Saviour of Rome

XXXIX

Julia emerged dripping from the bath with the help of her personal servant and lay face down on a marble table while the girl oiled and massaged her skin. She was glad her father insisted she bathe after the uproar of her return. She’d been overwhelmed by the tearful welcome from the servants, and his veiled hints about any ill treatment she might have suffered. The bath gave her time to think.

The slave girl’s hands were smooth and expert as they kneaded the muscles of her back. Julia felt a tingle in her lower stomach as she wondered how Tito’s strong, callused spearman’s hands would feel on her skin. Eventually she could take no more and asked the girl to remove the oil.

As the curved blade flowed across her body she mustered the courage to make the approach that had seemed so simple when she was with Tito at Avala. Perhaps it was because courage seemed to come so easily to Tito and his father that she’d felt driven to make the offer, but it seemed much more daunting now she was here. She tried to summon up Tito’s face, but the only image that appeared in her mind was her father’s gaunt features. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past six months and he appeared more nervous than relieved at her return. And she was about to make it worse.

No.

The thought came without prompting. She was not going to make it worse, she was going to save his life. If he continued to be swayed by these people he would either be executed by the Emperor or killed by his fellow conspirators. She had an opportunity to alter his fate and she would be failing in her duty as a daughter if she did not take it. Now Tito appeared to her, the hawkish, bearded features emanating confidence and competence. A man capable of accomplishing anything. The fierce beauty that shone from him had overwhelmed her from the moment he’d first looked into her eyes. The raid and the sack of her father’s house had all seemed like a dream involving someone else. He was a man like no other she’d met before.

‘Mistress?’

The servant girl had finished with the strigil and Julia stood to be wrapped in a sheet and dried. When she’d dressed, the girl escorted her to the triclinium. She took her place on a couch opposite her father, but Fronton barely registered her presence. The dishes came and went but neither did more than barely touch the food. She hadn’t realized how thin he’d become. His wrists below the folds of his toga were just bony projections and his neck looked barely strong enough to hold his domed head upright. Whereas she drank sparingly of well-watered wine, the slaves were kept busy filling the cup in front of Lucius Octavius Fronton.

The fear came in waves and her hands shook as she picked at her food, but she steeled herself to act. She made to speak, but he rebuffed her attempt at conversation with a raised hand. In the Fronton household meals had always been for eating, not talk, but when the last of the food had been cleared away, he dismissed the slaves and at last gave her his attention.

‘It must have been a terrible ordeal for you, daughter,’ he said with what passed for a smile. ‘I am glad to see you well, but frankly astonished these creatures allowed you to escape.’

‘I must have expressed myself badly earlier, Father.’ Julia kept her eyes on the table. ‘I did not escape. They allowed me to go free.’

She sensed his surprise – perhaps the better word was unease – at this unlikely behaviour. ‘Did they say why?’

It was the moment she’d been bracing herself for, but it had come more quickly in the conversation than she’d expected. The words seemed to stick in her throat.

‘They … They wished me to … They know about the gold, Father,’ she blurted out. ‘They know what you have been doing. But I can save you.’

‘Save me, daughter?’ The blood had drained from his face, but the death’s-head smile remained in place. ‘Why would I require to be saved? And what is this gold you refer to? I fear your captivity has made you delirious. Perhaps you should go and lie down.’

This last was expressed as an order and she rose automatically to obey, hesitated and retook her place. ‘No, Father,’ she shook her head. ‘You must listen. They took me because of what you have been doing. A man came to the village where I was being held, a Roman. The man with the wooden hand at Severus’s banquet.’ The description made her father flinch as if he’d been struck, but she couldn’t stop now. ‘He told me of a great conspiracy to steal the Emperor’s gold. It involves a man called Melanius, Severus, that revolting Ferox … and you, Father. He said to tell you that you will either face execution for your crimes or your fellow conspirators will kill you because they regard you as a weakness.’ Fronton stood up as if he was having a seizure and Julia feared he would strike her, but the words kept tumbling from her mouth. ‘He says it is finished and that word of the conspiracy will soon reach the Emperor.’ Tears flowed unchecked over her cheeks. ‘The only way to save yourself is to cooperate with them. Please, Father, you must hand over the papers you have. He promised he will speak for you.’

‘And you believe all this of me?’

At first she was mute, but a great anger welled up inside her that he should think her so witless.

‘Where did all this come from?’ She swept a hand to encompass the fine statues from Greece, the Egyptian vases, and the silken wall hangings brought from the Indus. ‘And the stable of thoroughbred horses and the grand house in Asturica? Before Mother died she spoke of selling the slaves and laying off the servants because we could barely feed ourselves after three poor harvests in a row. Four years later we are rich. Where did the money come from? Not from selling loaves of panis rustica to the mines, or hiring out wagons. You must believe me, Father,’ she pleaded. ‘It is not too late to save yourself. I have seen how ruthless these men can be. The Parthians who guard our wagons came to the village where I was kept. They butchered people by the hundreds. Men, women and children, they made no distinction.’

‘Bandits,’ her father dismissed, but the word held no force.

‘Not bandits. Asturian peasants who had done no one any harm. People like your father’s father.’ She stepped round the table and took his hand. It shook like a frightened animal and suddenly she felt more like a mother than a daughter. ‘Tell me you will do it, Father. Take the key and open the strongbox. Give me the papers and I will carry them to the one-handed man.’

‘You don’t understand-’ Whatever he was going to say trailed off in a soft outpouring of breath and he freed his hand and turned away. ‘I must think on this. I admit nothing. You defame me without proof. Perhaps I have made mistakes, but … Please leave me now. Go to your room and we’ll speak again in the morning.’

Julia reluctantly did as he asked and as she left she heard her father calling for his atriensis. She hesitated at the doorway of her room and saw the man emerge with a look of profound consternation on his face. What had occurred to make him look so worried? Her mind reeled with doubt and hope. Had she done enough? He had not outrightly denied the accusations.

She’d feared he might throw her out of the house or even attack her, but neither had happened. Yes, she was certain she’d done enough. He was delaying a final decision, but he would do as she suggested. Her head continued to spin, but her body was so exhausted by a long day in the saddle she sank into a deep sleep almost without knowing it. She dreamed of a warm day and a wood fire, but it wasn’t until she opened her eyes that she understood what was happening.

Tito was drowsing beneath an olive tree that provided a view of the house when he heard the shrill scream. His eyes snapped open and he was up and running even before his mind registered that it had come from Julia. He was surrounded by vines and as he tore them aside he noticed a soft orange glow above the villa roof.

The gatekeepers had been drawn to the house and the way lay open. Slaves and servants stumbled from their quarters to gather bleary-eyed and still half stunned outside the main entrance. As he ran, Tito saw a figure approach the door and push it open only to dance back immediately as a ball of flame threatened to consume him. Without breaking stride he swerved to the right down the flank of the northern wing of the building, automatically checking each window he passed for the tell-tale glow. At last, one that seemed to be untouched for now.

Tito clawed at the shutters with his fingers, but couldn’t get them to budge. Fortunately, a stone rail framed the window and he was able to leap up and grasp it with both hands. He hung suspended for a moment before smashing his feet at the join between the panels. The shutters burst apart with a crack and his momentum took him through to land on his back on the stone floor with an impact that knocked the breath from him. He was in a guest room with a low bed in one corner. It had escaped the flames for now, but enough smoke seeped beneath the curtained doorway to make him cough.

Tito pushed himself to his feet and drew back the curtain leading to the atrium. Choking fumes filled the room, but he found he could breathe if he bent double. To his left the fire ate at the wooden panelling of the main entrance and blackened the roof beams above. To the right the glow of flames shone through the smoke that filled Fronton’s tablinum. Two separate fires: the words leapt into his mind. Someone had deliberately set two fires, or this room would be burning too.

He took a deep breath and ran to the doorway on the right. Cloth wall hangings and wooden furniture blazed, but the centre was clear. Small pools of liquid flickered with yellow-blue flame and he guessed that someone – Fronton, or one of his co-conspirators bent on his destruction? – had scattered oil around the house before setting it alight. The main source of the flames was another side room and he felt a thrill of fear when he realized it was the storeroom where they had discovered Fronton’s strongbox.

‘Julia,’ he called. ‘Where are you?’

The only answer was a choking cough barely audible above the crackle and roar of the fire. Tito fought his way to the storeroom and recoiled at a sudden blast of heat. In the balefire of the flames a shadowy figure stabbed with a long pole in a futile attempt at recovering the burning contents of the strongbox.

‘Julia.’ He ran to her and attempted to drag her away. ‘We have to get out before the whole house goes up.’ Her thin cotton shift was holed in a dozen places where sparks had eaten the cloth. She stared at him with red-rimmed eyes and she reeked of the acrid stench of singed hair. He pulled her close, but she fought him with surprising strength.

‘My father,’ she cried. ‘We must help him.’

Tito released her and struggled through the smoke to where she’d pointed. Lucius Octavius Fronton lay on his side at the centre of a spreading pool that shone black in the light of the flames, a dagger clutched in his right hand. A gaping hole in his throat told Tito he was beyond help. He ran back to Julia and took her in his arms. ‘There is no hope for him.’ He saw the moment the shock hit. Her eyes turned up in her head and Tito caught her as she collapsed.

Fire on every hand, but a breathing space of sorts when he reached the atrium. He searched for the room where he’d entered the building and his heart stuttered at the glow of flames. Yet there was still a chance. He laid Julia on the tiles and picked up a small table. Shielding his face with his free hand he used the table legs to hack down the flaming curtain. A surge of elation shot through him when he saw what he’d hoped: the interior was still untouched and the smashed window shutters clear of the fire.

He returned to Julia and carried her to the window. With difficulty he manhandled her until he had the inert body balanced on the sill. He managed to hold her there until he had lowered himself to the ground, then allowed her to slip down into his arms. Gulping in great lungfuls of fresh air he carried her away from the house unnoticed by the guards, servants and slaves who were fighting a losing battle against the fire.

Julia regained consciousness after he’d staggered a few yards up the track, where Placido was waiting with two spare horses. ‘I decided not to wait for your signal when I saw that,’ Placido nodded at the inferno they’d left. It was only when Tito pushed her into the saddle that Julia found the presence of mind to turn back and gaze upon the blazing ruin of the villa she had called home. Where Lucius Octavius Fronton’s corpse helped feed the flames and the evidence Gaius Valerius Verrens had depended on was nothing but flakes of glowing ash mingling with the giant pillar of smoke.