Marilyn Todd - Second Act

Fear was not an emotion the Arch-Hawk recognized, yet the skin on his scalp prickled.

‘You must wait in the Hall of Destiny,’ the High Priest announced, ‘while we appease the shades with the blood of bullocks, oxen and lambs.’ Black-hooded acolytes magicked out of the shadows. Holding boughs of mistletoe over his blond head, they led him through a door into a decorated chamber.

‘Once the Oracle has summoned the shades of your ancestors, we shall return,’ the priest said.

Minutes passed like hours, days like weeks, and all Cotta had to live on was bread, herbs and some strange-tasting wine. Bizarre paintings on the walls of the chamber depicted men and women in the throes of terrible disease, and for a time he feared he was going insane. When he tried to escape, it was to find the door had been locked, and the only sound inside the chamber was the babble of distant water-and whispers. Soft, sibilant whispers that came and went without warning.

Eventually the door opened, the black-hooded priests chanting as they led him through the tunnels to where a coracle bobbed on the water. Cotta could not see the Ferryman’s face, but from one long, tattered sleeve, a skeletal finger crooked in a gesture of beckoning.

‘Come,’ the Ferryman rasped, and goose pimples rose on the Senator’s skin. ‘There are those who wait to greet you.’

‘You will need this.’ An acolyte handed him the mistletoe branch, a gift for the Queen of the Underworld. ‘And this,’ he added, placing a coin on the Senator’s tongue. In the distance, three dogs started barking. Or, rather, one dog with three heads. Cerberus, the guardian of Hades. The Hound of Hell.

At surprising speed, the coracle was swept downriver and the temperature grew warmer. Steam rose from the water in places, which bubbled wildly in others. Finally, the little boat put into the side.

Wordlessly, the Ferryman held out his hand for his fee.

Struggling out of the bobbing boat, Cotta handed over the coin then laid the mistletoe in a special niche for Persephone. When he turned, the coracle had gone, though the sound of baying still echoed through the dark caverns. His mouth was dry. He had crossed the Styx and paid the Ferryman. Was there any way back? Spluttering torches cast strange shadows on the rock face, and a lyre was strummed by invisible fingers.

He waited, unsure what to expect. Then his brother appeared. Veiled, but still in full dress uniform, he floated in and out of Cotta’s vision on the far bank of the river, the wound which killed him still gushing blood. A female voice called across the hot underground springs.

‘Greyhound, is that you?’

‘Mother?’

It was the nickname she’d given him as a child, because even as a small boy, he could run like the wind. But as much as he loved his mother, he didn’t know how long he’d have and it was imperative he spoke to his father. He called him. Heard the hammering of his own heart. Suppose he had come all this way, paid all that gold, for the old man not to appear? But the old man did appear. Not quite as tottery on his legs, but still bent and needing the help of another veiled ghost to lean on.

‘Father.’ He could scarcely breathe. ‘I must know the formula of the potion you mixed.’

A harsh laugh floated across the bubbling waters of the River Styx. ‘I am dead, my son. I hardly achieved the immortality I sought for so long.’

‘I know.’ Cotta had to guard against impatience. If he offended the shade of his father, the old man would never return and Rome’s expansion would be set back for years, maybe for ever. He bent his fair head in reverence. ‘You don’t know how sorry I am, sir. We’re all sorry. Shocked that it happened like that, too.’

‘It was a quick end, son. I didn’t suffer, if that’s what you wanted to know.’

It wasn’t. Although he was glad. ‘The formula, father. I need to know what adjustments you made to the elixir when you-when it exploded.’

There was a long pause, and a rustle as though pages of notes were being scrolled through out of sight. Whisperings.

‘My box survived the fire,’ the quavering voice replied at last. ‘You possess all the ingredients for the Elixir of Immortality.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cotta said patiently. ‘But I’m not seeking immortality. The west wing blew up. I need to know how you did it.’

This time the silence was longer, the rustlings more intense, the whisperings harsher.

‘Father, please. I need your help.’

The ghost supporting the old man muttered something in his ear. The old man nodded. ‘You don’t need my help, son,’ he replied. ‘The gods smile on your destiny.’

‘They do?’ Cotta blinked. ‘You mean…on the whole expansion programme? Including my plans to blow up the Senate?’

‘Of course, my boy! Jupiter, King of the Immortals and Bringer of Justice, gives you his blessing in all your endeavours. Success, my son, will be yours.’ And in a sudden swirl of smoke, they were gone. All of them. His brother, his mother, his father-even the whispering voices fell silent.

Now, in the bathhouse, as the barber rinsed off the last of his whiskers and rubbed balm of Gilead into his chin, that rare and precious oil that the Queen of Sheba presented to Solomon, Cotta regrouped.

Not all facts could be taken at face value, but he had no doubts whatsoever that he had sailed the River Styx, stood at the mouth of the Underworld, spoken with the shades of his kinfolk. By default, then, if he believed in the Oracle’s powers, he must also accept his father’s assurances that Jupiter himself blessed Cotta’s plans.

One way or another, that Senate House was going to blow.

The morning air was chill, but for the first time in days, chinks of brightness penetrated the gloom and, if the farmers’ forecasts were to be believed, Rome might actually see blue skies and sunshine for Saturnalia. Until last night, in fact right up until this morning, the holiday forecast had been uppermost in everyone’s thoughts. With so many celebrations taking place out of doors, fine weather made all the difference. But today on the streets, there was only one topic of conversation. The Halcyon Rapist.

And the news was electric.

‘Did you hear? The victim got away.’

‘It’s true, you know. I heard it from the rope maker, who heard it from the silversmith, who heard it from the hot-food vendor himself!’

‘She wounded him, apparently. Don’t know where she got him, or even how badly the bugger was hurt, but by Jupiter, she got one over on the dirty bastard. He won’t be so hard to hunt down now.’

‘Grabbed him by the balls, the hot-food vendor said, then stabbed him with her knife and ran home.’

‘A bloody heroine, that woman. The Emperor ought to give her a medal.’

*

Orbilio had still not returned, but Claudia was elated by the news. It was like Atlas taking the weight of the world from her shoulders, giving her a reprieve when she didn’t deserve it. And an appetite to match. She was taking breakfast in her office, working on the schedule for Saturnalia with Leonides, when Skyles burst into the garden. He was wheezing and holding his side, as though he’d been running, and sharp eyes searched the courtyard and peristyle. Whoever he was expecting to see wasn’t there and he arranged himself with carefully constructed nonchalance against one of the marble pillars.

‘There are no eggs with my breakfast, Leonides.’

The steward tilted his head on one side. In all these years, the mistress had never asked for eggs with her breakfast. Fruit, yes. Bread, yes. Cheeses, cold meats, salt fish, grilled chicken, goose liver, omelettes and walnuts, yes. But- ‘Eggs, madam?’