Scandal Takes a Holiday Page 28

  “Thanks. I like a clear indictment!” Rubella bared his teeth in what passed for a grin. Then he lifted his foot and pulled Cotys upright by the arm with one strong movement, a movement Rubella must have known was liable to dislocate the man’s shoulder. Cotys yelled with pain. “Seems a bit soft,” commented Rubella. The vigiles have simple rules. One is: always undermine gangster chiefs with insults when their men are watching. After my ordeal aboard the ship, that suited me.

  “So—you raided the ferry yesterday and stole the chest, did you?” Rubella demanded.

  “Nothing to do with me,” whined Cotys.

  “You sent the ransom note?”

  “No! I told Falco—” This time he was truly indignant.

  “How did you know about the money then?”

  “A rumor at a brothel—a load of cash was to be exchanged at the Damson Flower.”

  “So you decided to lift it before it got there? Who were you double-crossing, Cotys? Your friends the Cilicians?” The Cilicians began muttering.

  “We would never cheat an ally!” Cotys was not convincing them. The Cilicians howled and grew ready to turn nasty.

  “Have they got Diocles?” I saw Rubella’s eyes sum up the situation with the crowd. Mutual suspicion between the two national groups was simmering dangerously. The tribune sniffed. “Cotys, I’m arresting you for stealing Falco’s sword. Let’s have a discussion about the rest at my station house—Clear the way, people. Bring the barefoot wonder, Petro.”

  There was a flurry of white. “No—wait!” Once again, young Rhodope tried to intervene. She was still grasping the torch, its flames threatening to set fire to her flimsy dress. Helena and Albia rushed to dissuade her. “It cannot be right. This is Cotys—”

  “Noted,” snapped Rubella. He needed to get out of there. Looking as calm as possible, he began walking his prisoner through the crowds. Some of his men tried to link arms and make a clear corridor.

  “No, no—Cotys was Theopompus’ chief. Cotys,” the girl wailed, “would never have had Theopompus killed!”

  Rubella stopped. Cotys was still held in his brutal military grip. Whatever kind of centurion Rubella had been in the legions, it never entailed tucking up recruits in their campbeds with a gentle good-night lullaby. “Listen to that!” marveled Rubella to Cotys, inches from the pirate’s face. “The little princess says you couldn’t have done it—because you were the dead man’s chief. Sweet, isn’t it?” Then he about-faced the prisoner and set off, pushing Cotys ahead of him, fast. Over one shoulder, the tribune shouted, “Set her straight, Falco! Take her somewhere for a chat—look after her.” He meant, get the girl away from the rest of the Illyrians urgently.

  My task was tricky. Men I remembered from the liburnian were now surrounding Rhodope with clear intent. Petronius, alert, passed his own prisoner to a pair of vigiles and moved toward us. Even women were pushing forward, glaring openly at Rhodope. Quick-witted as ever, Helena and Albia tried to gather up the girl to rush her away.

  She was in peril, though completely unaware of it. The Illyrians knew she could give evidence on being taken for ransom, perhaps naming names. She could identify the snatch-squad who took Theopompus the night he was killed. Theopompus might have told her all sorts of secrets. Even the Cilicians were beginning to realize the danger. The Illyrians, now leaderless, milled about uselessly, but Cratidas and Lygon exchanged a glance and headed straight for Rhodope. With drawn swords, Petro and I were already stepping in. “Go, Helena!”

  Vigiles were at our sides—officially unarmed, yet suddenly equipped with staves and poles. We could have held up the Cilicians and the day could yet have been salvaged. But Rhodope, a bereaved teenager with huge emotions, had remembered that she was presiding over her lover’s funeral.

  Breaking free from Helena and Albia, she burst through our safety cordon. She shifted Lygon from her path by swiping him full in the eyes with her flaming torch. She dodged around Cratidas on nimble feet. Groups of women fell back, screaming. Men pulled up, bemused.

  “I loved him!” shrieked Rhodope, as she scrambled to the pyre.

  She knocked over the portable altar. She cursed the sacrificing priest as he cried out at the ruined augury. She barged through the scattering acolytes and slipped past the musicians (they had seen trouble at funerals many times and were nipping aside). The hired mourners were slowly circling around the pyre, which at last was burning up well, as they intoned and tore their hair. Rhodope pushed through them; she clearly intended to throw herself upon the burning bier.

  An alert young flautist grabbed her by the waist. As the distraught girl tried to immolate herself, he seized her like a rather ham-fisted god grappling a reluctant nymph just before she turned into a tree. Rhodope’s torch and his flute tumbled to the ground. She flailed in his arms; the youth, who was fat and clearly good-natured, dug his heels in and stuck with the tackle. Her hands grabbed for the flowered borders of the pyre. The flute-player kept pulling her. Rhodope struggled forward, desperately yanking at the expensive garlands. The lad hauled on her stalwartly, suddenly taking them both backwards at a run. Long snakes of plaited lilies and roses tore away from the bier and came with them. Then the bier tilted. Two legs on the pyre gave way; it upended. Garlands snapped. The bier fell back in place.

  But first it had catapulted Theopompus upright—where he stayed on his feet, stiffly at attention. His dead body was outlined in the prettiest licking flames. His head, with its elaborate long hairstyle, was encircled in an enormous green halo of fire.

  LVI

  People scattered in hysteria. Petronius and I were running forward.

  “Whatever pomade that corpse had—I want some!”

  We collected up the sobbing girl, bringing the flautist for his own protection. With Helena and Albia at our heels, we raced from the funeral area. We passed a side turning, out of which stepped some vigiles. Petro shouted an order. They tackled our pursuers; though they were heavily outnumbered, it gave us space. We almost reached the end of the necropolis before heavy footsteps came pounding after us. “Quick, in here—” Petro pushed us all inside an open tomb and with his shoulder shoved the door closed. Five of us gasped a bit, then sat down on the floor in darkness.

  I did a quick recount from memory. Six of us.

  As we struggled for breath, I gasped quietly, “Lucius, my boy; that may be the most stupid thing you have ever done.”

  He was fired up to silliness: “Wonder who lives here?”

  Helena Justina found my hand and held it. “And I thought you were irresponsible.”

  “What’s your name, son?” murmured Petro to the flautist.

  “Chaeron.”

  “Well, Chaeron lad, I’d just like to say, before we get hauled out, finely chopped, and turned into soup by a nasty gang of pirates—well done.”

  The flautist giggled.

  Nobody tried the door. We could hear nothing from outside. Petro decided that meant they could not hear us either.

  “Now, young Rhodope,” he chivvied, firmly addressing the invisible cause of our discomfort, “we may be here some time. While we are stuck, I shall ask you some questions.”

  “I want to ask one.” Rhodope had spirit. Abandoning the hysterics, she reverted to her stubborn streak. “Was my Theopompus really killed by his own people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” Petronius could be very softhearted, with girls. “He fell in love with you. Cotys will have been annoyed that Theopompus had endangered the group.”

  “How? I loved him. I would never have given away any secrets.”

  Petronius did not know how to tell her that she had already done so. She was vulnerable and young; her father had been so desperate that he ignored instructions to keep quiet about the kidnap and went to the vigiles. Posidonius’ name in the file at the station house led me to him, then to her. Rhodope led us to Theopompus. Theopompus led us to the Illyrians, who had not even been suspects until then. After mo
nths, if not years, the vigiles had a line on the kidnappers, Cotys was in custody, and more arrests would follow. It could have happened some other way, but Rhodope was still the only victim who had ever told us anything worthwhile.

  From the kidnappers’ point of view, the real blame lay with Theopompus for seducing the girl. From that moment, the clever ransom scheme, which depended on terror and silence, had begun to unravel. He told Rhodope his name. Then, for whatever reason, he eloped with her. His colleagues knew who deserved retribution.

  I wondered why Rhodope had been left alive. They could have killed her at the same time as her lover. They were too scared of the outcry, perhaps.

  I no longer thought the Illyrians had ordered Theopompus to fetch the girl from Rome. Had they wanted to stop her talking, she would be dead on the salt marsh too. He must have gone after her on his own account. The pleasant deduction was that he genuinely loved her and could not bear to part from her. The cynical, most likely, reason was that he could not bear to part from her father and his money. Theopompus saw that if he held on to Rhodope he could extract ever more from Posidonius. If he was taking the proceeds not for the group but for himself, that could well have made his cronies turn on him. By acting alone, he made himself an outcast. Theopompus had signed his own death warrant.

  I had feared that Rhodope came to be seen as dangerous when I mentioned her to Damagoras. But at that time I thought Theopompus was a Cilician, working with Lygon and killed by the group led by Cratidas. Probably my talk with Damagoras had had nothing to do with the elopement or with Theopompus being killed. The Illyrians may never have heard about my visit to Damagoras. They took their own revenge.

  Or maybe there had already been trouble brewing between the Cilicians and the Illyrians. I provided ammunition to the Cilicians. They complained about Theopompus to his own people; the Illyrians were forced to act, perhaps?

  Either way, resentment then festered, and the Illyrians later stole the scribes’ money chest—though it seemed likely to be the Cilicians who had sent the Diocles ransom demand. Maybe Cotys was annoyed at not being informed of the plan. Each side now saw the other as faithless—all because of my missing scribe.

  I wondered how he would feel about all this. I had always thought Diocles enjoyed seeing trouble in action and would not be averse to causing some.

  None of it brought me any closer to finding him.

  The unlit chamber was growing hotter. Already the air within was stale. These tombs were built solidly, as I had earlier noticed. It was never intended that anyone living should be inside with the door closed. Breathing had not been allowed for.

  I had ended up with my back against the door. Now I tried to move it. It was solidly jammed. I commented to Petro that the doors of tombs are not meant to be opened from inside.

  “I’m frightened.” That was Rhodope.

  “I’m sure we are all a little nervous.” Helena was aware of the danger of letting the girls become hysterical. I was tense myself. “At least we are all together. Lucius, is anybody likely to come and let us out?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “No, of course; you will get us all to safety.” Only someone who knew Helena well would detect her faint note of sarcasm. Not one to dwell on a situation she could not control, she then said, “Now Rhodope; you have seen the truth, I hope. Theopompus was madly in love with you, but his people take a different view. You cannot go and live with them—”

  “But I said that I would!”

  “Forget it,” I told her gently. I could hear Albia grinding her teeth at the other girl’s lack of logic.

  “Promises made under duress have no validity,” Petronius assured Rhodope solemnly.

  “It was my own choice …”

  “You were shackled—by love.” He had a ten-year-old daughter. He was a good father; he knew how to lie sincerely when it was for some young girl’s own good.

  “Isn’t it time you told us, Rhodope, what happened when you were first kidnapped?” Helena then asked.

  It took some coaxing. But with Helena’s quiet pressure and shielded by the darkness, eventually Rhodope yielded. She told us how she had been snatched from the dockside at Portus, whisked away among a group of both men and women, then taken to Ostia; they had crossed the river—not on a ferry, but in some small boat of their own. A cloak was put around her so her face was hidden from others and she could not see where she was taken. They took her a long way away from the river, as far as she could tell.

  “Do you think you were drugged while they had you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain, Rhodope?”

  “Yes. The Illyrians don’t drug people.” The girl sounded shy now; she knew she was giving away secrets. She was also sure of her facts: “Theopompus explained that the Cilicians work in a way his friends think is dangerous. They have a woman called Pullia, who knows about herbs.”

  “Yes, Pullia. She tests the herbs on herself … So you are sure that the Cilicians and Illyrians have both been involved in these kidnaps.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rhodope in a small voice.

  “They used to work together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they—or did they—exchange information and share the profits?”

  “I think so.”

  Helena worded it carefully: “So … if they don’t use drugs, tell me sweetheart, how do the Illyrians keep their prisoners subdued? What happened to you, Rhodope?”

  Now we could hear real panic as Rhodope muttered, “I—don’t want to remember.”

  “Did something really bad happen?”

  “No!” That came out very definite. Helena waited. “No,” said Rhodope again. Then she sighed quietly. “That was the point. I was too frightened to do it. Theopompus intervened and said I didn’t have to go there.”

  “Go where, Rhodope?”

  “Into the pit.”

  “What pit?” demanded Petronius, shocked. Like me, he had been expecting her to say she had been subjected to some physical abuse. Unpleasant—but straightforward in its way.

  “I don’t know. It was somewhere … I could smell incense. I remembered that today, at the funeral …” We heard her voice catch. Her concentration shifted. “What is happening to my Theopompus?”

  “The priest will reconstruct the bier,” I assured her quickly. “Theopompus will go to the gods properly. The undertakers will bring you his ashes later.” I made a mental note to ensure that they took her some ashes. Preferably in the urn she herself had chosen.

  Posidonius had paid for a high-class funeral company. Once they stopped scampering away in fright, I hoped the undertakers would creep back to continue with the cremation … I could not say to the girl: for heavens’ sake, he was just a lecherous, stupid pirate! She still held information. And she still had the rest of her life to lead; duty dictated that we shepherd her into the future kindly.

  “Tell us about this pit,” Petronius Longus reminded her.

  “It was underground. I was terrified to go in there—that was when Theopompus first became my friend. He was wonderful …” We could almost hear Rhodope trying to think. “It was in a place that was religious. I don’t remember how we got there, I don’t remember anything about that. I was too scared then.”

  “Tell us what you can,” Helena coaxed.

  “A narrow room … lamps … There was an arched entrance and steps leading down; people go belowground as a test of their devotion. The other men were trying to push me down there to keep me hidden. I started screaming—I was so scared that day—I didn’t understand why I had been captured. I thought that I would die there underground. They hurried me; they pushed me; they were trying to force me to go down into the dark—”

  Terror took over again. This pitch-dark tomb was the wrong place to remind Rhodope of that ordeal. She broke down. Helena soothed and comforted the girl, while next to me I could hear our own tough Albia muttering disparagement.

  “But Theopompus was kind to
you,” Helena murmured. Rhodope agreed, then gave way to her grief for him.

  When the distressed girl finally settled down again, Helena tried a new tack. “You must help us, so that nobody else has to undergo such a frightening experience. This is important, Rhodope. Did you at any time meet the man who is the negotiator for ransom money?”

  “Once.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “He came to see us when Theopompus brought me back from Rome.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “He was furious. Theopompus laughed about it afterwards—though I didn’t like the man. He was very scary.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Old.”

  “What else?” Rhodope hesitated. Helena suggested calmly, “We have heard that he dresses oddly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Eye paint and slippers, somebody told Marcus.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that sounds extraordinary. So he looked like a woman?”

  “No, he looked like a man, but he had masses of eye paint—more than you should wear—and very elegant slippers.”

  “Were his manners effeminate?”

  “No.”

  “And does he have a name?”

  “He is called the Illyrian.” Once again Rhodope paused. “It’s a joke.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, Cotys and his men were the Illyrians—but he is not.”

  “That’s very helpful!” said Petronius in a hollow voice. Beside me, Albia shook with a brief burst of wicked laughter.

  “So what nationality is this man?” Helena asked, ignoring them.

  “Roman,” said Rhodope.

  People were silent. We were all having problems finding air.

  After a while Petronius told me, “I know what that pit must be. It’s the ordeal trench for initiates—she was in a Mithraeum.”

  I thought about that. My brain had slowed down, starved of air.

  “It makes sense, Falco. Rhodope, listen. There is a religious cult that many soldiers join, and I believe it is common among pirates. Their god is called Mithras. This cult is secretive, but the initiates have to rise through seven ranks. One of their tests is to lie alone in a covered trench all night. I think that was where you were to have been put.”