of the Middle Sea. Great events, man!’
‘You’ve come to see the King of the Slaves?’ said the guard, with obvious delight.
‘I was not aware of any kingship. I am familiar with the name of a Palmyran Greek called Hypolitas.’
‘One and the same person, sir.’
‘So, fellow, he aspires to the diadem. I must gaze upon this King, considering he has made Rome shudder. I would dearly like to speak with him. Is he accessible?’
‘None more so, your honour. No airs and graces attach to our King. He remembers that he was a slave, just like the rest of us.’
‘He is acknowledged by all then?’ asked Cholon.
The guard leant forward and Cholon tried not to flinch at the man’s stink. ‘Locals don’t bend the knee, but they will. All it needs is an assembly so that he can be acclaimed. A few prods from our spears will do the trick.’
‘It sounds as if this is already arranged.’
The guard half-turned, then winked, with all the subtlety of a poor stage comedian. Clearly the man was looking for a coin. ‘When will this assembly take place?’ asked Cholon, reaching for his leather purse.
‘Tomorrow noon.’
‘Could you secure me a good place from which to watch?’
‘I can that, sir, though not till my duty is done. One of the men who guards our King is a friend.’
Cholon slipped the man two silver denarii, which he palmed expertly. ‘Take this, fellow. One for you and another for your friend. If he asks who wishes a good view, say that a wealthy traveller from Athens, by the name of Cholon Pyliades, seeks a sight of this paragon. I will rest at the Temple of Diana.’
That presented even less of a problem than entry into the city; the normal source of donations to the temple had dried up since the slaves arrived. Wealthy men, fearing the future, hoarded their money and dressed in rags. Cholon was more than merely welcomed, he was feted and the priests, like priests everywhere, seemed happy to grovel for a few coins, dropped noisily into their finely wrought Corinthian salver. He was happy; bribable Greeks were so much easier to deal with than sententious Romans. Mind, Lucius Falerius had practically given him proconsular power, so sour remarks regarding Roman faults had been avoided of late. He wondered what Titus and the Lady Claudia would say if they could see him now.
Claudia had never thought of her life as restricted until the problems associated with searching for her lost child surfaced. Aulus had left her independent, but that did not release her from the natural constraints attendant upon any woman, let alone one of a noble family, and she could not just travel around the country like a man, asking questions. While her husband had lived such an extended search as she was now planning was impossible. The short excursion she had taken, and her talk with the midwife who had delivered her baby, had been fruitless. After Thralaxas Claudia had pinned her hopes on Cholon and she refused to accept that her son was dead, as Cholon insisted he must be, so she combed his words, which were etched on her memory, for clues. The Greek had mentioned a road; the child had been placed in woods far from some highway. Such roads were not numerous and there had been even fewer when the boy was born.
‘A map, Lady? asked Thoas, who had never seen or heard of such a thing.
‘Yes.’ Claudia explained, first what they were and how she thought the slave could get one. ‘If you cannot find someone who sells such things, there must be maps in the Temple of Juno Moneta.’
The slave repeated the name slowly. He knew the place, a wooden structure at the summit of the Capitoline Hill, next to the building where they minted coins. He had often looked at it, wondering if it was possible to dig a tunnel from one to the other.
‘I am a slave, lady, and no worshipper of your Gods. Can I go into such a place with this request?’
‘This is Rome, Thoas. Even a slave is allowed to worship in our temples. I will give you something to pay the priests, plus a written request that any map be entrusted to you.’
Quintus Cornelius now found himself working as hard, if not harder, than Lucius had done in the past but he was happy, for he wanted nothing more in life than to be the leading man in Rome. He would need a military victory to ensure that, but given sufficient prestige, he could pick and choose his Consular year and thus his campaign. He was in a happy mood as he made his way from his bedroom to his study, for once leaving his mouse-wife with a delighted smile on her face.
It never occurred to Thoas that his mistress’s stepson would want to work so late and he had checked, listening as Quintus and his wife noisily made love. Odd that such a meek creature should be such a screamer in bed! She had exhausted her husband by the sound of it, so he was out of the way for the night. Apart from them, the entire house was fast asleep. The lamplight in the study first alerted Quintus, so he approached the door cautiously, then the rustling of the papers alarmed him. After what had happened to Lucius Falerius, he never travelled anywhere without a long-bladed knife. Since he did not share a room with his wife, he was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing all day, including the weapon, so he pulled it out now, eased himself through the open door, and saw his mother’s Numidian slave rifling through the scrolls in his tall map cupboard.
The thought that the man was a fool was the first thing that entered his mind: there was nothing of value amongst those maps. It was unlikely he could read, so he had tried the wrong cupboard but that did not alter the fact that Thoas was trying to steal something from his papers and there was only one way to deal with such a thing. The Numidian was tall, muscular and could prove a difficult opponent. This was no time to take a chance.
Thoas started to turn as Quintus stabbed him, which meant the blade took him in the side of his leg rather than the back, and in turning he added effect to the sideways motion that Quintus used, tearing his thigh muscles even more than the senator had intended. Quintus was a soldier, as adept in the martial arts as any of his contemporaries. The left-handed punch hit the slave on his open mouth, removed several teeth, and killed the sound that Thoas had started to make. Quintus kicked his other leg from under him and dropped, with his knees thudding onto the slave’s chest as he hit the floor. Then the knife was at the Numidian’s throat.
‘Make a sound and I’ll take out your gizzard.’
Terror made Thoas’s eyes look white against his dark skin, fear made him gurgle, the knife pressed into his throat made him stop. The slave’s mind was racing, since there seemed no way out of the trouble he was in. Then he had an idea. It would be pointless to plead mercy on the grounds that he was acting on Claudia’s behalf, but what about Lucius Falerius Nerva? Everyone in Rome was afraid of Lucius and gossip in the wine shops had it that this included Quintus Cornelius, so when the question came, he gave the answer that he thought would save him.
They found his body in a street leading to the market-place, the throat sliced open. Rome at night was a lawless enough place for murder to be commonplace and Thoas, who was much given to staying out drinking in places he could not afford, spending money he should not have, on women he could never hope to get, had met a deserved end, probably at the hands of someone jealous of his attentions to his paramour. Claudia, as a favour to help her heartbroken maid, paid for a funeral for the Numidian, even though she did wonder what he was doing out at that hour. Even more mysterious was the way that Quintus, without a word of explanation, handed her the note she had written out for the priests at the Temple of Juno
Moneta. As he did so, her stepson cursed himself again for that moment of blind fury, when he heard the name Lucius Falerius. That had made him slice the man’s throat without asking him what he was looking for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was immediately obvious that the slave army, despite the promises of their leader, had taken over the city. The guard at the gate had been an ex-slave and the entrance to the palace, normally the meeting place of the local oligarchy, was also guarded by runaways, simple questioning establishing that it was now the sole residence of the ‘King of the Slaves’. Cholon waited, in a very privileged spot, as the crowds gathered and watched this paragon emerge into the square before the palace. He was surrounded by his advisers, one of whom, a tall blond fellow with
