As she said the words she suddenly knew what to do. Flavia.
‘I will take you to Flavia. She will know. She will find a physician.’
Claudia tried to shake her head.
‘...that I would have gone into the arena...’
She winced again. Birkita placed her hands in under Claudia’s back and knees and braced herself ready to lift her.
‘...and survived,’ Claudia said.
Then the smile froze on her face and her eyes looked vacantly at the heavens.
Julia gasps involuntarily.
She looks across at Suzanne who is eating, chewing her food slowly in that way that she does, savouring every mouthful.
‘Claudia’s dead,’ she says.
Suzanne nods an almost imperceptible nod. It is more a movement of her eyes than her head.
‘I thought they were going to become lovers,’ blurts out Julia.
‘So did I,’ says Suzanne.
Chapter Twenty
The Count of Monte Cristo (Julia)
Eyes blind with tears, Birkita walked away from where Claudia’s body lay just outside the amphitheatre. As she looked back one last time, she saw that other people were starting to carry bodies out from the arena and lay them beside Claudia. At least now you won’t be alone. Claudia had been alone for as long as Birkita had known her – wandering, lost in the darkness of grief. Now at least she would have company as she took the journey into the afterlife. But she had come to love Claudia – frail, gentle Claudia who had belonged no more in a whorehouse than in the arena.
Birkita had torn a strip from her tunic and tied it around the wound on the front of her thigh. It quickly became blood-soaked but no more blood seeped out underneath the rough bandage so she assumed the bleeding had stopped. Her tunic had been fashioned such that it ran across one shoulder leaving her right breast bare. She tore the fabric from her shoulder, ripped it down the centre and then tied it behind her neck, thereby managing to cover both her breasts. Satisfied that she looked just like someone who had been caught up in the collapse at the amphitheatre, she entered the maze of streets.
She wiped the tears from her eyes. She knew where she needed to go – and she had taken up her sword again, holding it as unobtrusively as possible against her leg as she walked.
The narrow streets were heaving with people. There was a flow, of which Birkita was part, which was coming away from the direction of the amphitheatre. There was now an opposite flow of people who appeared to be struggling to get to it. A squad of soldiers came up the street at the trot, barging people out of the way with their shields.
The shaking had caused great damage in the city too. Statues had fallen, doorways had collapsed, roof tiles lay on the cobblestones and she saw a couple of buildings where the roofs had caved in entirely. Paving stones had been pushed up and stood at crazy angles. Walls had crumbled and in several places water was bubbling up through the cobblestones. One eating-house she passed was on fire inside as was a stable where men were frantically trying to get the wide-eyed, terror-stricken horses out of it.
The cramped streets all looked the same and she had no sense of direction but she asked people and eventually she found herself standing at the V in the road where the lupanar stood.
It appeared not to have suffered too badly. Some roof tiles had fallen off and lay shattered in the street. A huge crack ran up through the plaster on one of the walls. But the building was still standing. The front door was open but there was nobody visible, nobody standing where Cassius or Crispus should have been. Taking a firm grip on her sword, Birkita stepped into the cool shadow of the hallway.
It took her eyes a few moments to adjust. The hallway was deserted and there was no sound coming from any of the cubicles. But then a figure emerged from where the toilet was at the far end.
It was Cassius.
‘We’re closed,’ he said, ‘unless you’re looking for a job. Then, you talk to me.’
He obviously hadn’t recognised her.
But then suddenly, he did.
‘British bitch! Wha –’
They were the last three words he uttered in this life.
Birkita charged him, sword arm extended. He put up his hands in a futile attempt to stop it but the sword went right through the palm of one of his hands and buried itself in his heart. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Behind her, the curtains on one of the cubicles rustled and Birkita spun round. It was Bakt, the Egyptian girl. She looked at Birkita, looked at the dead body on the floor and her hands went up to her mouth, so that the scream she might have intended came out as a gasp.
‘Birkita!’
Behind Bakt, in the cubicle, the rest of the girls were huddled together, as though they had been trying to seek some kind of protection from the earth-shaking.
‘You should escape,’ said Birkita. ‘You will never have a better chance than now.’
The girls looked at her in stunned silence.
‘Escape,’ she said again, as though they hadn’t understood the first time. ‘Go!’
Again nobody moved.
‘Where is Flavia?’ asked Birkita.
Several pairs of eyes looked upwards.
‘Upstairs,’ Bakt managed to say.
‘Go,’ Birkita said one more time before she left them and pounded up the stairs and into the upstairs room.
Where the tiles had fallen off, the roof was open to the sky. Flavia was inspecting the damage. When she saw Birkita she looked like she had seen a ghost. But she recovered almost instantaneously, while her eyes took in Birkita’s bloodstained dress and the sword in her hand.
‘Birkita – you survived!’
‘I need clothes,’ said Birkita.
‘I can get you clothes,’ Flavia said. ‘There’s probably nothing that would be right here – you know the only kind of clothes we have –’
Flavia laughed a thin, nervous laugh.
‘But come up to my place and I will find something for you.’
They went downstairs, out and up the street, pausing only for Birkita to retrieve her money from its hiding place. Flavia talked non-stop about the earth-shaking.
‘We thought the whole place would fall down. We thought we were all going to die. They say people have died,’ she babbled on.
‘Claudia died,’ said Birkita.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Flavia, ‘but it was her own fault. I warned her often enough.’
At Flavia’s place, she lifted the lid on a wooden chest and took out several items of clothing. Birkita took a dark green tunic and belt and changed into them while Flavia watched uncertainly.
‘Let me clean the wound on your leg,’ she offered.
‘It’s fine,’ said Birkita. ‘But give me some water.’
Flavia did as she was told.
Birkita drank some of the water and splashed the rest in her face. Then she took up her sword again and moved to the door. Relief flooded Flavia’s face like a sunrise.
She thinks this is finished.
‘Now,’ Birkita said, her body blocking the door. ‘Give me the money.’
‘What money?’ Flavia said in alarm.
‘The money you told me about. The money you were going to use to buy your freedom.’
‘I’ve already given it to Antonius.’
‘Liar.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘I’ve already killed people today,’ said Birkita. ‘And they were people I had no quarrel with. It wouldn’t cost me a thought to kill you.’
‘I swear. I gave it to him.’
Birkita stepped forward.
‘I’m going to start cutting,’ she said. ‘I’ll start with your hair. Then your face. Then one of your breasts. Then –’
‘I’ll give you the money,’ said Flavia shrilly. ‘All right, I’ll give it to you.’
Flavia knelt down, rummaged in the bottom of the chest where the clothes were and withdrew a small leather bag of money. She handed it t
o Birkita who weighed it in her hand.
‘There’s more,’ said Birkita.
‘No, that’s all of it.’
‘You won’t look nice with no hair. And when I cut your face, what will Antonius say then? You’ll never work again. At least not in this business. Maybe as a beggar.’
Birkita raised the sword.
‘All right, I’ll give you the rest of it. Only – promise me. You have to take me with you.’
‘The money?’ said Birkita coldly.
Flavia went to the back of the room, knelt down and using the tips of her fingers, lifted up a flagstone. She lifted something out and handed it to Birkita who stood over her. It was a second leather purse, much heavier than the first one. Tears ran down Flavia’s upturned face.
‘Now, I will die here,’ she said. ‘Have pity on me, Birkita. Take me with you – please. Remember what we had.’
Birkita put the purses into the pocket of her tunic. She pointed the sword at Flavia.
‘If you know what’s good for you, you won’t send anybody after me.’
Flavia began to sob. She put her hands together as though in prayer.
‘Please, Birkita, please.’
Birkita turned and walked out the door.
She followed the smell of the sea, went downhill, had to ask a couple of people and made it to the port. Along the way she wondered what to do about the sword. She had money, she looked respectable – it would only be drawing unwelcome attention to herself, especially as there appeared to be a lot more soldiers on the street. After a moment’s hesitation, she dumped it in a water trough.
At the port, a long breakwater with a tower at its end ran out into the sun-sparkled water. The harbour was crowded with ships moored along the quayside and at anchor further out in the bay. Smaller craft and rowing boats plied their way across the water, intent on their business. Seagulls screamed and laughed overhead.
Birkita hurried along the breakwater, trying to see which ship might be getting ready to sail. From time to time she looked back over her shoulder.
Halfway along she found a small ship where the sailors were in the process of setting the main sail. A short stocky man stood on the raised deck at the rear calmly giving orders. He had thick grey hair, a grey beard and a tunic of uncertain colour. His skin appeared grey. In fact, the overall effect was almost as though he were from the netherworld and didn’t belong in this brightly coloured, sunlit scene.
‘Hey, captain,’ Birkita called. ‘Are you sailing soon?’
The man looked at her.
‘What’s it to you?’ he asked, though the words were spoken in a friendly enough way.
‘Where are you going to?’
‘All the questions. Yes, we’re leaving now. And even though it’s none of your business, we’re going to Baeterrae.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Gaul.’
‘Close to Britannia?’
The man shrugged. ‘Closer than here.’
The man shouted an order at a sailor who grabbed a rope and began to pull it.
‘Take me with you?’ said Birkita.
The man raised a grey eyebrow. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Woman on a ship. That’s only going to be trouble.’
‘Pull in the gangplank,’ he shouted and two men came to the side of the ship and began to lift the wooden gangway that connected the ship to the quay.
‘I can pay,’ said Birkita, going to stand where the end of the gangplank had rested.
‘How much?’ said the captain.
‘As much as you want.’
He named a figure.
‘Agreed,’ she said.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked.
‘Let me on board and I’ll show you how serious I am.’
She held up the purses.
The captain shouted to the two sailors to put back the gangplank. With his head he indicated that Birkita should come aboard. The sailors replaced the gangway and, lifting up the hem of her tunic, Birkita crossed it. As she did so, she heard shouting at the start of the breakwater where it met the land. A claw of fear seized her heart. Trying not to think what it might mean, she hurried across the deck and up the steps to the captain where she counted out the money. She emptied the larger purse and took a little from the other.
‘Cast off,’ the captain shouted.
Two sailors who were onshore lifted loops of thick rope from great wooden blocks and threw them onto the ship. Then they casually jumped the gap from the quayside to the ship as it began to open up.
The shouting became louder and there was a commotion on the breakwater. Then Birkita saw Antonius and two soldiers break from the crowd. One of his arms was raised and he was shouting.
‘Friend of yours?’ asked the captain, almost uninterestedly.
‘Not a friend,’ said Birkita.
She could think of nothing else to say. Was it all going to end here now? After everything she’d been through. She glanced at the rail of the ship. She would drown herself rather than be taken alive.
‘Put back in!’ one of the soldiers shouted. ‘Return to port!’
He appeared to be some kind of officer, judging by the amount of red on his uniform.
‘They’re telling us to put back in,’ a man behind Birkita called.
He was the steersman, manoeuvring a large oar at the rear of the ship. The gap between the ship and the quayside widened. It was already too far for anyone to jump. Birkita looked at the captain. He could put back in now – he had her money. However, he stood impassively, taking in the progress of his ship and the hullabaloo on the quay.
Antonius and the two soldiers had stopped now. They stood on the edge of the breakwater, in the gap where the ship had been, with the officer shouting, ‘Return to port immediately! Return to port!’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the captain shouted back. ‘After all that shaking I’m afraid it’ll do damage to my ship. If that happens, the owner will have my hide.’
The gap between ship and quay continued to widen. The officer looked at Antonius and said something. Antonius’ lips moved as he snapped something in reply. His face was red and contorted with anger
‘Then drop anchor where you are. We’ll send a boat out to you,’ the officer shouted.
The captain moved to the edge of the deck and placed both his hands on the gunwale. He leant forward as though trying to hear even though the words being shouted were crystal clear.
‘What was that?’ he called.
‘Change course, captain?’ asked the steersman.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ muttered the captain.
‘I’m ordering you to drop anchor where you are. We’re sending a boat out to you.’
The captain raised his hands to his ears and cupped them as though trying to hear better. The ship was far enough off now that the voices were starting to become indistinct. The sail bellied as a breeze filled it.
‘What?’ the captain shouted again.
The officer’s lips moved. He gesticulated with a downward stabbing motion of his hand. The captain shrugged an enormous theatrical shrug and walked back to his spot on the raised deck.
‘Fucking Romans,’ he muttered to no one in particular.
‘It’ll probably mean trouble when we come back, captain,’ said the steersman.
‘It’ll mean trouble if they send a ship after us,’ said the captain.
‘Do you think they will?’ asked Birkita.
‘Who can tell? They’re Romans. They like everybody to do as they’re told. Pisses them off when you don’t.’
He looked at Birkita and his face broke into a smile.
‘Looks like you must have pissed them off royally.’
By now, the figures on the quayside had become much smaller and silent. Birkita watched them until they became indistinct.
‘Now, let’s see just how much you upset them. If they send a ship after us, we’ll know it was on a grand scale. And if they don’t ... well, it sounds like you might have
a good story to tell.’
In the end, no ship came. Evening came on in glorious shades of purple and scarlet and orange and yellow as the sun gradually settled onto the western horizon. The air in Birkita’s lungs was cool and fresh. It tasted better than anything she had ever drunk. There was no sign of another ship – they were alone on the ocean. It felt as though they could have been alone in the whole world.
She leant on the gunwale looking out at the setting sun. Only a tiny yellow slice of it remained and soon it too would be gone. She had escaped. And she had had her revenge. Or at least some of it. On Cassius and on Flavia.
How good it was to be free.
But even though the air and the ocean felt clean and unspoiled, her heart didn’t feel that way. Claudia had died and Birkita felt a dark shadow upon her at the thought of what she had done to Flavia.
Yes, Flavia had betrayed her. And yes, she could have died in the arena because of Flavia. Why then did she not feel right about what she had done?
She sighed. It was done now and could not be undone; she must live with the consequences.
And just as she told herself not to think about the past, she tried not to think about the future. She was going back to Britain. But what would she find there? All she knew for now was what she would not find there.
30
There is a small wooden shed where Adolf keeps his work gang’s tools. It is padlocked and Adolf holds the key. He also uses the place as a sort of office. Each morning when they arrive for work, the first thing he does is to unlock the shed. Then, if the weather is fine and increasingly now, as mid-April approaches, it is, the kommando will stand around in a rough semicircle while Adolf briefs them about what has to be done, allocates work and hands out tools. With the Germans’ obsession for order and counting and recording everything, when each tool is handed out, Adolf records the allocation in a book. Each worker is then accountable for their tool and must return it when the day’s work is done.
What Adolf does all day isn’t a hundred per cent clear to Julia. He seems to go from one place where members of his kommando are working to the next. He will check on progress, muck in for a short while, helping them or – more often – showing them how to do something ‘properly’. But then, he’ll push off and they may not see him again for several hours. Julia reckons he spends most of his time doing damn all and smoking – he seems to be able to get more cigarettes than most.
The Paradise Ghetto Page 22
