Wayward Son (53 page)

“I completely agree, Gallus,” replied Fronto, nodding his head vigorously. “But the war was so
unnecessary
to begin with. To think that thousands of Romans were killed by these savages before the revolt against us could be tamed. And all because of the greed and stupidity of one man, that idiot
Catus Decianus
.”

“He should never have been appointed procurator by the imperial administration. Donkeys have more sense,” concurred Gallus.

The men broke off their talk to greet Cain, introducing themselves as legionary commanders, the equivalent of generals, on leave from Britannia.

“We were just speaking of the revolt that began five years ago,” explained Gallus. “My colleague feels strongly it should never have happened.”

Cain smiled encouragingly. “What provoked the Britons to rebel?” he asked. “Were they not treated well?”

Fronto waved his hand dismissively. “If the emperor’s agent had listened to reason, seventy thousand Romans would still be alive today and three of the largest towns in the province would still be standing,” he growled. “You have heard of
King Prasutagus
?” he asked Cain.

Recognizing the name of the former tribal king of the
Iceni
in southeast Britannia, Cain quizzed the general. “He made a treaty with us, didn’t he?” His curiosity was motivated, at least in part, by what Rina had told him of life in Britannia.

“Correct, sir. And you are looking at the man who negotiated that treaty. Before he died, Prasutagus bequeathed his kingdom jointly to Rome and to his daughters. Afterward, though, things started to go wrong when his greedy widow,
Queen Boudica
, claimed the royal lands of the Iceni for herself. Still, we might have kept the peace if Catus, our procurator, had behaved sensibly. Instead, he enraged local opinion by having Boudica publicly flogged. And, if you please, he arranged for her teenage daughters to be violated in front of the people.”

“What a fool. I had no idea!” exclaimed Cain. “The Iceni must have been outraged.”

“That, sir, is an understatement!” Fronto replied. “Catus gave the Iceni a rallying cry. Boudica had no difficulty raising an army three times bigger than Rome’s. With the governor and most of our troops miles away on the other side of Britannia, we were caught shorthanded. Governor Paulinus returned in the very nick of time to put down the revolt. But not until Boudica had burned London to the ground.”

“What happened to Boudica after her defeat?” Cain inquired.

“It’s generally thought she took poison to avoid capture. Like Cleopatra in Egypt, you know.”

Gallus now joined in. “Foreign queens have been a millstone around the neck of Rome, my friend,” he said darkly to Cain.

“But Boudica is dead, presumably,” Cain answered. “And order is now restored in Britannia, is it not?”

“We have kept the peace, at a price,” agreed Gallus. “But the evil of that red-haired witch lives on. Her younger sister, a stunning princess named Rhiannon, helped Fronto here negotiate the inheritance treaty by serving as his interpreter. After the revolt was suppressed, I took Rhiannon captive and sent her as a slave to my house here in Rome. Interpreters are not supposed to have red hair down to the waist and turquoise eyes,” he remarked, a bit wistfully.

“A feisty sort,” commented Fronto with a chuckle. “As I recall, you couldn’t control her, Gallus. Especially in bed!”

Gallus poked his colleague sharply in the ribs. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned over to Cain. “As you doubtless know, sir, the emperor continues to blame the Christians for the Great Fire,” he imparted. “But the truth lies elsewhere, my friend.”

Cain had heard a number of conspiracy theories about the previous year’s disaster—including several that attributed arson to Nero himself and his capricious whims. It had even been whispered that the emperor had sung and played his lyre from a private stage as he watched Rome burn. And rumor also had it that he burned the city only to clear construction space for his new palace, the fabulous Golden House.

“What do you believe happened, commander?” Cain asked Gallus.

“I know for a certainty that Rhiannon started the fire,” he replied. “She was seen torching the shops at the Circus Maximus on the first night.”

Fronto nodded his head. “Tell him how you had your house slaves tortured,” he urged.

Gallus waved him off. “They confirmed the whole story. That witch was just waiting for a series of dry, windy days to take her revenge on Rome. She is a murderer!” he hissed.

“Calm yourself, Gallus,” said Fronto. “The arsonist will be found. After her capture, she will surely be crucified.”

“I’ll hammer in the nails myself!” exclaimed Gallus. “I lost more than just my house in that cursed fire,” he added. The strong soldier suddenly looked vulnerable, perhaps haunted by the memory of family members who had perished in the fire.

Cain shivered in the lukewarm water, his mind racing as he considered the resemblance between Rina and the description of the arsonist. Had he married the very woman whose wanton act of revenge had caused widespread ruin—not to mention the deaths of his beloved son Quintus, his daughter-in-law, and his grandchildren? The details in these soldiers’ narrative were disturbing, at the very least. He decided to probe further.

“Gentlemen, I spend most of my time now in Herculaneum. But my circle of contacts in Rome is still wide. Besides the hair and eye color, does this Rhiannon have any other distinguishing features or characteristics? I ask you only in case I ever see her and would have the chance to report her to the authorities.”

“Yes, she does,” declared Gallus. “She is unusually tall for a woman, and she speaks Latin with the trace of a foreign accent.” The general paused for a moment, then added, “Oh, she also has a small beauty mark on her right cheek.”

Cain’s stomach sank. He had always regarded Rina’s distinctive blemish as an adornment. It had taken only a moment’s revelation to transform it into an odious malignancy.

Thanking the generals for their fellowship, he hastily left the tepidarium. Eschewing even short plunges in the hot and cold pools, he dispatched his servant to find his fellow team owners and inform them that a sudden message from his villa in Herculaneum required his prompt departure.

***

Aboard the river launch en route back to Ostia, a seething Cain stared down at the placid waters of the Tiber, angry not only at Rina but also at his own gullibility. He was not sure what he would do when he arrived back home in Herculaneum.

CHAPTER 71

Herculaneum, AD 65

FOR THREE DAYS, CAIN kept his own counsel. When Rina asked him how his business had gone in Rome, he replied in generalities, omitting all mention of his visit to the Neronian Baths and his conversation with Legion Commanders Fronto and Gallus. But the sight of the beauty mark constantly unnerved him. He would have to bring her deception to an end, he decided.

“Let’s take a long horseback ride,” urged Cain one day after lunch. “We can explore the beach at Oplontis. You may find some appealing seashells there for your collection.”

Rina happily agreed. “And the sea air will do you good after your trip to Rome,” she said. “It will brush out the cobwebs,” she added jokingly.

Cain ordered two of his favorite parade stallions to be readied. At the front gate of the villa before the couple left the grounds, two of his guards approached on horseback to accompany the riding party, as was customary. Although the towns along the Bay of Naples were the playgrounds of affluent aristocrats, they also attracted kidnappers and thieves. Protection against bandits was a routine, and prudent, precaution. The guards were surprised, therefore, when Cain dismissed them, only asking to be handed a
gladius
, a short sword sheathed in a leather scabbard.

They rode for two hours, covering the twelve miles south to Stabiae, and then doubling back toward Oplontis, which lay seven miles from Herculaneum. Rina did most of the talking, telling Cain excitedly about the new foal, a beautiful white Arabian. Near Oplontis, at Cain’s suggestion, they branched off the main road and took a trail through thick underbrush down to a sandy beach. Gentle waves lapped the shoreline, which stretched for miles in each direction. Typical for this time of year, there was not a vessel in sight. Cain could see that, by land and by sea, they were entirely alone.

Dismounting, they sauntered barefoot along the surf line, looking for unusual shells as they held the reins of their horses.

“I have some other news to share with you,” Rina told him. “Nothing about horses, though,” she added mysteriously.

When Cain didn’t look up, she could tell he was preoccupied. Ever since his return from Rome, he had been uncharacteristically withdrawn, almost guarded in his speech.

At length, he took his eyes off the sand. Drawing in the reins slightly, he looked at her and said, “Something troubles me, Rina.”

“Yes, what is it, my husband?”

“What was the real reason you declined to join me in Rome? After all, we have plenty of servants who could have tended to the foal.”

A shadow crossed Rina’s eyes. “The city holds bad memories for me.”

“Yes, I know that. Yet I find it strange that you didn’t even ask me to inquire about your sister. You might have cherished some hope of tracking her down, or at least of knowing her fate for certain.”

“I did not want to be a burden to you, my love. Besides, the Roman way of life has taught us all to endure the loss of loved ones with resilience, whether the cause is warfare or disease or accident. Was it not so for you with the loss of Quintus?”

The two stopped walking and stood stock-still. Cain stared at Rina, marveling inwardly at her ability to lie with such conviction.

“Ah, yes, about Quintus,” he replied. “On the day of his burial, I could not help but notice that you remained dry-eyed, Rina. You shed not one tear, although your husband, and probably your sister, died only a few days before.”

Rina searched for words to answer him. Finally, after a long pause, Cain spat out, “There were no lost loved ones, were there,
Princess Rhiannon
?”

Rina’s expression could not conceal her shock. He knew her true name! In panic, she let go of her horse’s reins and dropped to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Tears will not rescue you now, the way they did on board the
Nostos
,” he said grimly, staring down at her.

Cain collected the reins of her horse. With his left hand, he intertwined them with those of his own mount. With his right hand, he slowly drew the sword from his belt and raised it high over his head. Rina looked up and locked eyes with her husband.

“I know all that you have done!” Cain shouted. “It is now time for the
truth
!”

Rina could manage no response other than a terrified gasp at the sight of the blade poised to strike her down. Cain dropped the circled reins to the ground. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he let loose an anguished scream as he plunged his sword downward.

CHAPTER 72

Ercolano: Present Day

DR. ARCHIBALD WALKER AND Juan Carlos stood behind the tarp next to the narrow crack in the wall. Their heads together, the two painstakingly reviewed the digital recording of Amanda’s voice.

“The static at that particular point is maddening,” Juan Carlos told Walker. “I’m sure the noise covers her identification of the missing pictogram.”

The young Spaniard showed Walker the chart he had made, listing the matches between the five key words in the proverb and the images of the hourglass, the sword, the Chinese “truth” character, and the serpent.

“We have identified all the matches except one,” Juan Carlos added. “And we know the proper sequence.” Looking at Walker’s thin, wiry frame, he asked, “Do you think you can fit through the crack, Doctor?”

Walker didn’t hesitate, replying, “Amanda isn’t the only agile member of our profession, my boy! If Goldilocks could do it, I can do it.”

Juan Carlos, forcing himself to ignore this patronizing remark, tried to refocus Walker. “Remember that there are twenty-one unidentified pictograms in all. The one we need is the image that can be plausibly associated with the word
story
. Take the chart with you, Doctor. You’ll also want this.” Juan Carlos handed him a thin flashlight with a powerful halogen beam.

Walker folded the notepad sheet and put it in his pocket.

“If you can open the door, please be careful, Dr. Walker. There may be poison gas inside.” He choked back emotion as he thought of Amanda.

“That’s already occurred to me, young man,” Walker rejoined wryly. “Remember that Silvio and I were clambering around ancient ruins when you were in diapers.”

Rolling his eyes, Juan Carlos simply replied, “Sure. Buona fortuna, Archie.”

Walker’s spine stiffened as he briefly glared at Juan Carlos. “My name is Archibald,” came his rebuke as he wriggled through the thin crack into the narrow, twisting corridor that led to the entrance doors. Switching on his flashlight, he noticed that the ground was broken by dozens of fissures. After the corridor curved to the right, Walker’s light picked up the remains of the robot, smashed by a heavy piece of debris. A bit of steam rose from a vent in the ground. Feeling slightly claustrophobic, he reached for his hip flask, but found to his consternation that his last bit of liquid courage was gone. He continued gingerly along the remaining twenty-five feet of the narrow corridor and was relieved to find himself in a more spacious opening before the doors of the chamber.

He approached the right-hand bronze door. “How strange,” he thought. The portals were similar to the ones Luc Renard had installed at Villa Colosseum in Point Dume.

Scanning the pictograms, Walker narrowed down the suitable matches for the word
story
to three choices. After two failed attempts to open the door, he concluded the papyrus roll must be the missing pictogram. As he began to press the symbols on the door in what he knew was the correct sequence, his pulse quickened and his eyes widened with anticipation.