In the Shadow of Heroes Page 3

  Finding himself without a master was not a pleasant sensation. What was he, without Tullus? A person halved. He hated himself a little for thinking that. But it was true. For the first time he could remember, he was without purpose. No one to tell him what to do or where to go. He felt rudderless, a skiff caught in a gale.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself.

  Tullus had always taught him to be a good Stoic: to accept one’s fate, to endure the trials of life with a steady mind. It looked so easy when it was written down, but it was difficult to put in practice when the wheel of fortune cast you downwards.

  Outside the steps of the Curia he managed to extricate himself from the swirling currents of the plebs. He scanned the crowd, thinking he might see another marble figure striding head and shoulders above the rest, but almost everyone was short and dark-haired. Above him a messenger was proclaiming news from the east. Something about a rebellion in Judaea. On any other day he would have listened, but right now the man’s loud, nasal voice only added to his discomfort.

  He turned to look at the Senate House. Technically Tullus was a member of the Senate, though he only occasionally took his seat these days. The men in there would know him, might care about his disappearance. But Cadmus could hardly go barging into that sacred space while the Senate was in session, telling tall tales about giants. What if Nero himself had the floor? He could wait until dusk, when the debate would finish, try and find a sympathetic ear then. But that would be too late. Tullus had no family, no particularly close friends, apart from Silvanus and his wife.

  The thought struck him like a bolt from above.

  Drusilla. She’d know what to do. She was better connected, commanded more respect, and exerted far more influence than her husband – out of necessity, since Silvanus himself had spent all his time pottering about in libraries rather than climbing the ladders of political or military office. He’d go to their house on the Esquiline, speak with her. With any luck he might also find out a bit more about what Tullus had got himself involved in, since he was supposed to be replacing Silvanus.

  He clutched his satchel to his hip and set off to the rear of the Forum. Past the rows of market stalls, past the basilica, past the temples of Janus and Vesta and Venus, the crowds began to thin and Cadmus followed the Via Sacra to the Esquiline Hill.

  Silvanus and Drusilla’s house was situated in a wealthy residential district perhaps not quite as respectable as Tullus’s, but certainly more fashionable. No aged grandeur here – every villa sparkled like it had been freshly carved from a single block of marble. You could practically smell the money in the air.

  So it struck Cadmus as very odd when he arrived at the house and found the front door wide open, with no one standing guard. Anyone from the street could have slipped in and taken what they wanted.

  He stuck his head into the gloom and called out.

  ‘Hello?’

  No reply. He clasped his hands in front of him and tried to look as innocent as possible, not wanting to be taken for a thief. The hallway was dark, but he could see it wasn’t well kept. There was dirt on the floor, a broken vase, an up-ended wine jug next to the impluvium. This was another surprise. Silvanus was a slob, but his wife ran a tight ship when it came to their household.

  ‘My lady?’ he called again.

  There was a cry from a room at the back of the villa. Cadmus ran through the empty atrium, across the garden, and threw back the curtain to Silvanus’s private library.

  Cadmus felt his heart lurch before he could take in the whole scene. He couldn’t say which was the more wretched picture, the library or its owner. Drusilla, dressed in the long black gown of mourning, eyes sunken and hair grimed with dust, was on her knees in her husband’s study. She was weeping uncontrollably. Around her looked like the aftermath of an earthquake. The desk and chairs were overturned, the surrounding shelves empty and broken in places. Silvanus’s strongbox had been forced, the few scrolls that remained strewn all over the floor, unravelled and torn. The place had been thoroughly ransacked.

  Cadmus went straight to Drusilla, who was being comforted half-heartedly by one of her own slaves. Two more were picking through the debris.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, awkwardly proffering a hand. The other slave glared at him. ‘Can you stand?’

  She looked up at him, eyes streaming, as though she’d never seen him before in her life.

  ‘Cadmus?’

  ‘What happened? Are you hurt?’

  She didn’t answer either question. ‘Thank the gods you’re here! Is your master with you? Where is Tullus?’

  Cadmus shook his head. ‘My master’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Taken.’

  Drusilla sank even lower to the ground, her face a mask of despair. ‘Taken? By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cadmus, looking around the library. ‘But I would bet a million sesterces that whoever did this knows something about it.’

  An hour later, Drusilla was a different woman. Back to her usual impressive, imperious self. Her hair was still matted and dishevelled, and there was something ghostly about her mourning clothes, but her face was composed. She reclined a little stiffly on a couch in the triclinium, taking tiny sips from a cup of something herbal and aromatic. Whatever it was, it seemed to have put some of the old steel back in her.

  ‘That library was all I had left of him,’ she said. ‘His books. I could read his words and feel like he was speaking to me. But now they’ve torn that from me too. For the gods’ sake, sit down, boy, you’re making me anxious.’

  Cadmus stared at her a moment. No one apart from Tullus had ever offered him a seat. In some circumstances, such an invitation was the equivalent of giving a slave his freedom.

  He suddenly came to, and found himself pierced by her sharp, grey eyes. ‘Yes, Mistress,’ he said, and went to perch on the couch opposite.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, wagging a finger. ‘Don’t “Mistress” me. Just because you’ve lost Tullus doesn’t mean you’re one of my slaves now. I have enough trouble with the ones I’ve already got.’

  As if to make her point, she clicked her fingers and another slave came in. She raised her cup at him.

  ‘This is vile,’ she said. ‘Put some honey in it.’

  The slave nodded and silently took it from her. Cadmus sat bolt upright and watched him go.

  He admired Drusilla, but that didn’t make her any less intimidating. When Tullus had first brought Cadmus to Silvanus’s house, she had laughed openly at the way he corrected his master, at his gentle mockery and his wry asides. Then she had suggested Tullus beat him for his insolence, and to that day Cadmus had never worked out whether she’d been joking or not. That was how she’d been ever since, and it set him on edge – never sure whether his words would get him laughter or lashes.

  ‘When did it happen?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Early this morning,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have any ideas about who might have done it?’

  She looked at him like he had said something idiotic. ‘Of course I know who did it. It was Nero’s men.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I was the one who let them in. They came to claim my husband’s research. All of it. They haven’t even returned Silvanus’s body to me yet, and they think it is acceptable to barge into our home and take everything that was dearest to him.’

  Tears rose in her eyes and disappeared as quickly as they had come.

  ‘Why was he sent to Athens?’ Cadmus asked carefully.

  ‘Why?’ She laughed, and the sound was like two flints striking. ‘Because our emperor is a madman, that’s why. A madman and a fool. He sent my husband chasing after children’s stories, and now my husband is dead. I hope the Furies take his eyes. I hope they flay him and drag him to the lowest pit of hell.’

  Cadmus thought he saw a reflection of that hell in her eyes. She could have been one of the Furies herself, girt in black, her hair un
bound.

  ‘What do you mean by children’s stories?’ he asked.

  The slave returned with her sweetened drink. She fell silent, and waited until he had left before continuing.

  ‘About a month ago, we were paid a visit by Epaphroditus. Nero’s personal secretary. An ex-slave, I believe. Greek filth.’ She paused. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’ Cadmus’s skin crawled, but he put on a smile.

  ‘He arrived unannounced at our door, saying that Silvanus had been chosen by the emperor for an important task.’ Just like last night, Cadmus thought. ‘Nero, it seems, has grown tired of gold and wine and women. He is after gifts of a very different kind. Godly gifts. Gifts worthy of his divinity. His mother’s bedtime stories must have made quite the impression on him, because he has become obsessed with the heroes of old, and has decided he is their natural successor. A god on earth. And he wants what they had.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know the stories. Heracles’s club; Orpheus’s lyre; Jason’s Golden Fleece.’ She laughed again. ‘I cannot believe it myself, when I say it out loud. But Nero, spoilt child that he is, has decreed that he shall have them. The Golden Fleece is his current obsession – he thinks it will grant him everlasting kingship, or some such rubbish.’

  ‘And he thought your husband would know where to start looking. Silvanus must have been well versed in the myth if he was writing his own Argonautica.’

  She nodded. ‘Exactly. But the emperor was completely misguided. Silvanus was interested in myths, yes, their origins, their authors, their inconsistencies. He found it all an interesting puzzle, but I’m sure he never thought any of them were true.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cadmus, ‘it’s difficult to say. Truth and fact are two very different things.’

  Drusilla stared at him.

  ‘Um,’ he said, and looked at his broken sandal.

  ‘You are too clever by half, Cadmus. Perhaps I should take you into my household. Have your philosophizing beaten out of you.’

  ‘I assure you, my lady, I receive all the beatings I need at the hands of Tullus’s other slaves.’

  She smiled, and for a fleeting moment Cadmus thought he could see sympathy in her cold eyes.

  ‘Whatever you think about Nero’s grand plan,’ she continued, ‘it makes no difference. My husband is dead. That is a fact.’

  There was a pause, filled with the sound of the fountain trickling in her garden.

  ‘Nero’s men paid us a visit last night too,’ Cadmus said.

  Drusilla arched an eyebrow.

  ‘I should have said earlier. I didn’t hear everything, but I think they want Tullus to take over where Silvanus left off.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ she said. ‘My husband always saw Tullus as his mentor. You know they worked together on the Argonautica in the beginning? That was years back, though. Your master seemed to lose interest suddenly. Silvanus never understood why.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Cadmus. That was odd. Tullus was definitely not a poet, and had never mentioned anything about it to Cadmus.

  ‘Half of the texts they’ve stolen from this library probably belonged to your master at some point. Nero went to my husband first because he was younger, but neither of them should be getting involved in work like this.’ She took another sip of the cordial. ‘Some people are made for travelling and war and adventure. Others are made for sitting in libraries. Look at you, boy. Skin like milk, skinny as a reed pipe. You wouldn’t survive a trip to Baiae, let alone an expedition to Greece. Tullus is the same. Silvanus was the same. It is a waste. A terrible, pointless waste.’

  ‘Hopefully neither Tullus nor I will have to go anywhere,’ said Cadmus. Drusilla raised an eyebrow. ‘My master turned down the offer.’

  ‘Come on, Cadmus, it wasn’t an offer. It was an order. Nero doesn’t offer anything.’

  He considered this. She was right, of course – there was no way the emperor would accept Tullus’s refusal, however polite.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said.

  ‘How did he leave things?’

  ‘The secretary, Epaphroditus, said he would deliver Nero’s reply today.’

  ‘Well, there you have it.’

  Cadmus blinked. ‘Have what?’

  ‘That’s Nero’s reply,’ said Drusilla. ‘He’s kidnapped Tullus.’

  IV

  The climb back to Tullus’s house felt like scaling Mount Etna. Cadmus’s knees were still raw and bruised from his fall outside the library, his left sandal was still broken, and his afternoon in the formidable presence of Drusilla had left him physically and mentally drained.

  And he was alone. His heart sank along with the sun.

  Again he thought of himself on a boat, on the open sea, tossed by cold black waves. No living thing for miles around. He may have been his own master temporarily, but that wasn’t the same thing as being free. He had no money, no food, no clothes, apart from those that Tullus provided for him. If he didn’t find the old man, he’d be sold on to a different household, and there was little chance he would find someone as generous or as appreciative as Tullus.

  He kept thinking of Drusilla’s half-joke. Perhaps I should take you into my household. Have your philosophizing beaten out of you.

  That was a very real possibility if he was sent elsewhere. His current situation was as good as it could get for a Greek slave in Rome. Not just that – Tullus was his best hope, maybe his only hope, of being freed. His only hope of returning home.

  Cadmus stopped to secure his sandal. The strap had snapped, and he had to keep retying the leather. No matter how tight the knot was it always came undone again after about twenty paces.

  Of course, it wasn’t as if there was a home waiting for him in Athens. He couldn’t even conjure a picture of what his home had been like. All he knew was what he had read in books, and he had to rely on that to feed his imagination.

  By the time he reached Tullus’s house, the sun was beginning to set. Cadmus basked in the amber light for a moment before knocking. The bronze studs of the front door were hot to the touch. A lizard scuttled nervously from the doorstep, then zigzagged up a crack in the plaster to the roof.

  Someone opened the slot at eye level. It was Bufo.

  ‘Let me in,’ said Cadmus. ‘Something’s happened to the master.’

  The watery eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean something’s happened? Weren’t you looking after him?’

  ‘It’s not my job to look after him, and even if it were—’

  ‘Not your job?’

  ‘Bufo, I know you have difficulty with long words, but try to concentrate.’

  Bufo produced a stream of swearing so obscure that Cadmus was almost tempted to make notes in his tablet.

  ‘Are you finished?’ he said, when the torrent of abuse had dried up. ‘Listen. Tullus has gone missing. Disappeared. We have to go looking for him. But you have to let me in first.’

  ‘Missing?’ Bufo laughed. ‘More like he gave you the slip because he’d finally got tired of listening to you talk rubbish all day.’

  ‘I’m not making this up. This is serious.’

  ‘And what makes you think he’s disappeared? Does he have to let you know every time he wants to go somewhere on his own? He’s probably gone off for a walk. Or he’s gone out drinking. And when he’s out, you know who runs the show.’

  ‘Just because you’re the oldest, Bufo . . .’

  ‘I’ve served Tullus for twenty years, boy. Don’t think there’s any contest for who’s the most senior slave in this place.’

  ‘Most senior slave? That’s not much to be proud of. You may as well claim to be the world’s tallest dwarf.’

  Bufo swore again. ‘Make all the jokes you like, but you’ll be making them from that side of the door. I’m in charge of the household while the master’s away, and I say you’re not coming in tonight.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And if you complain about me when he gets back
, maybe I’ll tell him about what I found you doing last night.’ The greasy skin around his eyes crinkled.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Bufo, he’s not coming back.This affects all of us.’

  The slave closed the slot violently. Cadmus heard him laughing from the other side.

  He stepped back from the door and surveyed the house. In theory he might be able to climb to the roof and drop into the garden, but if anyone were to see him he’d have a hard time explaining himself. Especially without Tullus here to vouch for him.

  From the top of the Caelian, Rome looked like the embers of a dying fire. The terracotta roofs shone intensely red. Somewhere below, drunken men were shouting at each other; the faint strains of music from pipes and a lyre drifted from a house further down the road.

  Cadmus rested his back against the outer wall, still warm from the afternoon’s sun, and slumped down to the ground. A braver slave would perhaps have gone looking for his master. Walked right up to the imperial palace and asked if he was inside. But Cadmus knew he wasn’t brave. He thought things rather than did them. So here he was, thinking.

  He thought about what Drusilla had said. He thought about Nero and his ridiculous mythic project. He thought about where Tullus might be, whether he’d ever see him again. Was it more or less reassuring to imagine that the masked giant had been working for the emperor? What if Tullus’s kidnapper wasn’t anything to do with Nero? Then where had Tullus gone?

  Two hours passed and his stomach began curdling with hunger. He knocked on the door a few more times. On one occasion Clitus peered out, then the new slave girl – but they both lived in fear of Bufo and wouldn’t let him in.

  Cadmus went back to his spot in the dirt, closed his eyes, and fell asleep sitting bolt upright.

  When he woke up it was the middle of the night. The air was cold and damp, and his tunic clung to him. He’d been dreaming about the giant, dreaming that he was the one who’d been kidnapped, smothered by a great marble hand.