Emperor's Lion, page 11
‘Bring this new slave to me now.’
‘Well, she is right here.’
The chef indicated a tall, thin, black woman, who looked over at Silus, puzzled at being singled out.
‘Not her. There is no one else? I’m looking for a Jewish man called Calev, though he might not have used that name.’
‘I think I know my kitchen staff. There is nobody…’
‘Master,’ said a lad holding a vegetable knife, his apron stained green. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but I couldn’t help overhearing.’
‘How many times must I tell you that you are only to speak when you are spoken to?’ said the chef, raising a hand to strike the boy.
‘Wait,’ said Silus. ‘What were you going to say, boy?’
‘There is that new wine-server. He just arrived today. Said he had just been purchased by the governor’s wife.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Silus sharply.
‘Short, skinny. Kept his head down a lot, like he didn’t want anyone looking at him.’
‘Oh, by Saturn’s balls,’ Silus said in a whisper. ‘Where is the governor now?’
‘I believe he is in the triclinium, receiving his guests.’
Silus set off at a headlong run, shoving palace civil servants and attendant slaves aside as he rushed to the dining room. He burst through the double doors to find Marcellus reclining on the head couch, Soaemias by his right side, Gannys on his left. Two other couches were occupied by togate men, each accompanied by a finely dressed wife or mistress. All eyes turned to him as he made his dramatic entrance.
Marcellus was holding a silver cup to his lips, and frozen in the act of drinking.
‘Silus, what is the meaning…’
Silus hurdled the nearest couch, his trailing foot kicking a grey-haired woman in the head, lunged for Marcellus, and knocked the cup from his hands. It crashed down with a clatter. A tiny amount of wine trickled from it onto the mosaic floor.
‘Silus, have you gone mad?’ gasped Marcellus.
Silus knelt down, heart sinking. So little liquid had split. That meant…
He dipped his finger into the wine from the floor, dabbed it onto his tongue. Even that small amount tasted incredibly bitter, the flavour identical to the odours he had smelt from that bag of poison he had encountered aboard the Minerva. He looked up at Marcellus.
‘How much did you drink?’ he asked, fearing he knew the answer.
‘Almost a cupful, until you dashed the last sip from my lips.’
‘Didn’t you taste how bitter it was?’
‘The slave boy said it was flavoured with special herbs, that it was an acquired taste, but one worth persisting with.’
Silus stared, aghast at the governor’s stupidity. He looked to Soaemias, who had realised exactly what was going on. She put a hand on her husband’s arm, and despite her past behaviour Silus could see there was genuine affection there, as her eyes filled with tears.
‘Silus, what’s going on?’
Silus shook his head sadly, unable to find the words, to break the news. Soaemias was more proactive. She summoned a slave boy and sent him to fetch a physician at the run. She ordered everyone present to put down their cups, and sent a guard to bring the palace centurion to her immediately.
Realisation had dawned on Marcellus, and he looked from Silus to the dented cup on the floor and back again.
‘How… how long do I have?’
‘The physician will have a cure,’ said Silus weakly, not believing it.
‘And if he doesn’t? How long?’
‘It depends how much you consumed. I think there was a lot. So, maybe an hour or two.’
Marcellus nodded. He looked around at his guests. ‘Did anyone else drink the same wine?’
One of the men raised his hand hesitantly, and the young wife of one of the other dignitaries gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
‘Let us all wait for the physician,’ said Marcellus calmly.
The centurion arrived, red-faced and out of breath.
‘Centurion, guard every exit from the palace. No one is to leave, and no one is to enter except the physician. Start a room-by-room search for anyone who you don’t recognise, and have them brought to me.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Silus asked Marcellus.
‘Not many moments ago. He hovered near me for a while, asking if the wine was to my liking, whether I wanted any more. I guess he was waiting to see if I drank it.’
‘He may not have got far,’ said Soaemias. ‘Silus, you can do no more here. Find him.’
Silus nodded, bowed his head to Marcellus, and then raced out.
The palace was already in commotion, slaves and servants shouting questions, guards rushing about, tearing open doors and ripping apart curtains. Four guards stood at attention at the palace entrance.
Silus took a moment to gather his thoughts. If Calev was still inside the palace, the guards would find him quickly. He would have had to flee as soon as he was sure the job was done. But he wouldn’t be able to escape through the heavily guarded front gates. There were no windows within the palace that viewed the outside. That meant his most likely escape was through the gardens and over the wall.
Silus put his head down and sprinted to the rear of the palace. He hadn’t explored the grounds fully, and twice he took a wrong turn into a blind corridor and had to ask for directions from startled and panicky servants. But quickly he found the garden doors, and burst into the daylight.
The gardens were too extensive to be called a peristylium, extending for a couple of hundred yards to the rear of the palace. The nearest area sported a colonnaded walkway with mosaics, ornately topiaried shrubs and fragrant flower beds. Further, the garden was bounded on three sides by a ten-foot wall, lined with brightly painted statues of gods and animals, the style more pastoral, with small fruit trees and naturally shaped bushes. The furthest boundary consisted of a thorn hedge against a low wall.
Silus’ eyes adjusted to the light – though it was late afternoon, it was still brighter outside than in. He squinted around, then in his peripheral vision caught the movement of a small figure halfway down the garden, walking swiftly with head bowed. Silus broke into a run, trying to keep quiet so he didn’t alert his quarry. But the man heard the footsteps on the mosaic tiles. He turned, and instantly seeing he was discovered, sprinted towards the hedge.
Silus broke into a run. He didn’t waste breath shouting at him. When had that ever stopped anyone? The figure – Silus could clearly tell now from the man’s build that it was Calev – charged straight into the thorn bush. Barely slowing, he forced his way through to the wall behind, leapt and dragged himself over.
Silus’ lips moved in a silent curse, and moments later, he plunged into the bush himself. Sharp thorns torn his clothes and his skin, raking his flesh like an angry wild cat. He pressed his palms to his face, and deep gouges opened up on the backs of his hands. Better there than his cheeks and eyes, he consoled himself.
Then he was through, and up against the low wall. He jumped, grabbed the top with both hands and winced as he realised the top was lined with jagged, flinty rocks to deter intruders. He held on and swung a leg up, hooking his foot over to enable him to lever himself upwards. His tunic sprung more holes as he rolled over the sharp boundary and the jags scored more bloody lines along his belly. He hit the ground on the other side of the wall with his skin on fire.
He was in a broad street running along the back of the palace, mainly residential. Judging from the architecture, it was an affluent area. No crumbling, teetering insulae here like in the poor parts of Rome, not the scaffold-covered wooden structures you found in the slums of the provincial cities. These houses sported fluted columns, bronze gates, marble statues painted bright reds and yellows and blues. Growling dogs chained near the doorways and tough-looking porters guarded the properties. They were no safe haven for a fugitive.
Sure enough, Silus quickly spotted Calev charging down the street towards the more crowded city centre. Silus set off in pursuit.
Cirta was a sizeable provincial capital, but it was no Rome when it came to population density. Streets that in the eternal city would be packed shoulder to shoulder, slaves and the urban poor jostling with the bodyguards of senators trying to clear a path for their charges, were here more sparsely sprinkled with men, women and children on their business. He ran past a group of children sitting cross-legged around their tutor, who goggled at him, styli held loosely in their hands, wax tablets forgotten in their laps. He rounded a corner and had to swerve to avoid the front pair of slaves sweating under the effort of bearing a corpulent man draped in silk and gold. He hurdled a mangy dog that shot out from under the stall of a spice seller in pursuit of a squealing piglet.
Calev was fast. He was light-framed and could accelerate and dodge with more alacrity than Silus. His leaner build would probably give him an edge in endurance over Silus too. But Silus’ superior musculature meant that he could outsprint the little poisoner. So the gap between them shortened and lengthened with the character of the environment, Calev extending his lead where it was busier and the streets were windier, Silus closing when he could get his head down and make a straight run.
But overall, Calev would have outpaced Silus before long, had he not made a mistake. Glancing back to check the distance from his pursuer, Calev failed to spot a particularly deep pothole in the paving. He pitched forward, throwing his hands out to break his fall. He even managed an impressive shoulder roll, allowing him to spring straight to his feet. But as he set off again, his forward momentum barely impeded, Silus saw that he was limping, and realised that he had twisted his ankle. He quickly gained on his quarry, and Calev clearly knew that he would soon be caught.
To their right was a large theatre, multiple stone arches leading inside. Calev darted in one of the entrances, straight past the startled merchandise sellers, and pushed his way through the latecomers to the show. Silus shoved and jostled his way in, chasing Calev down the corridor between the semi-circular stepped stone seating, and straight out into the pit before the stage.
Some sort of pantomime or musical comedy was being performed. The stage held a dozen performers, a chorus of singers, pipers and cymbal players, two half-naked dancing girls and two male actors prominent at the front, one dressed as a large-busted matron, a hefty iron pot held threateningly in one hand, the other on his knees, hands clasped, apparently playing her wayward son. The raucous laughter from the crowd died as Calev desperately mounted the stage, looking for a way out, and the actors and entertainers stared in disbelief at the interruption.
Foot dragging now, Calev headed towards the exit in the wings, but before he could get halfway across the stage, Silus was on him, barrelling into his back, bundling him to the wooden floorboards.
Calev twisted beneath him, struck out, extended fingers seeking Silus’ eyes. Silus turned his head just in time, taking the impact painfully but harmlessly on his cheekbone. He grappled for Calev’s wrists, sitting astride the small man, pinning him down with his greater weight. Killing him would be easier, but Silus wanted to know who had sent Calev on his deadly mission. To find out who was really responsible for what would surely turn out to be the murder of Marcellus.
The crowd, who had initially been silenced, started to cheer and boo. They seemed careless as to whether this was part of the scheduled show or an unexpected bonus, but enjoyed the spectacle of the two wrestling men for whatever entertainment it provided.
Calev bucked and struggled, fighting like a cornered wild cat, and Silus boxed him hard in the side of the head in an attempt to subdue him. The blow had little effect, and as Silus reached again to pinion his wrists, Calev sank his teeth into Silus’ forearm, making him yell out. The crowd cheered and clapped.
Pain and anger threatened to overwhelm Silus, and he reached for Calev’s neck, gripping it with both hands and squeezing hard. Calev grasped Silus’ arms, trying to prise them apart, to ease the pressure choking off the blood to his brain. Silus was far stronger than him, though, and Calev’s face turned red, his eyes bulging, spittle on his lips. At that moment, Silus wasn’t sure he could stop himself from killing him.
Something heavy thumped into the side of his head with a metallic clang, knocking him sideways from Calev. Silus looked up into the furious face of the big-bosomed actor, who was holding the iron pot with which he had previously been menacing his fictional son, and with which he had just clubbed Silus.
‘Nobody upstages me!’ yelled the actor, his booming voice projecting all the way to the back of the theatre. ‘That was my big scene!’ The audience hooted with laughter, and missiles of soft fruit and vegetables pelted the stage. Silus held up his hands to protect himself in case of another blow, and from the corner of his eye, saw Calev struggle to his feet.
‘No,’ said Silus, trying to focus despite the loud ringing in his ears, and the stars darting in front of his eyes. ‘You don’t understand…’
‘I’ll have you whipped through the streets for this, you… you fiend!’
‘He’s getting away.’
Silus tried to prop himself up on one elbow, but sunk back when the actor lifted the pot high, threatening to bring it down hard again. Calev limped off towards the wings to cheers from the crowd. He turned and saluted Silus, then gave a deep bow to the audience, whose cheers echoed around the theatre as they applauded the victor of the unscripted tussle. Calev winked at Silus, then disappeared.
Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed Silus. He turned his head and vomited on the actor’s sandals.
Chapter VII
The cremation of Sextus Varius Marcellus took place in the ustrinum, the part of the cemetery set apart specifically for that purpose. He lay on a plush, upholstered couch, arms by his side, atop the pile of oil-soaked wood that was ready to be lit. The funeral itself was a strange hybrid affair. Marcellus was not a devout adherent of the religion of his wife and son, the cult of Syrian mountain god Elagabal, but he had certainly paid lip service to the worship, to keep his home life peaceful if for no other reason. He had also been an important Roman statesman, with all the tradition, ceremony and worship of the official Roman pantheon that that entailed. So representing the eastern religion was the young Avitus, dressed in his ceremonial priestly robes, with attendant flautists and lyre players and dancing slave girls and boys, not to mention the strange, black, conical rock, a facsimile of the original which represented the centre of worship of Elagabal in the god’s home town of Emesa. Representing the western, Roman religion was a stern-faced priest of Apollo, who looked sideways at the eastern representatives with evident disapproval. Two legionaries from the Third Augusta, their uniforms and arms polished to perfection, stood at stiff attention, both guards and representatives of the military arm of Rome in which Marcellus had been highly ranked.
The priest stepped forward and gave a loud, short prayer to Apollo, Jupiter, the deified Emperors and a few others for good measure, then expertly dispatched a bullock as a sacrifice, felling it with a hammer blow between the eyes before cutting its throat. His part of the ceremony completed, he retreated to the furthest part of the funeral party, where he could glower at the rest.
Avitus knelt before his father’s pyre, while Soaemias, supported by Gannys, wept and cried aloud, tearing her dark dress. The young priest intoned a prayer to Elagabal, and anointed the pyre with incense and other perfumes. Silus admired his composure. So mature for one so young. So dedicated to his calling, even when it was his own murdered father whose funeral he was conducting.
The crowd of onlookers comprised professional mourners – those paid to weep and tear their hair and gnash their teeth and cry out to the gods, the familia of Marcellus, and a large number of curious locals, interested in seeing the final passage of an important man, and hopeful that there would be entertainment and maybe even some gifts handed out. The familia was smaller than would usually be expected for such an important man, but that was because he was far from Rome. Of immediate family, there was only Soaemias and Avitus. Avitus had had a younger brother, who they maintained was with them in spirit, but he had died, like so many Roman infants, at a tender age. The familia of course comprised the whole household of the father of the house, so there were many slaves and other servants present, some looking genuinely grief-stricken. The chef that Silus had threatened was at the forefront, crying out that it should have been him taken, not Marcellus, and while Silus privately agreed with him on that, he didn’t think Soaemias would actually take any steps to punish the chef. It wasn’t really his fault that the wine had been adulterated.
Silus had returned from his unsuccessful pursuit of Calev to find Marcellus in the advanced stages of intoxication. The others who had drunk the poisoned wine were already dead. Despite Marcellus appearing to be in great pain, and on the verge of being taken by convulsions, he had summoned Silus to his side, and dismissed his distraught wife and son.
‘Silus,’ he whispered with an effort. ‘Thank you for your efforts. For me, and my family. Now and in the past.’
‘It was my simple duty,’ said Silus solemnly. ‘I am so sorry I failed you.’
‘No,’ said Marcellus, then arched his back as some spasm took him. He breathed heavily, tears running from the corners of his eyes, then swallowed and managed to speak again.
‘Not failure. My wife and son are still alive.’ He looked straight into Silus’ eyes. ‘You must believe me a very naive fool, Silus.’
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Don’t lie to a dying man. Well, maybe I am a fool. But not a naive one. I know about the relationship between my wife and Gannys. And I know that Avitus is probably not my son.’
‘Governor…’
‘Don’t protest. Time is too short. You knew it, didn’t you? You know who his father is?’
Silus hesitated, then nodded.
