In the Shadow of Heroes Read online

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The emperor’s palace.’

  Cadmus closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. When he opened them again the throbbing started afresh, only this time in his eyes instead of his head. All around him the room was decorated with frescoes of mythological scenes, heroes and monsters in vivid reds and yellows and blues, lit by three braziers. He could see Heracles rushing at the jaws of the Nemean Lion, Perseus hiding behind his mirrored shield, Theseus descending into the darkness of the Labyrinth with the radiant Ariadne at his side. On the wall behind him was Jason, snatching the Golden Fleece from under the nose of the giant serpent. There was something odd about the appearance of these heroes, though. They looked overweight and ugly. For a while Cadmus thought his vision was still fuzzy from the blow to the head, but when he looked closer he started laughing.

  ‘They’ve all got Nero’s face,’ he said, his laughter creating an exciting new type of pain in his ribs.

  ‘Repulsive, isn’t it?’ said Tullus.

  His master helped Cadmus back on to the couch where he had been resting. There were three of them, arranged in a horseshoe shape, for dining. The scent of perfume and overripe fruit clung to everything. There were no windows, and the light from the braziers was yellow and dirty.

  ‘What time is it?’ Cadmus asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tullus. ‘They don’t let me out of this room. About the sixth hour, I think.’

  ‘And what are we doing here?’

  Tullus rubbed at his bald head. ‘You are here because I asked for you to be here. I didn’t think Nero’s men would be quite so ruthless about bringing you in, but more fool me.’

  ‘Why do you need me here?’

  ‘Because . . .’ He stopped and looked at his old, shaking hands. ‘Because I need to tell you something. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘Nero is sending me to Greece,’ he said. ‘I am old, Cadmus. I fear it is a journey I will not return from. Obviously I shall accept my fate as any good Stoic should – but before I go there is something important I must discuss with you.’

  ‘The Golden Fleece?’

  Tullus looked shocked. ‘What do you mean? What do you know about the fleece?’

  ‘I know Nero is looking for it. I know he recruited Silvanus. And I know Silvanus thought he was close to finding it.’

  Cadmus told him everything that had happened since his master’s disappearance, about Tog, about Silvanus’s letter, about the notes he’d found in the tomb.

  ‘We found them, Master,’ he said. ‘We found Silvanus’s notes. Only . . .’

  He looked around the room. The notes weren’t there. Neither was his satchel, containing Silvanus’s hidden message. And, most worryingly, neither was Tog.

  ‘I don’t know where they’ve gone.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my boy,’ Tullus said. ‘I would give all of my estate to never have to look at those notes ever again.’

  In the firelight the old man’s eyes were bright and keen and quivering. He was looking at the couch in front of him, but he was seeing something else. There was loss in those eyes, and grief. Cadmus wondered what his master was thinking.

  ‘You never told me this was your area of expertise,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem . . . you.’

  Tullus’s eyes weren’t focused. He was still miles and years away. ‘That’s because it isn’t me. It is the work of a very different Gaius Domitius Tullus. But, yes, long before you were ever a member of the household, I was an avid mythographer. The story of the Golden Fleece interested me more than most, though, because it was where so many other myths crossed paths. The Argo was crewed by some of the greatest heroes – Heracles, Orpheus, Meleager, Atalanta. Theseus, in some versions . . . And then there was the fleece itself, as an artefact. I was seduced by it, like so many others. The emblem of eternal kingship.’ He paused. ‘The idea of Nero claiming it as his own chills the marrow of my bones. It would be catastrophic.’

  Cadmus gave a nervous laugh. Tullus never spoke in such grave and mystic terms.

  ‘Even if it exists,’ Cadmus said briskly, ‘I think you and Silvanus are slightly overstating things. It would be a shame, but hardly a disaster. Heaven knows, ever since he came to power Nero’s been stealing holy relics from all over the world to refill the treasury.’

  But Tullus wasn’t smiling – not even his curious smile of self-mockery. The furrows in his face were so deep he looked like an actor in a tragic mask.

  ‘The Golden Fleece is not just a pretty shawl, Cadmus. Nor is it simply holy. It holds power. An old power, the kind that left the world many generations ago.’ He pointed at the frescoes of the mythological scenes. ‘It belongs there and then, not here and now. It certainly doesn’t belong in the hands of a lunatic like Nero. There are oracles, in the Sibylline books, that talk of the fleece lending its bearer unnaturally long life. Eternal dominion. It makes gods of men.’

  Again Cadmus had that creeping sense of having been tricked. He thought he knew Tullus – he was the least superstitious man he’d ever met.

  ‘You really believe all this?’ he asked.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You think me a fool, I know. You’re young and clever and you think you understand everything about the world. You think these are children’s stories, that you’ve left them behind, but mark my words, Cadmus: they are more important than you know.’

  He looked as though he was about to say something else, but his mouth made a thin, sealed line.

  The two of them sat in silence for a moment, while the braziers crackled and hissed around them. The room was stiflingly hot. The heroes painted on the walls lurked behind a haze of smoke, their colours dulled, grim shadows of the divinities they were meant to represent.

  ‘Let’s just say all of this is true,’ said Cadmus. ‘The myths, the oracles, everything. You’ve still got to find it, haven’t you? Couldn’t you conveniently, you know, fail to find it?’

  ‘It’s a little late for that, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Nero already has the Golden Fleece. At least, he has a Golden Fleece.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Tullus stared at him. Cadmus could make out every wrinkle, every blemish, every thin hair, thrown into sharp relief by the light of the coals.

  ‘It was in the box they brought to the house the other night. It certainly looked convincing. It was a thing of divine beauty, that’s for sure. But . . .’

  His master looked pained.

  ‘But what?’ Cadmus said.

  There were footsteps outside the door of the triclinium. A tuneless humming.

  ‘Damn him,’ Tullus muttered. ‘No more of this. We will talk after he’s gone.’

  ‘Ah, wonderful! You are awake.’

  A voice slithered into Cadmus’s ears from across the room. He turned to see the same slender Greek man who had come to Tullus’s house two nights ago. He had the pink, oily complexion of a man who drank too much and slept too little. In one hand he held the thick sheaf of papyrus that Cadmus and Tog had discovered in the tomb.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, with a slight bow of his head. ‘I should have introduced myself the other night, but I didn’t realize you were the Cadmus. Such a strange-looking boy. Not what I expected at all.’ Cadmus blinked and looked at the floor. ‘“Little Socrates”, wasn’t that what you used to call him, Tullus? Your master holds you in very high regard, you know. He was quite assertive in his demands to have you here.’

  ‘I am grateful for it,’ was all Cadmus said.

  ‘I wonder if we might speak in Greek?’ the man said. ‘It’s always a bit of a treat for me, these days. I am Epaphroditus. Secretary to the Divine Caesar.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cadmus; and before he could stop it the rest tumbled out. ‘I imagine gods have a lot of paperwork.’

  Epaphroditus laughed, and his yellow teeth glittered with too much saliva.

  ‘You don’t disappoint,
do you, boy?’ he said. ‘What a quick tongue you have.’ Then his eyes narrowed and Cadmus knew he had misspoken. ‘I used to be a slave, just like you. Did you know that?’

  Cadmus nodded. Tullus was furiously massaging his brow.

  ‘You know how I got to where I am now? Because I understood how to play the game. I understood that you do anything your master tells you to, anything at all, or you are punished. And I understood that cleverness and insolence get you killed.’

  The smile never faltered, nor did his stare. His eyes were black, all pupil; a lizard’s eyes.

  ‘Now, then. Shall we get down to business?’

  The secretary slipped in between the couches and laid the satchel on the central table. Then he fanned out the pages of Silvanus’s notes. Tullus craned his neck to see.

  ‘Your slave found this in Silvanus’s family tomb,’ said Epaphroditus. ‘He has entitled it his Argonautica, though it is far more wide-ranging than the title suggests. It contains notes, sketches, diagrams. Everything he ever learnt about the myth of Jason and the lives of the other Argonauts. Frustratingly, Silvanus burnt his own copy just before he died. We searched his personal library, but it contained nothing we don’t already have in the imperial archives. Thankfully, clever little Cadmus knew exactly where to look. Well done, my boy.’ He brushed a clammy hand over Cadmus’s hairline.

  ‘If you have the notes,’ said Tullus, ‘then surely you don’t need either of us? By Jupiter, my eyes are so bad I can barely read what’s on those pages.’

  ‘There is only one page we are particularly interested in.’ He plucked a folded piece of papyrus from the bottom of the pile and opened it. ‘A map.’

  Cadmus looked at the hastily sketched picture, and immediately recognized the outline of the city walls, the web of the roads, the surrounding topography.

  ‘It’s Athens,’ he said.

  ‘Very good, Little Socrates,’ said Epaphroditus. Cadmus clenched his fists until it felt like he was drawing blood with his nails. ‘It points to the location of a prophetess. A Sibyl. A woman who, we believe, gave Silvanus the final directions to the Golden Fleece. It seems – although, as I say, you will be better placed to decipher these things – that she claims to be descended from Medea herself.’

  That was what Silvanus had said in his letter. It seemed preposterous. He turned to look at Tullus for reassurance, but the old man had his eyes closed, and his head quivered like it was caught in a draught.

  ‘If you already have the fleece,’ his master said, ‘then what, exactly, am I supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘The Divine Caesar is interested in far more than just the Golden Fleece. You of all people, Tullus, should know the treasures that the other heroes carried with them. And there is the Argo itself, the first ship, blessed by Hera and Athena – they say that its very timbers were able to speak prophecies. If this Sibyl knew of Medea’s final resting place, who is to say she cannot help us find the other Argonauts?’

  Cadmus was watching the secretary closely. The corners of his mouth twitched continually, as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. Did he believe any of this?

  ‘You still don’t need me!’ said Tullus. ‘Are you not able to read a simple map?’

  Epaphroditus’s smile faltered. ‘The map is not the problem, old friend. Many of the accompanying notes are written in the shorthand that only you and he understood. And you know how misleading the words of oracles can be. An expert such as yourself will be invaluable in interpreting the Sibyl’s utterances.’

  Tullus hung his head, exhausted.

  ‘Now,’ the secretary continued. ‘Nero is acutely aware of how much time has been wasted by the death of your friend, and he is keen for you to take these notes and accompany the expedition leaving for Greece tomorrow.’

  The old man suddenly opened his eyes and coughed like he was choking on an olive stone.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘At first light. Cadmus, I presume you will be accompanying your master?’

  Cadmus’s heart fluttered like a caged sparrow. Athens. He was finally going to see his home.

  ‘If that is what my master wishes,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ croaked Tullus.

  ‘No, Master?’

  ‘You must stay here. I will not put you in danger.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Cadmus. Do as you’re told. There will be time for explanations. Not now.’

  Cadmus’s blood boiled with frustration. Epaphroditus was watching their exchange with open amusement.

  ‘It seems a little odd, Tullus, to demand the boy’s presence and then not to take him with you. But then, he is your slave. Do with him as you see fit.’ He turned to Cadmus. ‘Perhaps you can persuade him over dinner, my boy? A few sweet words in his ear?’

  ‘Dinner?’ said Tullus.

  ‘Yes! Of course, I never told you. My deepest apologies. Nero has invited you both to dine with him tonight, in thanks for your work.’

  Cadmus and his master looked at each other, their faces slack with horror.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Right now, in fact.’ He flashed his yellow smile again. ‘Follow me, please. I hope you both have a good appetite!’

  Epaphroditus stayed long enough to savour their discomfort, and then turned and left the room, his laughter echoing like bells rung out of tune.

  IX

  The Domus Transitoria was less a palace than a network of several palaces, designed by Nero to link all the imperial residences together. Epaphroditus led them left and right and left again, past so many rooms and through so many corridors Cadmus was certain he wouldn’t be able to find his way back again. Eventually he could smell the cool, slightly damp air of the evening, and they emerged into a grand garden surrounded by a portico. All of the countryside was here, tamed and shaped and slotted neatly among the marble columns – little rolling hills, clear springs and pools, clusters of cypress that looked blue in the light of the fading day. After so many hours of sweating in the dark dining room, the garden was bliss.

  They made their way around the portico to a corner where there was an outdoor dining area, its couches and canopy wreathed in vines and lit softly with hundreds of lamps. None of the food had been brought out yet, but rich coverlets were spread over the tabletops and festooned with fruit, flowers and expensive glass and silverware. The emperor wasn’t there either, but most of the guests were already reclining while slaves served them generous helpings of wine.

  Tullus surveyed the scene with barely concealed disgust as they approached.

  ‘Ah,’ said Epaphroditus, looking over the guests already assembled. ‘It looks as though we’re a little early, but do make yourself comfortable.’

  They weren’t early, Cadmus knew. Nero was late. But Nero was master of time as much as he was master of everything else in the world.

  Cadmus accompanied his master as he circulated the open-air triclinium, reminding him of the names and ranks of a handful of guests. There were a handful of ex-magistrates, but most of the group were an eccentric mix of hangers-on: Nero’s comrades in indulgence, a gaggle of wet-lipped, overweight and over-perfumed young men who laughed too loudly and never said a word they really meant.

  It was Cadmus’s job to remain inconspicuous, but he felt more introverted than usual among the dinner guests. It wasn’t just the obnoxious, braying company. He was preoccupied. He was still angry with Tullus for not letting him go to Athens. And he kept thinking about Tog. He should have asked Epaphroditus what had happened to her, but now he’d missed his chance.

  Tullus was refusing the offer of a drink for the third or fourth time when the emperor finally joined them. He sauntered across the grass like a dancer mid-routine, wrapped in a crimson, double-length toga, embracing the other guests and giggling in a disjointed, tuneless way.

  Cadmus had never seen the emperor this close before. He was plainly wearing thick make-up to disguise his terrible complexion, and his hair and sideburns glistened
with perfume or oil or sweat or a combination of all three. He looked much older than his twenty-five years. His eyes were glazed and wild.

  A bizarre train followed him. At his heels were several young slave boys and slave girls, dressed to look like the god Bacchus with their faces painted gold and ivy wound into their hair. They danced and spun, showering Nero and the guests with fresh petals.

  Behind them was another group, as stern and silent as the young Bacchuses were spirited. They looked the same as the giant who had come for Tullus in the library. Thirteen figures, dressed from head to toe in colourful, enamelled bronze, their faces concealed by smooth and exquisitely proportioned masks. As they came into the light, Cadmus saw they matched the paintings in the room he had just left. They were all dressed to look like the heroes.

  Lastly, hobbling to keep up, was the most decrepit old man Cadmus had ever seen. Or was it a woman? The features were so ancient, the figure so stooped, it was impossible to tell. Under a white hood, Cadmus could see a whisper of a beard, although this didn’t necessarily settle the matter. The sleeves and the lap of the robe were the colour of rust. Blood. The figure’s clothes were stiff with it.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ Cadmus asked his master quietly. ‘They look like they’ve come from the theatre.’

  ‘That’s Nero’s soothsayer, Polydamas. He’s an augur, a haruspex, a priest, and I don’t know what else.’

  ‘And the giants?’

  ‘Some new personal guard Nero has created for himself,’ said Tullus. ‘Seems the praetorians aren’t dramatic enough for him. He’s recruited from the gladiator schools, I believe. They were the ones who took me from the library.’

  Nero took his couch, with Epaphroditus reclining next to him. The old man bent double at his ear, while the bronze, statuesque guards took their positions on either side. Finally two more Bacchus-slaves entered from the other end of the triclinium carrying a box that Cadmus recognized. They placed it on the floor below Nero’s elbow, undid the clasps and opened the lid.