He approached one of the eunuchs who drifted from the steam carrying fresh lengths of linen.
‘How far has the Legate’s wife gone? Has she left the hot room yet?’
‘Not her. She gets her money’s worth. She’s only just entered the warm room.’
‘Let me duck inside, will you? I’ve got these letters from Rome for her.’
The eunuch smiled derisively.
‘What’s the matter with you? I’ll just pop in and out and keep me eyes to the floor the whole time. No-one’ll see me in the steam.’
‘Whatever you say,’ the eunuch replied. ‘Long as you’ll let me cut your nuts off first. Rules are rules, see.’
The slave was not amused so the smirking eunuch shoved the linens under one fat arm and held out the palm of his other. ‘Don’t blub, pretty. Give your letters here. I’ll pass ‘em on.’
This would have to do. ‘I’m staying right here till you come back and tell me they’re safely delivered,’ said the slave, handing them over.
‘Lovely. You can spend the time puckering up for my thankyou kiss.’
The eunuch padded back into the steam, casting a saucy wink over his shoulder for the embarrassed slave’s benefit before peering through the condensation looking for Plancina’s extended entourage. Although the Legate’s wife had chosen today, as she did most days, to bathe without the company of friends, she still brought well over a dozen palace maids with her and only paid an entrance fee for herself.
The sound of girlish voices raised in song reached his ears and he waddled towards it. The vision of nude Plancina on the point of being lowered into the far tepidarium emerged through the mist. The eunuch pursed his lips. The only two people in Antioch who didn’t think the Legate’s wife as ugly as a scarecrow were the Legate and the Legate’s wife herself. Enjoying his illusion of superiority, the eunuch took a step too fast on an oil slick and crashed to his rump like a felled hippopotamus.
‘Nice one, Penelope!’ giggled a maid from somewhere in the steam.
‘Help me up, you little slut.’
‘The tiles are slippery over there. I might hurt myself.’
The eunuch strained to haul himself up again, but his bare feet failed to find a grip in the oil and he fell back onto his haunches with a sharp crack of flatulence. The half-seen maid giggled again until the eunuch flung the first thing he could reach at her head: the little wooden box.
The laughing maid caught it in her hands.
The eunuch went pale as he realised what he’d done. ‘Alright, Circe, you’ve had your little laugh,’ he said. ‘Help me up so I can give the Legate’s wife her present.’
But the maid had suffered too much of the eunuch’s past petulance not to let him suffer now. ‘You gave it to me – it’s my present now. I wonder what it is.’
‘Give it here or we’ll both end up on a nail.’
‘Not me, you fat turd – and they’ll never find a cross that’ll carry all your blubber.’
‘Give it me. I’ll never tease you again.’
‘No, course you won’t. And you’ll never lick the dicks of those that ask you to in the sweating room, neither.’
Broken from her reverie in the warm water pool, Plancina raised her head and looked disapprovingly across the hall. The eunuch and the maid looked downward, and the maid felt the box burn her fingers. Plancina sank back into the water again, but two of her serving women remained staring coolly at the bath servants for several more seconds.
When they were unobserved again, the maid raised her eyes to realise that the eunuch had vanished from where he’d been sprawled only seconds before. She clutched the box to her stomach and looked around, frightened.
‘Penelope, I was only joking. Here, take your precious box back.’
The heel of the eunuch’s palm slammed into her kidney and knocked the words from her. The box was snatched from her hands and she was shoved backwards to the floor, where she was too slow to roll before the eunuch’s fat foot stamped viciously on her abdomen. He placed his full weight on it, triumphant, while the maid made the noise of bathwater dregs coursing down a pipe.
The box’s lid had opened in all the manhandling, although the contents had not spilled out. With Plancina and her attendants oblivious, the eunuch lifted the lid fully and stole a glance inside.
The box contained a terracotta eye as large as a hand, with glazed pink lids, an orb of piercing white and spiked horsehair lashes. Yet it held no pupil.
It was sightless.
It was an eye that saw nothing, yet apparently saw everything. If the eunuch hadn’t shut the lid sharply in disgust he might have been tempted to read the inscription on the reverse side: ‘Why hasn’t it been done yet?’
Bewildered and alarmed, I bolted to the Legate’s palace with a speed I hadn’t reached since I ran to the burning villa. Panting like a packhorse with the strain of it, I didn’t dare stop. The gate guards called mocking hellos to me, but there was no time to respond. I took a turn at the parade ground and careered towards the palace rear. Suddenly thrown amongst the throng of slaves, I slowed my pace and tried to look as if nothing was wrong.
The situation was extreme.
Slipping into the stifling heat of the kitchens, I passed through without catching the eye of anyone I was friendly with. The safety of the servants’ stairs loomed, and I vanished from the view of witnesses.
The stairs led to the Legate’s private suite. There was a lone chamber slave inside, a Syrian girl, treating the cushions for stains. She was spooked when she saw me. ‘What do you want here? Has the mistress forgotten something?’
My mind raced with how to get the suite to myself. ‘She’s forgotten nothing – and neither have I.’ I stared at the girl, which made her uneasy.
‘So why are you here?’
‘To claim what you’ve been promising me since I arrived at this hole,’ I told her. I placed my hand at my groin and squeezed what little remained.
The girl skittered to her feet. ‘I promised nothing like that …’
I crossed the floor towards her. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You’re a pretty little tease. You’re bored with the sissy boys and you want yourself a man.’
She fled to the stairs and I had no intention of following. With the suite now empty, I strode behind the cushioned platform that Plancina slept upon alone. I ran my hands across the painted plaster of the wall behind – a scene of Arcadia – and found the figures of Apollo pursuing Daphne.
I placed one finger on Daphne’s nipple and a second on the nipple of the god’s breastplate, and gently pressed. A door swung out from the plastered wall, revealing a hidden suite. I had never been inside this place, nor even known of its existence before now. Plancina had said much – but not quite enough – in her raving state.
The stench that emerged brought my guts to my throat. Foul sulphur, like the air from the cracks in Vesuvius, and with it was another stink, one I couldn’t recognise – like decaying leaves. The first room was dry and dusty, holding a filthy dining couch that was now being used as a bed. There was nothing more, not even a lamp.
I knew I would have to enter the room beyond in order to save Plancina. Facing a bear in the arena was nothing in comparison to this dread. I twitched the curtain.
‘Is that you, my dainty?’ she called. She was awake. ‘Come to my arms and let me hold you …’
But I was not Plancina at all and Martina hissed in shock like a viper. My own fear made me yell. Then she scuttled across the floor faster than I could see and shot a gob of bile from her gut straight inside my gaping mouth. I recoiled and choked and spat it back at her, tearing the curtain from its rings and scrubbing my tongue.
When I gathered my wits I saw that she was pointing a bow at me. And she was beautiful. ‘You must die for this.’
‘It’s Plancina. She’s lost her mind.’
‘You insult her.’
‘No – I beg of you, witch, she’s raving. Something possesses her. She ran from the
baths screaming of harpies. She threw herself on a horse and said she was going to command the legion.’
This silenced Martina.
‘Where’s Piso?’ she asked at last.
‘He’s away, thank the Gods. He mustn’t know. Will you help her now?’
Martina yawned with the dull predictability of it all.
‘What a child,’ she said as she snatched a pale dried plant from a hook. ‘You’d think she’d never known the look of blood on her hands.’
That their entrance was ruined by a friend was beyond Agrippina’s experience. That their entrance was ruined by a highborn woman of Rome was beyond her comprehension. With the new baby ready in her husband’s arms and posed for presentation to the Antioch Legion, Agrippina could not conceive of how worse their arrival might have been botched and mocked.
Germanicus and Aprippina said nothing in reaction to the display in the middle distance. They stared transfixed as Plancina was tossed from the back of her stolen horse and into a haystack. She was unaware of them, and bizarrely unscathed. Distressed legionaries rushed to help her but as soon as her feet stood upon earth again she demanded they unhand her and then issued unheard orders.
Little Boots was compelled. ‘What is she doing?’
Husband and wife didn’t look at each other, their smiles frozen in place for their entrance to the camp.
‘Is it for entertainment?’ asked Little Boots. ‘Should we laugh?’
‘Piso’s wife appears to be upset about something,’ said Germanicus from the corner of his mouth.
‘Is she sick?’
‘I think she might be,’ said Agrippina. ‘We must express our compassion.’ But she showed no compassion herself. New baby Julilla remained still in Germanicus’s arms.
Confused legionaries attempted to give Plancina water and others brought her a litter. Plancina flung herself inside it and yanked all the curtains closed, covering herself. But it was clear she continued to give orders because the legionaries remained close and concerned with whatever it was she was telling them. All were painfully aware of Germanicus and his party, halted at the camp gates.
‘What’s that stink?’ demanded Little Boots. A sulphoric odor reached their noses and the arrival party stayed unmoving as a hooded slave ran past them with a large bundle of rags slung across his shoulder. Little Boots was enjoying himself. ‘This is like theatre. I think we’re supposed to find it funny, Father.’
‘Our arrival was to be today’s theatre,’ said Agrippina tonelessly. ‘But we have been outplayed.’
The slave deposited his bundle of rags at the litter, and although Germanicus’s party couldn’t be sure, it was almost as if the bundle was sucked inside. Either that or it entered of its own accord.
‘That’s a very fine trick!’ Little Boots called out.
His mother’s quick hand suddenly pinched his earlobe in the nail of her thumb. ‘You will make no further sound,’ she said.
Little Boots bit his lip.
Some seconds later the legionaries retreated and discipline was regained as they assembled into the formations they had been making when Plancina had appeared on horseback. The camp was now ready for Germanicus and his party’s arrival.
But Germanicus, like Agrippina, couldn’t take his eye from the covered litter at the end of the parade route. And because he didn’t move, no-one did.
A tribune approached.
Germanicus kept his voice low. ‘Our arrival has been dishonoured,’ said Germanicus. ‘What has happened here?’
‘Forgive these men, Lord. The Legate’s wife turned up without warning.’
‘What is wrong? Has something happened to Piso?’
‘He’s in Damascus,’ said the tribune. ‘The lady came alone.’ He wanted to say more about the trouble but was in great anxiety about it.
Germanicus was sympathetic. ‘The lady is distressed about something. The men won’t be blamed for attempting to calm her.’
The tribune struggled. ‘She was not distressed. She was … mimicking, Lord.’
‘Mimicking what?’
The tribune kept his eyes from Agrippina. ‘I served with your legions on the Rhine,’ he said humbly. ‘I rode your very own horse from Teutoberg back to Vetera. I broke the news of what befell us in that forest.’
Germanicus was unable to recognise him at all. ‘You bring great pride to Rome.’
But Agrippina suddenly placed him with precision. ‘I remember you, tribune. We owe you a great debt.’
The soldier flushed red and sank to one knee.
‘So what is all this? What has happened here?’ Germanicus demanded.
‘The Legate’s wife mimics the Lady Agrippina, Lord. Piso’s woman rode among us on her horse, giving commands like a general and insulting the men.’ He held his breath and then met Agrippina’s shocked eyes at last. ‘She mocked the fine Lady’s bravery at the bridge. She re-enacted what happened there in some kind of fit. A fit of spite – or madness – I don’t know. All I do know is that only one woman has given orders to Rome’s legions and been obeyed – the fine Lady Agrippina – who spoke only because the gods gave her voice, not because of immodesty or …’
Germanicus made to halt him. ‘You say too much now, Tribune.’
But the loyal soldier was too passionate to stop. ‘The Lady Agrippina’s actions were divine; she has the blood of the divine! The Legate’s wife’s actions were a mockery of her. Command us to deal with her insult, Lord.’
With the attention off the litter, the slave’s return with the same bundle of rags slung over his shoulder was missed until he was stealing right past them.
‘Halt!’ called Germanicus. ‘Are you a slave of the Legate’s household?’
My shame-filled eyes met Germanicus’s. ‘No, Lord.’
They were astounded to realise it was me.
‘Has Plancina gone mad? What’s happening here?’
My years with Livia had given me a full spectrum of playable expressions that included the look of innocent surprise I now adopted. ‘Plancina is in Damascus.’
All were thrown into confusion.
‘The dog lies,’ said the angry tribune.
I now looked frightened and bewildered, and threw myself and the bulky sack of rags to the ground. ‘I wouldn’t dare to speak lies before great men. I know that Plancina is in Damascus with the Legate Piso.’
The tribune kicked me in the guts, treading hard on the sack of rags as he did so. ‘Let’s see you lie beneath my boot then, dog. Then you can lie on the rack.’
‘Wait,’ said Germanicus, stopping him. ‘Who’s in the litter, Iphicles?’
I burst into tears of distress and clutched the bulky sack to me. ‘It’s a mad freedwoman, Lord, a former slave of the Augusta’s house. She’s lost her wits and insulted great men. Forgive me, Lord, I found her in Antioch and tried to help her but she escaped my care.’
This was too much for Little Boots, throbbing earlobe or not, and he skittered down the side of his pony and ran towards the covered litter. Agrippina was livid. ‘She’s in there, mother, we all know she’s in there – Iphicles is stupid!’ He reached the covered litter and flung the curtains wide. The shock on his face was obvious to all. Germanicus came up behind him, still cradling Julilla; the baby was so placid he had forgotten he even carried her.
Little Boots was astonished. ‘But we saw her. We all saw her …’
Prone in the litter among the cushions and skins, dressed luxuriously in a gown for the baths, was a woman of such beauty that she could never have been mistaken for Plancina.
And she was quite dead.
I maintained a studied expression of shame and remorse from on top of the cart as it trundled past the camp sentries and the few other men with any interest left in the proceedings. The litter had been upturned and discarded, its deceased occupant tossed into the cart for disposal at the rubbish pit. In the commander’s tent in the distance, Germanicus and his party were rousingly over-acclaimed in a fashion t
hat little fooled anyone. The officers tried to pretend that the bizarre events had not occurred. Yet Germanicus’s arrival had been destroyed in a manner that scarcely anyone could grasp.
Seated in the slow-moving cart, I could barely comprehend what had happened either – and I knew more about it than Germanicus and his fawning soldiers. I held to the promise Plancina had made me when she swallowed the powdered herb that Martina had made her eat inside the litter.
The effects would only be temporary, she had said.
The camp retreated from view as the cart rounded a bend and the walls of Antioch appeared on the horizon. I breathed a sigh of relief – which turned into a yell when Martina’s arm shot out and struck me from the cart tray.
I pulled the oxen to a halt as the witch beat the floor of the cart in spasms. She was choking on her tongue. I froze in a moment’s hesitation, and then gingerly poked two fingers between her lips, where I found the curled-back tongue and pulled it from her windpipe – just as she snapped her teeth shut like an animal trap. I bit my own tongue in the shock of it, then slapped Martina hard on the face and managed to prise my fingers loose.
Her eyes flew open and she licked her bottom lip hungrily. ‘Blood … That was thoughtful, slave.’
She sat up and looked around her. ‘Where am I?’
‘In hell, witch,’ I said, nursing my fingers. I now wished she had choked.
‘It’s not a part I recognise.’
I had no idea if she was mocking me or not, so I simply cracked the whip at the bullock. Martina stretched her limbs and made to move into the seat behind me – but then failed when her legs didn’t obey.
‘Some of the effects last longer in the extremities,’ she said to no-one in particular. Then, more pointedly, she said in my direction, ‘Other bits of me have come back with more life than before I went down.’
I stole a glance and saw that the gown she’d swapped with Plancina had been deliberately rent open, exposing a large tattooed breast. She casually pinched the nipple, closing and opening a single eyelid at me in a manner that was neither erotic nor comical – just unsettling.
Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves Page 49
