‘And the boy?’
‘Mummius sold him to a slave trader bound for Alexandria. The boy disappeared forever. Mollio!’ he snapped. ‘Your hands are useless this morning!’
‘Patience, master,’ cooed the wizened slave. ‘Your spine is as stiff as wood. Your shoulders are like rusty hinges.’
The door opened. A rush of cool air brought with it the high, piping voice of Sergius Orata. ‘And more ducts run under this floor and along both of these walls,’ he was saying. ‘You can see the vents that release the hot air, spaced evenly apart.’ Eco followed him, nodding without much enthusiasm. Orata was naked except for a very large towel wrapped around his middle. Clouds of steam rose from his plump pink flesh.
‘Gordianus, your son is an apt pupil. A better listener I’ve never encountered. I do believe the boy may have some talent for engineering.’
‘Really?’ I glanced over the fat man’s shoulder at Eco, who looked quite bored. No doubt his thoughts were in a more briny milieu, floating across the seascape of the women’s anteroom with Olympias. ‘I’ve always thought so myself, Sergius Orata.
No doubt he finds it difficult to pose complicated questions, but I seem to remember yesterday that he was most curious about how the waters were disposed of after circulating through the pools. I told him I assumed some system of pipes led down to the bay, but my explanation failed to satisfy him.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Orata looked pleased. Eco stared at me, perplexed, then perceived the wink I gave him when Orata’s back was turned. ‘Then I shall have to explain it to him in detail, and leave nothing out. Come along, young man.’ Orata disappeared through the door, and Eco trudged after him.
Metrobius laughed, then grunted as the slave Mollio recommenced pinching and pounding his flesh. ‘Sergius Orata isn’t quite the simple soul he pretends to be,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘There’s quite a head on those shoulders, always calculating and counting his profits. He’s certainly rich enough, and rumours allude to a weakness for gambling and dancing girls. Still, in this house he must seem a paragon of virtue - neither as greedy as Crassus nor as wicked as Mummius, not by a long shot.’
‘About Crassus I know very little,’ I confessed, ‘only what they say behind his back in the Forum.’
‘Believe every word. Really, I’m surprised he hasn’t stolen the coin from the corpse’s mouth.’
‘As for Mummius���’
‘The swine.’
‘He seems an odd mix of a man to me. I’ll grant you that there’s harsh side to him. I saw an example of it on the journey here: for a drill, he ordered the galley slaves driven to the maximum - as frightening a spectacle as I’ve ever witnessed.’
‘That sounds like Mummius, with his stupid military discipline. Discipline is a god he uses to excuse any act of wickedness, no matter how vile, just as Crassus can justify any crime for the sake of acquisition. They’re two faces of a coin, opposites in many ways but essentially alike.’ Such criticism struck me as odd, coming from a man who had been so closely allied with Sulla. But as the Etruscans say, love turns a blind eye to corruption, while jealousy sees every vice.
‘And yet,’ I said, ‘I think I glimpse in both of them a certain weakness, a softness that shows through their armour. Mummius’s armour is of steel, Crassus’s is of silver, but why does any man cover himself with armour except to shield his vulnerability?’
Metrobius raised an eyebrow and looked at me shrewdly. ‘Well, Gordianus of Rome, you may be more perceptive than I thought. What are these weaknesses evinced by Crassus and his lieutenant?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t yet know enough about either of them to say.’
Metrobius nodded. ‘Search and you may find, Finder. But enough about those two.’ He rolled over and allowed the slave to stretch his arms above his head. ‘Let’s change the subject.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me something about Lucius and Gelina. I understand that you and Gelina are very close friends.’
‘We are.’
‘And Lucius?’
‘Didn’t you just come from viewing Iaia’s painted room?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Then you must have seen his portrait.’ ‘Oh?���
‘The jellyfish, just above the door.’ ‘What? Oh, I see, you’re joking.’
‘I’m not. Have a good look at it the next chance you get. The body is that of a jellyfish, but the face is quite unmistakably Lucius. It’s in the eyes. A brilliant piece of satire, all the more satisfying because Lucius himself would never have got the joke. It elevates the whole mural to the level of high art. Iaia was once called the finest portraitist in Rome, and for good reason.’
‘Then Lucius was a jellyfish?’
He snorted. ‘A more useless man I never met. A mere footrest for Crassus, though a footrest might have had more personality. He’s better off dead than alive.’
‘Yet Gelina loved him.’
‘Did she? Yes, I suppose she did. “Love turns a blind eye,” as the Etruscans say.’
‘I was just thinking of that proverb myself. But I suppose Gelina is by nature an emotional woman. She certainly seems distraught about the fate of her slaves.’
, He shrugged. ‘If Crassus insists on killing them, it’s a stupid waste, but I’m sure he’ll give her others. Crassus owns more slaves than there are fish in the sea.’
‘It impresses me that Gelina was able to convince Crassus to send a ship for me.’
‘Gelina?’ Metrobius smiled oddly. ‘Yes, it was Gelina who first mentioned your name, but by herself I doubt that she could have talked Crassus into going to so much effort and expense on account of mere slaves.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought you knew. There is another who longs to see these slaves plucked from the jaws of death.’ ‘Whom do you mean?’
‘Who journeyed all the way to Rome just to fetch you?’
‘Marcus Mummius? A man who would drive a whole ship of slaves to the point of death on a mere whim? Why would he lift a finger to save Gelina’s slaves, especially in defiance of Crassus’s will?’
Metrobius looked at me oddly. ‘I thought surely you knew. When you spoke of Mummius having a weakness …’ He frowned. ‘You disappoint me, Finder. I think perhaps you are as dense as I originally thought. You were sitting beside me at dinner last night. You saw as clearly as I did the tears that sprang from Mummius’s eyes when the slave boy sang. Do you think he wept for cheap sentiment? A man like Mummius weeps only because his heart is breaking.’
‘You mean���’
‘The other day, when Crassus made up his mind that the slaves should die, they argued and argued. Mummius was practically on his knees, begging Crassus to make an exception. But Crassus insists that they shall all be punished, including the beautiful Apollonius, no matter how harmless or innocent the boy may be, and no matter how much Mummius desires him. And so, the day after the funeral, Marcus Mummius will have to watch as his own men herd the boy into the arena and put him to death along with the rest of the household slaves. I wonder if they’ll behead them one by one? Surely not, it would take all afternoon, and even a jaded Baian audience would start to fidget. Perhaps they’ll have the gladiators do the dirty work, trapping the slaves under nets and rushing at them with spears
‘Then Mummius wishes to save them all, simply for the sake of Apollonius?’
‘Of course. He’s quite willing to make a fool of himself on the boy’s behalf. It all began on his last visit here with Crassus, back in the spring. Mummius was instantly smitten, like a stag struck with an arrow between the eyes. During the summer he actually wrote the boy a letter from Rome. Lucius intercepted it and was quite disgusted.’
‘Because the letter was pornographic?’
‘Pornography, from Mummius? Please, I’m sure he has neither the imagination nor the literary skill. On the contrary, it was quite chaste and cautious, rather like an epistle from Plato to one of his students, full of pious praise for Apollonius’s spiritual
wisdom and his transcendent beauty, that sort of thing.’
‘But Lucius married for love. I should think he might have sympathized.’
‘It was the impropriety of it that scandalized Lucius. A citizen consorting with one of his own slaves is one thing; it need never be known. But a citizen writing letters to another man’s slave is an embarrassment to everyone. Lucius complained to Crassus, who must have said something to Mummius, since there was never a second letter. But Mummius remained smitten. He wanted to buy Apollonius for himself, but to do that required going through both Lucius and Crassus. One or the other refused to sell ��� perhaps Lucius, to spite Mummius, or perhaps Crassus, wanting to avoid further embarrassments from his lieutenant.’
‘And now Mummius finds himself awaiting the slave’s destruction.’
‘Yes. He’s tried to hide his anguish from Faustus Fabius and the rest of Crassus’s retinue, and most of all from the men under his command, but everyone knows. Rumours spread very quickly in a small, private army. It was quite a spectacle to hear him prostrating himself before Crassus in the library the other day, scrambling to come up with the most ludicrous arguments to save Apollonius���’
‘This was behind closed doors, I assume?’
‘Can I help it if I could hear every word through the windows that face the courtyard? Mummius pleaded for the boy’s life; Crassus invoked the stern majesty of Roman law. Mummius argued for an exception; Crassus told him to stop playing the fool. I believe he even called Mummius ‘unRoman’ at one point, the direst insult a stolid soldier like Mummius can receive from his commander. If you think Gelina is distraught, you should have heard Mummius that day. I can’t imagine how he will react when a Roman blade cuts into the tender young flesh of Apollonius and the pretty slave begins to bleed . ..’ Metrobius slowly shut his eyes, and a strange expression settled on his face.
‘You’re smiling,’ I whispered.
‘And why not? Mollio gives the finest massage on the Cup. I feel quite delicious, and am ready for my bath.’
Metrobius stood and held his arms aloft while the slave wound the long towel around him. I sat up and mopped my perspiring forehead. ‘Do I only imagine it,’ I said quietly, ‘or are there those in this house who actually look forward to seeing the slaves executed? A Roman seeks justice, not vengeance.’
Metrobius did not answer, but slowly turned and left the room.
‘A pity you’re no better at swimming than I am,’ I said to Eco as we left the baths. He gave me a pained look but did not dispute the fact. ‘Our next task must be to have a look at the waters around the boathouse. What was being dumped from the pier last night, and why?’ I looked down from the terrace outside the baths. From where we stood I could see the boathouse and most of the pier. There was no one about. The coastline was dotted with craggy rocks, and the water looked sufficiently deep to be daunting. ‘I wonder if that boy Meto is a swimmer? He probably grew up here on the Cup; aren’t all the local boys divers and swimmers, even the slaves? If we can find him quickly, perhaps we can explore the boathouse and its environs before time for the midday meal.’ We found him on the upper floor. When he saw us he smiled and came running.
I began to speak, but he seized my hand and tugged at it. ‘You must go back to your room,’ he whispered. I tried to make him explain, but he only shook his head and repeated himself. Eco and I followed while he ran ahead.
The room was flooded with sunlight. No one had come to tidy our beds yet, but I sensed that someone had been in the room. I looked sidelong at Meto, who peeked back at me from behind the door. I pulled back the coverlet on my bed.
The ugly little figurine was gone. In its place was a piece of parchment with a message in red letters:
CONSULT THE SIBYL AT CUMAE GO QUICKLY
‘Well, Eco, this changes our plans. No swimming this morning. Someone has arranged for us to receive a message directly from the gods.’
Eco looked at the scrap of parchment, then handed it back to me. He seemed not to notice, as I had, that wherever the letter ‘A’ occurred it was given an eccentric flourish, with the crossbar tilted sharply down to the right.
XI
When I asked Meto if he could show us the way to the Sibyl’s cave, or at least to Cumae, he stepped back, shaking his head. When I pressed him, his face turned pale. ‘Not me,’ he whispered. ‘I’m afraid of the Sibyl. But I know who could show you.’ ‘Yes?’
‘Olympias goes to Cumae every day at about this time, to fetch things from Iaia’s house and to look after the place.’
‘How convenient for us,’ I said. ‘Does a wagon take her, or does Olympias prefer the luxury of a litter?’
‘Oh, no, she rides a horse, as well as any man. She’s probably in the stable now. If you hurry���’
‘Come along, Eco,’ I started to say, but he was already out the door ahead of me.
I half expected to find Olympias waiting for us, but she seemed genuinely surprised when I called to her from the courtyard. She was already setting out from the stable mounted on a small white horse. She had changed her long, shapeless painter’s gown for a short stola that allowed her to sit astride the horse. The garment left her legs completely naked from the knees down. Eco pretended to study the horse with admiration while darting glances at the perfect curvature of the girl’s tawny calves pressed against the animal’s flanks.
Olympias agreed to accompany us to Cumae, but only after some hesitation. When I told her that we were seeking the Sibyl, she looked alarmed at first, then sceptical. Her confusion surprised me. I had thought she must have some part in this shadowy plan to lure me to Cumae, yet she seemed to resent the imposition. She waited while Eco and I borrowed horses from the stable keeper, and then the three of us set out together.
‘The boy Meto says you make this journey every day. Isn’t it a long ride there and back?’
‘I know a shortcut,’ she said.
We passed between the bull-headed pylons and onto the public road, then turned right, as Mummius and I had done the day before when the slave showed us where the bloody tunic had been found. We quickly passed that place and proceeded north. The hills on our left were covered with orchards of olive trees, their branches heavy with an early crop; there were no slaves to be seen. After the orchards there came a vineyard, then scattered patches of cultivated farmland, then a patch of woodland. ‘The land all around the Cup is remarkable for its fertility,’ I said.
‘And for stranger things,’ Olympias remarked.
The road began to wind downwards. Through the trees I saw ahead what had to be Lake Lucrinus, a long lagoon separated from the bay by a narrow stretch of beach. ‘That’s where Sergius Orata made his fortune,’ I said to Eco. ‘Farming oysters and selling them to the rich. If only he were here with us, I’m sure he’d want to treat you to an extensive tour and lecture.’ Eco rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated shudder.
The prospect widened and ahead I was able to see the course of the road as it followed the strand between the lake and the bay and then curved away toward the east, where it passed through a series of low hills before descending again into the town of Puteoli. I saw many docks there, but as Faustus Fabius had said, few big ships.
Olympias looked over her shoulder. ‘If we were to take the road all the way, we’d pass Lake Lucrinus and go halfway to Puteoli before turning back toward Cumae. But that’s for wagons and litters and others who need a paved road. This is the way I go.’ She turned off the road onto a narrow path that cut through low bushes. We passed through a stand of trees onto a bald ridge, following a narrow track that looked like a goat path. There were rolling hills on our left, but on our right, towards Lake Lucrinus, the land fell steeply away. Far below us, on the broad, low plain surrounding the lake, the private army of Crassus was encamped.
Tents had been pitched all about the shore. Little plumes of smoke rose from cooking fires. Mounted horsemen cantered on the plain, throwing up clouds of dust. Soldiers drilled in
marching formation, or practised swordplay in groups of two. The sound of swords banging shields echoed up from the valley, along with a deep bellowing voice that was too indistinct to understand but impossible not to recognize. Marcus Mummius was shouting instructions at a group of soldiers who stood in rigid formation. Nearby, before the largest of the tents, stood Faustus Fabius, recognizable from his mane of red hair; he was leaning over and speaking to Crassus, who sat in a backless folding chair. He was dressed in full military regalia, his silver accoutrements glinting in the sun, his great red cape as vivid as a drop of blood on the dusty landscape.
‘They say he’s getting ready to press for the command against Spartacus,’ said Olympias, gazing down at the spectacle with a moody look on her face. ‘The Senate has its own armies, of course, but the ranks have been devastated by the defeats of the spring and summer. So Crassus is raising his own army. Fabius tells me there are six hundred men at Lake Lucrinus. Crassus has already raised five times that many at a camp outside Rome, and can raise many more once the Senate approves. Crassus says no man can really call himself rich unless he can afford his own army.’
While we watched, a cymbal was beaten and the soldiers began to congregate for their midday meal. Slaves hurried to and fro among the boiling pots. ‘Do you recognize the tunics? Those kitchen slaves are from Gelina’s house,’ Olympias said. ‘Scurrying to feed the same men who in two days’ time will be cutting their throats.’
Eco touched my arm and pointed to the far side of the plain, where bare earth gave way to woods. A great swathe of felled trees had been cleared from the forest, and a team of soldiers was building a temporary arena from the raw wood. A deep bowl had been dug in the earth and stamped flat, and around it the soldiers were constructing a high wall surrounded by tiers of seats. I squinted and was barely able to make out the groups of helmeted men within the ring who practised mock combat with swords, tridents, and nets. ‘For the funeral games,’ I muttered. ‘The gladiators must have already arrived. That’s where they’ll fight on the day after tomorrow in honour of Lucius Licinius. That must also be where
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