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.
XXVI
‘What’s in the sack?’
The soldier leaned across and was about to swoop the package from Claudia’s hands when Cyrus intervened.
‘That’s all right, lad,’ he jerked his head in dismissal, ‘you can leave this to me.’ He waited until the legionary had closed the door behind him, then said, ‘This is highly irregular, I’ll have you know.’
‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate the fact,’ Claudia replied, removing a large, stoppered jug from her bag. ‘Absinthe,’ she whispered. ‘Purloined from Pylades’ supply.’
The tribune chuckled. ‘I’m not sure whether that’s another crime or not,’ he laughed, removing the cork and sniffing, ‘to add to your tally, but I’m partial to a drop of absinthe.’
Oh, I know your little weakness, Claudia said silently. Pylades told me all about it when we visited the barracks earlier.
It had been shortly after Tarraco had been led away in irons, his obscenities and expletives showing a wider range to his Latin vocabulary than might have been expected, when Claudia had approached Atlantis’ architect and founder as the group was breaking up.
‘I’m sorry about that incident back there,’ she said. ‘It was good of you to bail me out.’
‘Nonsense,’ the stocky Laconian beamed, ‘I was happy to put the situation right-though just between you and me, you’re not the only girl to have fallen for his smarm.’ He glanced across to where Lais was being heaved on to a stretcher.
‘I thought I understood him,’ Claudia said, with a sad shake of her head. ‘That’s why I…you know, made a fool of myself. Now the tribune has me pinned as a madwoman.’ She gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I hardly know which is worse. Being thought a strumpet or a lunatic.’ Pylades patted Claudia’s hand. ‘No one here believes that you’re either.’ He laughed. ‘Now, let’s put the horror of the day behind us with you accompanying me to my personal quarters, where we can take a little refreshment, listen to a spot of music-’
‘Pylades-’ Claudia coiled a ringlet around her little finger and smiled a cute little-girl smile ‘-Pylades, would you put in a good word about me to the tribune? Explain that bit of nonsense just now…?’
‘My dear.’ He offered her his elbow and turned towards the flight of steps, ‘nothing would please me more-’
‘Excellent’ Claudia took the proffered arm and spun him round. ‘We shouldn’t be too far behind him.’
‘What? You mean, now? ’
‘I knew you’d understand,’ she said, tossing back the mop of curls. ‘The sooner we get this clarified, the better. Just bear with me while I slip some ribbons in my hair, and on the way you can tell me all about your plans for extending Atlantis.’ Plus everything you know about Lais, the tribune’s peccadilloes, how far Pul’s influence extends, plus…plus…plus…!