Jail Bait

XXV

‘Feeling better, master?’

The dwarf’s face was twisted in concern as the nephew of Sabbio Tullus staggered out of the latrines.

‘Much,’ he croaked, rubbing his belly. And better still, when this fucking mess was sorted out, it was making him ill. That, and the rasping dry air from the marble merchant’s warehouse next door.

‘While you were…indisposed,’ the servant spoke with a faint lisp, ‘your well-built friend dropped by, the one who seems so attached to cardamom pods.’ They could be used medicinally, as a stimulant, or to ease flatulence, or maybe he just liked the smell. ‘He said to tell you the situation in Atlantis is under control and-’

The weasel nose twitched visibly. ‘Under control? Either he’s carried out my instructions or he hasn’t, what the hell does he mean, under control?’

The dwarf spread his hands in helplessness. ‘Alas, he did not confide in me, sir, merely asked me to pass on the information that he is embarking upon the next phase of his mission and will report back when it’s complete.’

‘And the-’ the nephew stopped short. ‘My…property,’ he said carefully. ‘Did the fat man mention my missing property?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Fuck.’

*

Sabbio Tullus followed his silhouette through the hucksters in the Forum where, despite the ferocious heat, a man could still purchase anything from buskins to buckles, oysters to ointments. The moneylenders’ stalls outside the Aemilian Basilica were doing brisk trade, their balances glinting in the sunshine, and the red roofs of the temples and the public buildings shimmered like wine in a palsied hand.

Tempted to loiter by a dazzling display of Parthian skill, warriors leaping high in knee-length tunics with great swirling moustaches and even greater broadswords, in order to advertise a fuller display later this evening, Tullus decided better of it. He’d already booked his seat, there’d be time enough to appreciate their talents then. Right now his secretary was waiting with quill and ink at the ready, because Tullus had something to tell his wife…what was it? Oh, yes. That he’d not be in Frascati by Tuesday after all.

Clad in that epitome of rank, the mighty toga, Tullus feared he might poach to death in his own perspiration, but that, he supposed, was the price a man paid for success. He squinted up at the merciless sky and thought, by Croesus, if he’d only left his mucking silver in the repository, he’d already be in the country by now. Amongst the green and rolling hills, dining with his neighbours, making babies with his wife. Instead he was up to his armpits in shit, and still wasn’t making any bloody headway.

Tullus felt a vice-like crush within his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Jupiter, he couldn’t bloody breathe ‘Drink this,’ a soothing voice said. ‘You’ll feel better soon.’

Accepting the proffered cup of water from the warden who attended Juturna’s holy spring, he slumped over the rail. Calm down, old man, calm down. Take it easy, take it easy… That’s better. In, out, in, out, deep breaths. De-ee-ep breaths. He saw his pale reflection in the pool. Chubbykins, his wife nicknamed him and suggested he lose a bit of weight. Well, maybe he just might-why not when this mess was over. Gradually the claw around his heart released its grip, and with a grateful nod to the warden and a coin flipped into the pool, Tullus set off once more across the Forum.

Originally a boggy valley full of bulrushes and reeds and surrounded by a straggle of thatched huts on each of the famous seven hills, Rome had been transformed into the seat of an empire stretching thousands of miles in every direction. With a swelling sense of pride, Tullus’ eyes flickered down the streets which led from this small and bustling oblong and thought, incredible! From these few roads are linked even the darkest of our outposts. Every single navigational passage in the world ends up here in Rome.

Now that bastard of a nephew plans to undermine it…

Janus, what a mess, what a stupid, mucking mess he’d got sucked into, but it was unavoidable. Family was family, and it never occurred to Tullus to refuse a request to deposit a small casket in his newly constructed strongroom. Why should it?

Why? You sad, moronic oaf, I’ll tell you why! When have you ever taken anybody’s word at face value, tell me that. Especially where business is involved? What imbecilic madness inspired you not to check? Not to demand a look at the contents? The boy would have refused your request and this whole ghastly situation would have been averted. Or would it?

The puff of self-castigation burst. No man who entrusts safe keeping of his records expects them to be read over by the trustee.

Muck!

Still, no use moping; the theft had taken place, the question was how to limit the damage. Or more accurately, how to reunite his nephew with that bloody piece of parchment and after that, the problem was no longer Tullus’, it was his nephew’s headache and best of bloody luck, the little prick would get no more help from him.

Tullus turned right past the Senate House and sighed. That’s another thing. Rumour had it, Augustus was about to propose his stepson, Tiberius, as his heir. Well, the lad had proved himself on campaign, heaven knows he’d be a popular enough choice. Intelligent, courageous, happily married to a wife swelling with child, the people would be right behind him…were it not for the problem that Tiberius was unconnected to Augustus by blood! As a result, much debating would be required in the Senate House, which, goddammit, was in unofficial recess until the end of the month.

Tullus resolved to make a sacrifice to Apollo, because the gods must be against him. If only the Senate had been sitting, there’d have been no problem over that bloody scrap of paper…

Away from the hawklike eyes of his peers, Tullus slipped off his toga and instantly felt half a ton lighter and five years younger. Mopping the sweat from his forehead, he turned right again, through the crush of armour makers and glassblowers, pitchsellers and potters. He rolled the toga into a ball and bundled it under his arm. Funny thing about that stolen document. Because of his widespread business connections, Tullus had agents in virtually every commercial centre for two hundred miles and yet no word had come back regarding the whereabouts of Claudia Seferius. Very odd, that, very odd indeed. Especially considering she was such a hot-headed creature. A filly born from Impulse out of Recklessness, Tullus would never have imagined her hanging on to such a thing. Surely she’d be asking a four-figure sum for its safe return by now? Tullus stuffed the woollen ball under the other arm as he turned left and away from the main thoroughfare. Jupiter alone knew how deeply he’d delved into that girl’s affairs, and whilst much of her private life remained a mystery, it hadn’t been too difficult for a rich man with contacts to see how the land lay with the business she was trying so desperately to run. With a full appraisal of her financial status, Tullus could understand the theft-hell, given the girl’s audacity, he might even have had a few words of advice to offer her about how to handle the merchants she was up against. But as to that scroll… Something of a conundrum, what?

He chewed his lower lip in thought. There’s no way, reading it, she could have failed to comprehend its sensational impact, unless- of course! Tullus slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Silly arse! She’d been paid to steal the bloody thing, it was obvious. He saw it now. Someone had paid Claudia Seferius to break in and steal his nephew’s letter. Taking Tullus’ money had been no more than a diversion tactic. No wonder she couldn’t be found. Whoever was masterminding the theft was hiding her as well-ha!

His step lightened considerably, despite the steep incline.

Wasn’t that a weight off his mind! Surprising, really, his nephew hadn’t seen it all along. Well, well, well. What a pleasant prospect, putting one over on that cold little reptile, telling him that, furthermore, family or not, he’d have no further involvement in the matter, it was up to the boy from now on to find out who had known the incriminating document was in his possession. Let the little sod work backwards from there.

Wonderful. Tullus was off the hook, the problem was back where it belonged. His loins stirred. How long had it been since he’d pleasured his wife? Well, there was no reason now why he couldn’t set off for Frascati first thing in the morning.

Down a quiet backstreet lined with six-storey tenement blocks, Tullus felt a chill run down his spine. Ridiculous. This is a respectable neighbourhood. But all the same he turned around to check. It was the height of the buildings, of course, casting the narrow street into shadow and blocking out the clamour of the workmen and builders back down the hill. Everything was normal. A group of small children, one rolling a hoop, two playing piggyback, scampered down the street. An old man with badly bowed legs led a donkey towards a stable, and a foreigner, a fat Edessan from Mesopotamia judging by the turban, peered at windows and doorways as he sought a particular address. Tullus was ashamed of his imaginings. All because someone mentioned that the man who designed his strongroom had been found dead in some back alley with his throat cut! Hell, with the army stretched to breaking point as it sorted out clogged roads, choked drains and arranged mass burials out of town, crime-especially robbery-was rife at the moment. Tullus was not unduly worried. He had his dagger at the ready. No thieving scumbag would take his purse off him.

Before turning the corner, he still felt it prudent to glance back down the hill. No cut-throats lurking in doorways. No shaven-headed gangs. No sneak thieves darting from balcony to balcony with bulging sacks. Much to the delight of the mimicking children, the Edessan’s turban wobbled from side to side as he sought directions from an uncomprehending Celt in pantaloons. From the top storey of the adjacent building, a young woman’s voice rang out in pure soprano. A yellow mongrel cocked its leg against a doorway, and lunchtime cooking smells of pork and sausages and fresh-baked bread filtered through the torrid heat. Tullus smiled as the Celt shrugged off down the street leaving the exasperated Edessan to adjust his blue hat, and up on the roof, two cats howled at stand-off.

Even the plague, thought Tullus, trudging up the winding alleyway, cannot dim the spirit of humankind. When the contagion first hit the city we couldn’t eat, we couldn’t sleep, we lay in our beds at night, wondering who’d be next, would it be me? We watched our neighbours die, we lost a friend, perhaps a relative, yet we ourselves were spared. And as time passed, we learned to cope with this cloud of uncertainty until one day, before we know it, we find ourselves singing again! Humming marching tunes instead of dirges, and when we gaze upwards at the unforgiving sky we no longer pray ‘spare me, mighty Jupiter, spare me from the plague’. We find ourselves listening to songbirds-the finches, nightingales and warblers-and realize it is not death itself we fear, but an erosion of our spirit. Man is born to survive, and fear of fear is more crushing than any ‘Excuse me?’

Instinctively Tullus’ hand flew to his dagger, but when he turned it was to look into the baffled face of the flabby Edessan.

‘I am looking for a coppersmith who goes by name of Mita. He is kinsman of me, and I am wondering whether you are knowing where he lives?’

‘Of course.’ Tullus had had many dealings with the wily Mesopotamian. ‘You’ll find his premises in the next street, just-’ he turned and pointed ‘-down there.’

The punch to his chest knocked the breath from his lungs. He wanted to yell, ‘stop, thief,’ but he couldn’t catch his breath, and in any case the Edessan was still standing in front of him, his face frowning with deep concern.

‘Help…me,’ he rasped. ‘Help…’

Mighty Mars, his heart was giving out! His arms were wood. He couldn’t lift them. Then he looked down.

And saw the knife embedded to the hilt.

‘What…’

The turban was gone. The smile was gone. The stranger pushed still harder on his dagger, grunting with the exertion. Tullus was confused. This was a joke, right? A practical joke. It had to be, because there was no pain Janus, Croesus, yes there was!

As the blade came out, it hit him like a thunderbolt, screaming through his bowels, shooting white-hot sparks of agony into every bone and muscle. His head caught fire, there was a drumming in his ears, as though several wagons passed across a wooden bridge at once, and for a moment he thought someone whispered ‘No witnesses,’ but that made no sense. No sense at all.

As he dropped to his knees, his bronze purse clattered to the cobbles, spilling copper, bronze and silver everywhere. No hand picked them up.

‘Why…?’ he gasped, but when he looked round, Tullus was alone in the alley with only a faint smell of cardamoms and a blue turban, which rolled like a drunk in the gutter.

Doubling up, Tullus clawed at his chest.

His breath wouldn’t come, and as he keeled over on to the cobbles, he saw the sky go dark. Rain, he thought. Rain at long last. And he knew it was true, because liquid trickled over the hands clasped to his chest.

As the sky closed in, black as night, Tullus remembered his secretary was waiting for him at home. With quill and ink at the ready, to write a letter to send to his wife.

What the hell was it he wanted to say? He had to tell her… Tell her what? Oh yes.

That he’d not be in Frascati by Tuesday after all.