Anno Mortis

by Rebecca Levene

  Except, no. Instead of going straight inside, Quintus paused, turning to survey the street around him. Boda hurriedly ducked her head, hiding her face from sight and hoping that her yellow hair wouldn't draw his eye.

  It didn't seem to. When she looked up again, Quintus had moved. She could just make out the back of his head, thinning hair dripping with sweat as he entered the bathhouse between two tall white columns.

  A man who didn't want to be observed had something to hide. She waited a few more moments to be sure he didn't leave, then crossed the street to follow him inside.

  Petronius lay back, eyes closed, as the attendant scraped the oil from his shoulders. She was red haired, with a pert nose and the largest breasts he'd ever seen, and he was having to concentrate quite hard on not getting an erection.

  When he'd left Seneca's house, he'd fully intended to carry on his investigations, perhaps ask around his father's friends to see what rumours might be circulating about the man. Rome was a city of sins, but they seldom remained private ones for long.

  He'd headed towards the Forum, where his father's cronies were usually to be found, tallying the latest price of the goods they imported from all over the Empire. But then his route had taken him past the bath house, and just the sight of the steam wafting through the window of the sudatorium reminded him that he hadn't washed himself in nearly two days.

  Before he realised he'd made the decision; he found himself inside, stripping off his toga in the apodyterium and handing over the two denarii that bought him a personal attendant for the duration of his visit. And, really, if Seneca was going to keep him cooped up inside for days at a time, he had to take advantage of opportunities like this while he could, didn't he?

  Still, his conscience had continued pricking him until he'd plunged into the scaldingly hot water of the caldarium. After that, his worries seemed to float away on the steam.

  Only to return with a sharp stab of guilt when he heard a familiar, grating voice not three paces from where he was lying. His eyes flicked open, then quickly shut again as soon as they lighted on the man's face.

  Seneca. Petronius didn't think the other man had seen him, but he wasn't risking another look to see. He mock-casually raised an arm, throwing it across his face to shield it from view and hoping the movement itself didn't attract the old man's attention.

  There were three bath houses within far easier reach of his home - why in Saturn's name did the miserable fool have to come and visit this one?

  After a second of lying statue-still, heart like a galloping horse in his chest, it occurred to Petronius that this was a very good question. Just what was Seneca doing so far from home?

  He opened one eye a crack, peering out from beneath the shelter of his elbow. Seneca was still dressed, the cloth of his toga sweat-soaked and clinging to his spindly limbs. He wasn't lying down and it was clear he wasn't here to bathe. A few of the other occupants shot him puzzled looks - no one ever came into the heat of the caldarium dressed.

  Seneca ignored them, stooping down to whisper in the ear of a man lying on the bench beside Petronius. The man, plump and red like a ripe plum, listened in silence for a few seconds. Then he rose to his feet and the pair of them hurried from the room. Petronius only hesitated a second before following them, snagging an unattended tunic to pull on as he passed.

  After the hot bath, most people headed for the lukewarm tepidarium before going outside to brave the frigidarium. Seneca and his companion were certainly walking in that direction, past the massage room and into the central atrium with its burst of sunlight and mosaic-covered walls. But at the end of the atrium they turned left instead of right, towards a small side room that Petronius had only ever seen used by slaves before.

  At the doorway they paused - and then turned back, eyes sweeping the room behind them. Petronius spun round so quickly he made himself dizzy. He rested an arm against a pillar for support, slowly easing himself round until his back was pressed to the far side and there was no way that Seneca could see him.

  When his breathing had returned to normal, he leaned his head back against the cool marble and cursed. That had been far too close.

  It was only when he looked around that he realised he wasn't the only one hiding there.

  The woman was being more subtle about it than he was, leaning forward on her elbows as if she was taking a rest, but the darting glances she kept shooting past the pillar gave her away. She caught him looking at her and met his eyes for a moment, her own a bright, light blue beneath her barbarian-pale hair. Her face was pleasingly rounded but somehow not soft. There was something familiar about it, though he couldn't place her. Then she turned away, clearly dismissing him as irrelevant.

  "Well," Petronius said. "I know what I'm doing skulking behind this pillar. How about you?"

  Her mouth pulled into a tight, tense line as she turned to look at him, but otherwise her expression remained impressively blank. "Apologies dominus," she said in heavily accented Latin. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'm definitely up to no good," he told her. "So I can only assume you are too. The question is whether our nefarious activities happen to coincide."

  She stared at him silently for a long moment, and he was just about to say it again using shorter words when she smiled slightly and shook her head. "You speak as if I trust you - a strange assumption."

  "I can always find your master and tell him what you've been up to," Petronius said, and instantly regretted it when he saw the flare of anger in her eyes. The muscles in her right arm tensed from shoulder to hand, as if grasping for a sword that didn't hang at her side - and he realised suddenly where he'd seen her before.

  "You're a gladiator!" he said. And then, that memory jogging loose another one, "And that man with Seneca is... I can't remember his name, but he trains half the fighters in the Arena."

  She looked at him for a long, cold moment. Then her hand unclenched and she nodded sharply. "Quintus, yes."

  "You're following him - from the school, I suppose."

  Another nod, then her head tilted to the side as she studied him. She really was very pretty, in an exotic sort of way. "And you were following him too?"

  "No. I know the man he's with - Seneca."

  As if by mutual agreement, they drew apart again to dart their heads round opposite sides of the pillar - just in time to see Quintus and Seneca disappearing through the doorway, accompanied by a middle-aged man and woman whom Petronius was sure he'd never seen before.

  "We must follow them," she said.

  Petronius frowned. "Are you sure that's safe?"

  He only caught the edge of her smile as she turned away. "Probably not." And then she was walking calmly across the atrium towards the door, not waiting to see if he'd follow.

  After a second's hesitation, he did. There was no point coming all this way, only to balk at the last hurdle. And besides, if he didn't follow her, he might never see her again - and that would be a terrible shame.

  The Port of Rome lay on the right bank of the Tiber, in the long shadow of the Theatre of Marcellus. Narcissus's breath was burning in his lungs by the time he reached it, and his clothes were plastered to his body with sweat. The crowded streets of the city didn't allow a man to run, but he'd pushed through them as fast as he could, desperate to complete his mission and return to the palace before Caligula noticed he was missing.

  Narcissus felt a tight, hard knot of fear in his stomach, knowing there was every chance the Emperor had already noticed. He couldn't let himself think about it, though. He had no choice. Better to risk possible punishment now than face certain torture later if he didn't find what he was looking for.

  The great seagoing ships didn't travel this far up the river, its bed too shallow to allow them passage. But barges brought their wares to the gates of the city, labouring day and night to supply the needs of the million people who called it their home. He could see three of them now, floating amid the debris of crates and ro
tten vegetables strewn across the ruffled green surface of the water.

  If the Khert-Neter was bringing a cargo from Egypt as well as sending one to it, the goods would pass through here. Illegal or not, there was no other route. By land the journey from Ostia to Rome was fifteen miles, a weary ride for any pack mule and far more conspicuous than simply bribing a port official to look the other way while the barge was unloaded.

  The waterfront was a filthy place, the slaves who worked it treated little better than the field slaves who broke their backs tilling the rural estates of many Roman notables. Narcissus could see a group of them now, bowed under the weight of a huge crate as they hauled it from barge to shore. One slip and they'd all be crushed beneath it, but the citizen who commanded them didn't seem to care, flicking his whip against their calves as he shouted at them to move faster.

  If the port master was being bribed, there would be no point asking him about the missing cargo. And the freemen here all worked for him, so Narcissus doubted he'd get anything from them, either. That left the slaves. He watched them working, waiting for a pause, a break for them to recuperate when he could question them without interruption.

  It was only after half an hour that he realised there wasn't going to be one. The anger he felt surprised him. He'd known all his life the way things were, that some were born free and others into servitude and the gods said this was just, though no one had ever been able to explain why. But cosseted by Claudius in the Imperial Palace, it had been easy to ignore what that really meant. Here, there was no denying it.

  Five more minutes and he snapped.

  He strode to the nearest overseer, wrenched the whip from his hand and threw it to the ground. "Enough."

  The overseer's cold gaze took in his simple tunic, the wooden tag on his neck that marked him as a slave. He raised his arm to strike Narcissus in the face.

  Another arm caught it. A stringy, wire-haired man pulled the overseer back, holding on tight until he could see the fight had gone out of him. "This is Claudius's man," he said. "Have a care."

  The overseer's eyes widened and he turned to Narcissus, suddenly abject rather than arrogant. "I didn't know. If you'd said you were here..." He held up his hands, backing away. "Apologies."

  It was the first time in Narcissus's life he'd ever inspired fear. He wasn't sure he liked it, but it had saved him a beating, or worse. "Thank you," he said to the newcomer.

  The man inclined his head. "Sextus. You won't remember me, but I'm an old friend of your master's. It's my ship they're offloading right now - and putting my cargo at risk by working the men doing it into the ground. I've had two crates of fine Syrian glassware shattered by these oafs, and not a hint of compensation."

  "Shattered glass," Narcissus said. "Of course."

  Sextus looked at him through narrowed eyes. "And men maimed or killed to no purpose. A waste all round."

  Narcissus felt himself relax a little. "Indeed, dominus."

  "Even watching this is thirsty work. A drink with me in the shade, perhaps?" He slung an arm over Narcissus's shoulder without waiting for an answer, leading him to a low table in the shadow of the docks.

  The wine was welcome after the long walk, and Narcissus gulped it gratefully. When he looked up again, Sextus's eyes were sharp on him. "So, what interest of Claudius's brings you to these parts?"

  Narcissus looked away. "I'm not here for Claudius, dominus. I'm on the Emperor's business."

  "Ah." Sextus leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table in front of him. "The Khert-Neter, perhaps?"

  Narcissus knew the answer was written on his face. The other man smiled and clapped a companionable hand on his shoulder. "It's no secret round here, boy. We all drop some gold into the harbour master's hand now and again, to see our cargoes unloaded first or fastest. But every week, when that ship comes in..."

  "We think..." Narcissus hesitated, but Sextus had given him no reason not to trust him. "It's been suggested they might be smuggling something in to Rome."

  "Bringing a cargo they don't want examined, that's for sure." Sextus nodded to his right, to the far side of the docks where a lone warehouse sat separate from the rest. "They put it in there, and that's the last we see of it. Don't ask me what it is; I doubt there's a man on this dock who knows. And whoever runs that ship has enough gold to ensure it stays that way."

  Narcissus studied the warehouse. It looked newly built, the wooden slats still pale where the axe had shaped them, untarnished nails holding them together. "In there?"

  "Yes." Sextus tipped another splash of wine into Narcissus's goblet. "The owners of the Khert-Neter are powerful men, influential. And that warehouse is tucked away out of sight, hard to find unless you're looking for it. If I hadn't been here, you might never have discovered it. If you returned to the Emperor and reported that you had found nothing, no one would ever question you."

  Narcissus wondered for a moment if he was being threatened, but he saw only kindness in the other man's face. "Thank you, dominus. I understand. Unfortunately, I have to know."

  "Your choice," the other man said, but he didn't look as if he thought it was a wise one.

  The door was locked. Well, of course it was. Boda shot a look at the young man she'd met behind the pillar - who'd introduced himself as Petronius of the Octavii - but he was frowning in obvious bafflement. She didn't think he could have seen more than sixteen summers, his body gawky and angular as if he hadn't quite grown into it yet, but the potential for beauty was there in the soft, half-formed lines of his face.

  "Well, I suppose that puts a stop to our plans," he said. He scratched a hand back through his mop of dark, curling hair.

  She shook her head disbelievingly at him. "If the door needs a key, we'll find it."

  "How?"

  "You!" She grabbed a passing slave, pulling him round to face them. "My master wants entry here."

  The slave's eyes flicked between her and Petronius nervously, finally settling on him. "But there's nothing there, dominus," he stammered. "It's a store cupboard for towels."

  "And a fresh towel is precisely what I need." Petronius's smile was charming, and he obviously knew it.

  "I can fetch you one -"

  "Open it," Boda said coldly. "Or my master will be displeased."

  The slave studied Petronius, as if trying to work out what form his displeasure might take. Then he looked at Boda and swallowed hard, perhaps realising that her own was likely to be more immediate and painful.

  "At once." He bowed and scurried off.

  "Well," Petronius said when they were alone. "Now we've alerted everyone to what we're doing, it only remains for us to be denied entry and our mission will be complete."

  "Tell them you belong inside, and they'll believe you," she said.

  "Why?"

  She sighed. "Because you're a free man, and they are slaves, and they've been raised their whole lives to obey."

  He looked dubious, but she was right. A minute later another man approached, older and less nervous, and pressed a small iron key into Petronius's hand. "Apologies, dominus," he said. "I thought all were inside today."

  He backed away, bowing, as Petronius bent to put the key in the lock. But when he drew level with Boda, he paused. "Don't go in," he whispered too low for Petronius to hear.

  She spun to face him, but he wasn't looking at her. He shook his head, a warning. "Listen to me, woman. Our kind go through that door, and they never come out again." And then he was gone, quick strides carrying him to the far side of the atrium.

  "What was that about?" Petronius asked, peering back over his shoulder.

  "Nothing." She shook her head. "Nothing important."

  Petronius shrugged and turned back to the door. It swung open silently, revealing a dim cavity beyond. He gestured her before him, but she shook her head and after a moment he strode through. She took one last look behind her, searching for the other slave in the crowd, but he was long gone. Then she sighed and walked in after Petroniu
s.

  Only to find herself pressed up against his back, a mere two paces from the door. It slammed shut behind them, plunging them into darkness.

  "Why have you stopped?" she said.

  Petronius sighed. "Because we are, in fact, in a cupboard. With a lot of towels."

  She reached forward, ignored his yelp as her hand collided with his hip, and eased herself round his slender body. He was right - in front of him there was a shelf and her questing fingers found soft folds of material stacked on top of it.

  But Quintus had come through here, and those other people. This couldn't be what it appeared. She braced her feet against the floor, then pushed forward against the shelf with all her strength.

  For a moment, her feet slid backwards on the marble floor and the shelf remained stubbornly as it was. Then her heel caught in the gap between two slabs and she stopped moving backwards as her arms started to move forward. The shelves groaned as they slid back, splinters of wood shaved from the sides by the walls.

  When she'd finished, the cupboard was five paces deeper and the trapdoor in the floor beneath was fully exposed. Boda pulled on the metal ring set in its centre, and it swung open with little effort. A waft of dank and unwholesome air swirled through the gap. Beneath, the darkness was almost absolute, only the faint orange hint of torches somewhere in the distance.

  Petronius swallowed hard. "After you," he said.

  There were guards on the warehouse, but only two of them, fine-boned Egyptians in short white kilts. Every five minutes their patrol route took them to opposite ends of the building, the entrance unwatched between them. Narcissus waited till the second time it happened, then darted though the doorway, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that it was unlocked.

  Inside, the overriding smell was of wood sap and saltwater, strong but not unpleasant. There weren't as many crates as he'd expected, only ten or so scattered over the floor, with smudged footprints in the sawdust between them. He circled them cautiously, looking for anything hidden between them, but there was nothing there. All the way from Egypt, and they'd only brought ten crates. It didn't look like a major smuggling operation at all.