emperor provides manpower and money. That’s all. Now for God’s sake let me down, I can’t stand it –’

  ‘But that’s the whole point,’ Paul replied, savouring his victim’s agony. ‘If you could stand it, you’d carry on lying to us. Now, for the last time before I have your feet burnt off, who betrayed Peter?’

  ‘I’ve already told you I don’t know his name,’ sobbed Josephus. ‘Somebody at the theatre told Alityros there was a meeting so we checked it out to make sure it wasn’t a trap. We got to the workshop, found them all there and gave the sign to the Praetorians. Please, you must believe me.’

  ‘You really are a bore and a stupid one at that,’ said Paul stroking his beard. He signalled to one of his men. ‘Go and tell the blacksmith and his boy to clear off for an hour, we’re going to need the furnace. Give him this,’ he said, tossing him a gold coin.

  Josephus began wailing again, twisting in a vain attempt to ease the pain shooting through his whole body. Then, at the sound of returning footsteps on wooden boards he screamed in terror, but instead of strong arms bearing him away to the smithy, the end wall exploded in a shower of splinters as a squad of Roman soldiers burst through the jagged hole into the room. ‘Which one’s Paul?’ shouted the commander and Josephus felt the rope go slack as two soldiers piled into his torturers, cutting them down with their swords.

  ‘Him, the old one with the beard,’ he gasped. One of the soldiers untied him and he collapsed onto the floor, his arms flopping uselessly by his sides.

  ‘Come on,’ said the guard commander, Nero’s having a meeting with Proculus and Vespasian and he’d like you to join them.’ He helped Josephus up, and supporting him around the shoulders, led him back down the stairs.

  By the time they reached the palace Josephus had regained some use of his arms although still couldn’t raise his hands above waist height.

  Seated around a circular fountain were the emperor, Proculus and Vespasian: Nero, he noted with concern, wasn’t smiling. Behind Nero’s chair stood two men, one displaying senatorial rank, the other in the uniform of a Praetorian centurion.

  ‘So glad you could join us, Josephus,’ the emperor said, his voice laden with menace. ‘Perhaps you can explain to me why you kept the news of this foul conspiracy to yourself.’

  Josephus looked nervously at his two high-ranking friends but neither of them would meet his gaze. ‘I was advised,’ he said, ‘that evidence against the plotters was incomplete and that there would be no risk of harm to you, sir, if their arrest were delayed while the final proof was obtained.’

  ‘And did that seem reasonable to you? Did it sound like the truth?’

  He wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘It sounded plausible, sir. Admiral Proculus told me about a woman in Puteoli – Epicharis, I think…’

  ‘Go on,’ said Nero.

  ‘Well that’s it. She told Admiral Proculus about the conspiracy, he pretended to go along with it to get further information and by now she should be under arrest.’

  The emperor made no reply and turned to the senator who stood behind him. ‘Well, Nerva, what do you think?’

  Nerva snorted in disdain. ‘He’s learned his lines well. All Jews are liars and this one’s no different. All three of them were in it up to their eyes and now they’re trying to wriggle.’

  Nero turned the other way. ‘Tigellinus. What about you?’

  ‘I think they could be telling the truth. One second if you’ll permit, si
r?’ Nero nodded and the centurion left the room to return about three minutes later. ‘I’ve just spoken to my detachment commander. Just as Vespasian said, sir, the Christian Paul and some of his followers have been taken. This man,’ he pointed at Josephus, ‘was present. I believe that if Epicharis really is under arrest as Proculus has said, then they’re telling the truth.’ Nerva glared at him and muttered something under his breath.

  ‘Very well,’ said Nero, turning once more to his three unhappy guests. ‘You gentlemen are under house arrest. If you are found outside the precincts of the palace I will take it as an admission of your guilt.’ He stood and spoke to Tigellinus and Nerva. ‘You two, get me a full list of names. Arrest those you can find. Those in the provinces, you are to inform them it is my will that they commit suicide. You may leave, all of you.’

  Josephus, Vespasian and Proculus were led away. ‘So what went wrong?’ asked Josephus as they sat together at the meal table, for the moment all differences in rank forgotten.

  ‘Nerva,’ said Vespasian. ‘Like I told you, I’d briefed him on what we’d found, I even told him when we planned to make the arrests and he simply moved a day early to make himself look like the empire’s saviour while we, by implication, looked like members of the plot. Our lives depend on Tigellinus now.’ He looked towards Josephus. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nerva will get all the credit for catching Paul.’

  Josephus shivered. ‘He was about to kill me, you do realise that?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry about that,’ Vespasian said, looking down at the floor. ‘My fault I’m afraid.’ The emperor has known for a long time that Paul has been trying to track you down. Paul knows who you are and what you’re trying to do so Nero gave me an order: use you as bait.’

  ‘And so you set me up?’ asked Josephus, his face a picture of stunned disbelief.

  ‘Given a choice between risking your life and disobeying a direct command from my emperor, I’m sorry, but you came a poor second. We tipped Paul’s followers off that you’d be leaving my house to walk back to the palace and we had you followed to see where they’d take you. The idea was to grab Paul and then send in the Praetorians before he had time to do you any harm.’

  ‘With all the respect I owe your rank, sir,’ spat Josephus. ‘You were several hours late. Those bastards nearly pulled my arms out of their sockets….’ Josephus broke down and wept.

  Proculus put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘There was nothing either of us could do. We’ve both spent most of today arguing for our lives in front of the emperor. Paul’s dead and so are the others who abducted you: there’s nothing more to worry about.’

  ‘Did they manage to get any useful information out of him?’ asked Josephus, still fighting back the tears. ‘We all wanted him dead but there’s a whole network of his followers still out there.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Vespasian. ‘If what Nerva said is true they dragged the survivors outside and decapitated them on the spot.’

  Time hung heavily as their house arrest dragged on. First to be released was Proculus. Epicharis had indeed been arrested in Puteoli the day before Nerva exposed the conspiracy, thus validating the admiral’s version of events. Vespasian’s release came a few days later, Nero, in a rare fit of lucidity having realised that attempted coups rarely come as single spies and securing his future would require all the loyal supporters he could muster.

  Josephus was released at the same time but Piso’s abortive conspiracy had changed his relationship with the emperor for ever. At Nerva’s suggestion, Vespasian was sent on a diplomatic mission to Greece and Josephus filled his time planning the next move against his father’s killers. Didymus, it was said, had achieved little success in peddling the Christian cult to the Armenians and so had drifted further east, eventually finding more success on the south-east coast of India, almost at the limits of the known world.

  So Josephus turned his attention closer to home. Word had come from Giora that Yehudas and Simon Kananaios were preaching at towns along the Syrian coast and both made frequent trips to the Phoenician city of Colonia Berytus, modern Beirut. However, without a date for Vespasian’s return and access to the emperor limited, the risks of tackling them on his own were too great.

  While studying one of Pliny’s maps of Phoenician Syria, he heard a knock at the door. ‘Alityros, what a lovely surprise,’ he said, getting to his feet to greet his guest. ‘Please come in…’ his face fell. Alityros stood in the open door, red-eyed and clutching a parchment scroll to his chest.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve got to get straight back to the emperor.’

  Josephus rose from his seat. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What on earth’s the matter?’

  Alityros’ face crumpled. ‘It’s the lady Poppaea. She’s dead.’ He burst into tears. Josephus stood rooted to the spot, unable to think of anything to say. ‘She went into labour last night. The baby got stuck and the doctors couldn’t do anything. They’re both dead. Nero’s beside himself.’

  ‘Oh God, no. Please send him my condolences,’ said Josephus. ‘Sit down, Alityros. Let me fetch you a cup of wine.’

  ‘No, Josephus, there’s more.’ He handed him the scroll which bore the imperial seal.

  Josephus took it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Read it. The emperor wants me to return with your answer.’

  The message was short and simple. ‘Do you know what it says?’ Josephus asked, turning round to face him.

  ‘I haven’t read it but I know the rough gist and I’m sorry, Josephus, I really am. I tried to talk to him but it’s no good: I think he’s gone mad, really and truly mad this time.’

  With trembling hands, Josephus gave back the letter. ‘He says I talked him into persecuting the Christians and now their god has punished him by taking Poppaea and their baby son. I’ve got two days to leave Rome or face trial for treason.’

  Alityros bit his lip as a fat tear rolled down his cheek. ‘I know. You mustn’t stay: you’ll be convicted and crucified if you accept a trial.’

  Josephus took a deep breath. ‘I’m not stupid. Tell the emperor… I don’t know… tell him I’ll go, tell him I’ll miss his musical recitals and the stupid chariot-driving. I don’t care – just tell him what he wants to hear: after all, that’s what everybody else does, don’t they?’ Alityros sniffed and nodded in reply.

  ‘Thanks, Alityros, I appreciate it.’ The actor made no reply and turned to go. Josephus called him back. ‘And thanks for everything. We couldn’t have done it without you.’ They embraced a last time and Alityros left, his face streaming with tears.

  Chapter Thirty

  Washington DC

  Flora followed Cohen across the basement car park of the FBI building. Near the ramp up to street level stood a custody wagon with two uniformed guards in the cab. He opened the rear door, helped Flora into the neon-lit confines of what was effectively a cell on wheels, and sat down beside her on the bench. The door slammed shut. ‘You still haven’t told me what this is all about,’ she said.

  ‘Your house in Oxford was broken into.’

  She clapped her hand to her mouth and tried not to burst into tears. ‘Bloody bastards. Is there much damage? What have they taken? I can’t believe it,’ she spat.

  ‘Just hold on a minute,’ said Cohen, putting a consoling arm round her shoulder. ‘There was no damage and so far as they know, nothing of value was taken.’

  Trying to hide how dejected and homesick she felt, she looked at him imploringly. ‘I don’t understand. Who are “they” and how do they know what’s valuable to me?’

  ‘While you were in Rome, some of Giles Smith’s “Friends” as he calls them, let themselves into your house and your car. Correct?’ She nodded and he continued. ‘During their visit they fitted movement sensors, so small even you wouldn’t notice, and the detectors picked up a couple of intruders. They were only in the house a few minutes, ti
me enough to look in all the rooms and turn on your computer. The Friends had a good look round afterwards and judging from the imprints on your notepad by the phone it’s possible whoever broke in may’ve got a copy of the travel itinerary you’d written on it.’

  ‘So they weren’t burglars? But that means –’

  ‘Precisely. The people who hit the dig site and the lab. Probably not the same ones, but working for the same employer.’

  ‘And now they know I’m here. I want to go home, Ben,’ she said, staring straight ahead.

  ‘You can if you like,’ he replied, giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘But you’re a lot safer here, you do realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To the safest place on the eastern seaboard. Does the name “Quantico” mean anything to you?’

  Her face fell. ‘Whatever for? Are you really going to lock me up for leaving notes by the telephone?’

  ‘Flora, nobody’s locking you up. As I’m sure you know, Quantico is a US Marine base which also houses the FBI Academy, the CIA Academy plus a whole bunch of folks who officially don’t exist but are very much on our side. Safe enough for you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was upset about the house that’s all. I’m not thinking straight.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he replied, removing his arm from around her shoulder. ‘Your house will be fine. And in case you’re worried about your things, one of our agents will collect them from the hotel.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘But hold on, I was booked in as Lavinia Crump. They’d never have found me.’

  ‘Some of them may know what you look like. All they’d have to do was sit in the lobby of the Marriott and wait. We couldn’t take the risk. Still, it’s only for one night and then we’re off again.’

  ‘Where to?’ Flora asked.

  ‘New York. Christies have a sale of pre-Christian and Common Era art and Mr Grossman, with your help, is going to make a nuisance of himself again. My little tantrum in Geneva got picked up – hardly front page stuff but anyone active in the market will have seen it. ’