The History Keepers Circus Maximus (18 page)

A smile lit up her face behind her silken shroud, and she put her pale hands between the bars and waited for the birds to come to her. They swooped down, flapping their wings in delight, nipping her with their beaks and fighting for her attention. Entranced by their devotion, Agata sighed, making her veil billow out in front of her.

She withdrew her hands and clapped to summon the birdkeeper. A moment later, a paunchy man wearing a blood-splattered leather apron lumbered out of the darkness. In his chubby hands he carried a basket, which he held up to his mistress.

Agata examined the contents: it was crawling with living things – rats, mice, thin snakes and monster-sized beetles – all slithering, scratching and scrambling on top of each other in a diabolical soup. Undaunted, she reached in and took hold of a fat rodent with a thick, hairless tail and passed it through the bars. The birds pounced immediately, squawking with pleasure, one snapping off its head, another tearing at its body, pulling it to pieces, their necks bobbing as the lumps of flesh went down.

‘You poor things are starving,’ she said. ‘But not to worry – dinner’s coming.’ Now she went over to the other compartment. She stopped in front of the prisoner and removed her veil. As it slipped off, it made a soft hiss. Seeing her face, the unfortunate soldier did a double-take, as if he were looking at the Gorgon herself.

At first glance, Agata’s face was handsome – proud, with a high forehead. But further scrutiny revealed something more unsettling: the features – nose, eyes, mouth, chin – all striking individually, did not
quite
fit together. It appeared as if they had been taken apart and carefully reassembled like Frankenstein’s bride, leaving the faintest reminders of surgery.

Her age was incalculable; like her brother, she could have been forty or sixty, or even older. Her skin – which was pulled tight, erasing all her lines – was pale and translucent like marble, and showed a faint network of blue veins. One of her eyes was blue; the other was slate grey, and slightly duller than its twin. Most striking of all was her red hair, which was as rich and dry as burnt copper.

‘Do you know why you are here?’ she asked.

‘No, Magistra,’ the prisoner replied, his voice cracking.

The door opened and Leopardo strode in and came to stand by his mother.

Agata reached into her cloak and produced a small bundle of scrolls, speaking once more to the prisoner. ‘This was the last batch of letters you delivered to me – three Imperial missives sent from Capri to Rome – along with a further two from the Senate back to Capri. Five dispatches in all.’

‘That’s correct, Magistra. As usual, I intercepted them at the port of Surrentum and made the necessary substitutions.’

‘So would you like to explain to me about the remaining communiqués?’

‘No, Magistra. I got them all.’

Agata stared at the soldier as beads of sweat formed on his brow. She held out her hand and Leopardo deposited into it another bundle of scrolls. The sight of them made the prisoner shudder.

‘My son retrieved these from a messenger already halfway to the city. If these letters, from Tiberius himself, had arrived at their destination, all our work would have been in vain.’

‘I . . . I don’t understand how it could happen,’ the soldier stammered. ‘I had ten men watching the port.’

The birds peered through the bars of their compartment with mounting excitement, knowing that some treat was in the offing. Their bloodthirsty caws become noisier and shriller as they poked their heads through, flapping their wings in anticipation.

‘History is about to be rewritten,’ Agata rasped through the bars, ‘but your incompetence has caused you to miss the show.’ She nodded at Leopardo, who stepped over and slid out the grille that separated the two compartments. At once the vultures took off towards the soldier. He cried out desperately, pulling at his shackles as they circled above his head, savouring the exquisite moment. Then, as one, they swooped down.

Leopardo clutched his mother’s shoulders in delight. Agata’s mouth fell open as she watched the spectacle, clasping her hands together as the screams of man and birds mingled in one satanic cacophony. A tiny fleck of blood flew across the chamber and landed on Agata’s white cheek. She shivered as it struck her, but she did not wipe it off. Within a minute, the man’s cries had died away; only the vultures could be heard, and soon their piercing cries were replaced by the sounds of tearing flesh.

Agata’s expression returned to normal as the moment of ecstasy passed. She looked melancholy; Leopardo sensed it and kissed her on the back of the head.

‘Don’t be sad, Mother,’ he whispered. ‘Less than two days to go now.’

Even though he was used to the goriest sights imaginable, the birdkeeper did not dare look at what had become of the man tied to the post.

Jake was woken by a gentle nudge. He had fallen asleep, as was his wont, amongst the ropes on deck, snugly wrapped in a blanket. Charlie was leaning over him, with Mr Drake peering down from his shoulder.

‘I thought you might be interested in something . . .’ Charlie whispered (Nathan and Lucius were still sleeping, but Charlie was not so much being polite as enjoying the peace a while longer).

Jake sat up and squinted at the dawn: a band of pink light was emerging above a landmass to their right.

‘It’s a rather unsettling sight,’ Charlie continued, pointing towards a cone-shaped mountain. ‘That’s Mount Vesuvius there.’ His voice became more serious. ‘And below it is the town of Pompeii.’

Jake had heard of Pompeii: he knew that it had been destroyed and buried when a huge volcano erupted. He started to make out the shape of a town, high walled and sloping down the hillside between the mountain and the sea. He wasn’t sure when exactly Pompeii had met its terrible fate, so he half expected to find it in ruins, but its streets were already busy with early morning activity.

Charlie continued gravely, ‘The town has another fifty-two years before calamity strikes. Everything will be wiped out: the forum, the theatres, stadia, temples, shops and palaces, gone in a flash.’

‘What happened exactly?’ Jake asked, then
corrected himself: ‘I mean, what
will
happen?’

‘In August
AD
79, after eight hundred years of being entirely dormant, that volcano will blow like a volcano has never blown before. A fountain of ash and stone will spew up thousands of metres into the air; it will go on doing so through the day and night. Incredibly, most will survive this, but they’ll wish they hadn’t. For then will come the pyroclastic event’ – Mr Drake edged away from Charlie in distaste; it wasn’t so much the words he objected to, rather the florid actions that accompanied them – ‘a surge of boiling, choking gas, travelling at two hundred miles an hour, instantly turning everything it touches’ – Charlie paused for effect, and snapped his fingers – ‘to black carbon.’

Once again Jake scanned the town – the tops of the high city walls were now catching the light of the rising sun – and sadly pondered its fate, taking some comfort from the fact that the people still faced fifty-two years of peace.

‘In the other direction’ – Charlie pointed far along the coast – ‘on that peninsula right at the end of the Bay of Naples, is Misenum, where the Roman fleet is stationed. The Roman navy took a while to get going, but now it is the greatest fleet the world
has ever known. It’s quite a sight – have a look.’ He retrieved his little telescope, opened it out and handed it to Jake, who trained it on the spur of land far in the distance. At first he couldn’t make sense of the puzzle of shapes, but then he saw a succession of wharves, each with a flotilla of vast warships: it looked like a city in its own right.

The quiet of the early morning was broken by Lucius shouting in his sleep: ‘
Bellum parate! Ferte milites!
’ He was lying on his back, his hands twitching as he arrested some imaginary foe. After a couple of minutes of role-play, which included Lucius banging his fists on the deck, Nathan emerged from below in a silk dressing gown, pushing his eye mask up onto his forehead.

‘I was hoping
I
was having a bad dream,’ he drawled, ‘but he’s still here.’ He went over and prodded Lucius awake with a slippered foot. ‘Good morning, Lucy,’ he offered with a poisonous smile. ‘I’m afraid there are chores to be done. We’ve drawn lots: you’ve got latrine cleaning.’

Lucius stared up at him in bemusement.

‘For goodness’ sake, Nathan,’ Charlie grunted with irritation, ‘leave him alone. He’s done nothing to hurt you.’

But Nathan’s expression had changed: he had seen the town of Pompeii across the water. He bowed his head respectfully. ‘Poor old place,’ he murmured.

A short while later they arrived in the small, neat port of Herculaneum, just up the coast from Pompeii. As Charlie steered the
Conqueror
into the harbour, he explained to Jake that this town would also be destroyed by the volcano, though the damage would not be as bad. Lucius overheard them as he was polishing his sword and asked what they were talking about. Charlie, although he was clearly bending History Keepers’ rules about not tampering with the future, told him he didn’t think it would be the best place for Lucius to settle down – he was an expert on volcanoes, he explained, and had a bad feeling about this one. Lucius looked at Charlie a little oddly, but Jake got the feeling the Roman would heed the advice nonetheless.

Nathan emerged from below deck and threw a bundle of clothes at Lucius. ‘You’d better change,’ he told him.

Lucius was still wearing his Hydra uniform. He inspected the offering with a look of contempt.

‘And you can take that look off your face. Those are quality garments,’ Nathan said, adding under his breath, ‘Better than those preposterous outfits
she
makes you wear. Agata’s Zeldt’s obsession with feathers is lamentable.’

For his own part, Nathan had, rather self-consciously, donned a pair of gladiator’s boots and a fitted leather jerkin over his tunic. He collared Jake. ‘Now tell me the truth,’ he said, striking a pose, ‘does this jacket make my arms look bigger?’

‘Yes . . .’ Jake nodded uncertainly. ‘I think so, but it looks a little . . . restricting.’ He was right: it was so tight around the tops of his arms, it was impeding the blood flow.

‘It’s fine.’ Nathan gave it a sharp tug. ‘What about the boots? They’re quite masculine, aren’t they?’

‘Very manly,’ Jake agreed – it seemed the best thing to do.

‘Because
he
hasn’t got a monopoly on looking like a Roman god.’ Nathan gave a jealous nod at Lucius, whose muscles rippled as he changed into his new clothes.

The ship docked and the four of them made their way up the main street towards the theatre, which Charlie had already located on the map.

Jake saw that this was a town with money – it was more prosperous than Messina. The streets here were wide and clean; there was white marble everywhere, and well-dressed groups of people window-shopped, sat by fountains or strolled along the harbour.

‘It’s really just a holiday town,’ Charlie commented. ‘Rome on sea, if you like.’

Lucius, for one, was impressed, almost overawed, by the displays of wealth. He blushed when three well-bred young ladies floated by in long silk gowns, fluttering their eyelashes at him.

Nathan watched, agog, but they completely ignored him. ‘They obviously didn’t see me,’ he muttered to Jake. As another two beauties approached, he flexed his muscles and fixed them with his most smouldering stare. But they too only had eyes for Lucius.

‘I seem to be invisible!’ Nathan complained, tugging again at his jerkin, ‘Not even the flicker of a glance in my direction. I mean, really, he’s just a meathead, whereas I am brains
and
brawn – all wrapped up in a luxury cloak of sensitivity and
savoir-faire
. What’s not to adore?’

At length they came to the theatre, a handsome building with arches around it.

‘Obviously it’s only nine in the morning,’ Charlie pointed out, ‘so it’s unlikely there’ll be anything going on.’

Jake and his companions went through one of the arches into a gloomy atrium that curved around the theatre. From there they followed a winding staircase, emerging into the sunlight of the amphitheatre itself. Jake, Nathan and Charlie took in the scene, entranced.

The open-air auditorium was semicircular, consisting of a curving staircase of stone seats that led down to a raised stage. Behind this was a huge marble wall, fronted by high columns, alcoves and statues; three doorways presumably led backstage. Contrary to Charlie’s prediction, there
was
a show going on – a performance by some twenty actors, their faces covered by masks, each with a downturned smile of unhappiness. It was being watched by a smattering of people slouched in the front rows.

‘It must be a dress rehearsal.’ Charlie gasped in wonder as he soaked up the scene.

Two principal characters, a skinny man and a stout woman, were speaking, while the chorus affected theatrical mimes in response, their body
language altering from despair to anger to horror, and so on.

‘They seem to be covering every emotion under the sun,’ Nathan giggled. Lucius – the bluff, straight-talking soldier – was the only one who seemed uneasy here: it was all a little too touchy-feely for him.

Suddenly things on stage hotted up, and the stout lady shouted abuse at her skinny companion. Jake and the others assumed that this was part of the play, until the lady threw off her mask, revealing – to Lucius’s horror – that she wasn’t a lady at all, but a bearded middle-aged man. The actor stamped on his mask and attacked his co-star. The chorus tried to separate them, but the scuffle grew so violent that even the audience was sucked into it. Finally the cross-dressing actor silenced everyone with a parting curse, before storming off, throwing down his wig in disgust.

Jake and Nathan turned to Charlie. ‘My Latin is just passable,’ Nathan said, ‘but I barely caught a word of that.’

Charlie duly translated, explaining – after putting the pieces together – that the man playing the wife was one of two
histriones primi
, or principal
actors. The man who was
supposed
to be playing the husband had left at short notice after some unfortunate business the day before, and the skinny man, the understudy, had taken his place, but was clearly not up to the job. ‘
Abdico
’ was his parting shot: ‘I resign.’