M. Scott - Rome - The Emperor's spy

From his place at the junction of the three walls, Seneca said, ‘It refers to the veil in the Temple of Jerusalem?’

‘Where else?’ In his agitation, Shimon strode to the corner and back. Doves erupted from the apple trees above. ‘Even now, he wishes to destroy us.’

‘Who does?’ Pantera asked.

‘An apostate. One who hates us, who despises us, who wishes us removed from the earth.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we would not let him train to be a teacher. He thought himself the best of our scholars, when in fact he never had the sharpness of mind and hid behind vehemence and passion, thinking them enough to win arguments. We dismissed him, but did not kill him. That was our first mistake.’

‘He would do exceedingly well in Rome,’ Seneca said sourly.

‘He has done exactly that, and in the Greek cities on the eastern shore of the Mother Sea. With his self-taught rhetoric and his passions, with his half-knowledge and his reading of un-truths, he has taken the law and broken it, has turned men to the drinking of blood and the eating of flesh, has claimed for himself a death that never was and made of it one of his Greek sacrifices. He is an apostate, a liar and a thief, and now he would destroy us by-’

The old man stopped suddenly, his face a rough terrain of warring passions.

Pantera had held up his hand. ‘Listen.’

Coriallum was quieter than it had been. At the hippodrome, order was being restored. At the docks, Goro’s boys were silent in their work. In the house behind the orchard wall, a woman spoke to her lover, and was answered.

None the less, someone hid in the small sounds that remained, and was coming closer. Pantera eased his sleeve-knife in its sheath. To his left, Shimon held up three fingers. ‘Three men,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps one followed each of us and now they are joined? They come from the direction of the whorehouses.’

‘Then we should go where they least expect us.’ Pantera set his back to the wall and linked his hands to make a foot rest. ‘Will you accept my aid to mount the walls? And you, my lord Seneca?’

‘We’ll be seen,’ Seneca said.

‘Not if we go north and drop down. Trust me. I have been in this town for nearly a day and have explored it. I know where we can go. But only if you can climb.’

‘I can climb,’ Shimon said.

‘And I,’ added Seneca.

‘Good,’ said Pantera. ‘If you go up from my hands, there’s a niche for a foot and a handhold higher up.’

‘Then you may grasp my staff to make your ascent,’ Shimon said.

Pantera grinned. ‘Thank you.’

The wall was eight feet high. The top was capped with curved stones, firmly mortared in place. The two old men swarmed up it like lizards, to crouch on top.

Pantera joined them, and led them away, crouching, grasping the capstones with both hands. Behind, Shimon came delicately with his staff held horizontal, giving him balance. Seneca skipped sprightly after. The eyes of both were alive with the joy of young boys stealing apples.

Pantera felt his own blood fizz through his marrow. Every sense was sharpened so that he could smell the different layers of the sea from the weed-rimed depths to the cresting swell to the prickling air of an incoming storm. He could feel each stone of the wall. In the afternoon light he could see the edges of the streets and the houses beyond.

And in all of that was the sense of a razor’s edge drawn slowly down his skin, the beginning needles of fear that were the food on which his soul fed.

For the first time since Britain, Pantera felt alive, and Seneca knew it. He glanced at him and raised one brow in a question that was its own answer.

Standing, Pantera turned on the balls of his feet. ‘Can you jump?’

Two old men nodded.

He asked, ‘My lord Shimon, will your faith allow you to hide atop a pig pen?’

‘It will allow me to do whatever I might in order to live.’

‘Come then.’ The pig pen across the street held a lazy sow and her near-grown young. Pantera measured the gap by eye, swung back his arms and leapt.

He caught the edge with his foot, swayed back and then forward and was on. Seneca followed, not as clumsily as he might have expected. Shimon jerked back his arm and hurled his staff like a spear so that only three years of battle training amongst the Dumnonii let Pantera catch it and swing it out of the way as the old man launched himself across after it.

The sow grunted and opened one eye, flounder-like, to view them. The piglets squealed and played, but no louder than they had done. Pantera made a sign, flattening his palms, and then lay down, pressing his face, his chest, his whole body tight to the clay tiles of the sow’s stall.

As he did so, three men rounded the building’s end cautiously, heads high like hounds on an air-scent, all shabbily dressed to merge with the dockhands, and armed with knives that caught the afternoon sun.

Pantera kept his eyes half closed and his breathing shallow. His own knife was in his hand. Shimon was likewise armed, his knife slender and curved along its length.

The men padded past in the alley below, leaving a scent of anxious sweat and wine and iron that wove upwards briefly to swamp the smell of pigs.

Pantera, Shimon and Seneca lay a long while afterwards. The wind rose and a thin rain stuttered, so the pearl sky became steadily pewter with streaks of sulphured yellow over the ocean where the clouds were most dense.

At last, Pantera rose to a crouch and dusted off his tunic. ‘All three were at the races earlier this morning.’ He turned to his left and bowed. ‘My lord Shimon, are you well?’

The old zealot grinned. ‘Apart from the smell of pig, I am exceedingly well. It’s been far too long since I hid on a rooftop. They are gone and will spend a happy afternoon searching where we have been. But I think they won’t go back to the room where we first started. Shall we return?’

They were stiff, and the jump down to the lower wall was not without mishap and swearing, but soon enough another wall-run and a jump down brought them back at the rear of the whorehouse with its clean, spare room already paid for.

Shimon went first, kicking his bare feet into the gap where the shutter slid back, tucking his tunic close to his buttocks so that he might not show his nakedness. Seneca followed less elegantly but with as much decorum. Pantera slid in like a fish and found himself between the other two. They stood all three, breathless as children with laughter and fear.

‘That was neatly done,’ Shimon said. ‘How long have we here?’

Pantera pulled the shutter across. In one corner, a shelf stood host to a small oil lamp with flint and tinder beside. He lit it and trimmed the wick until the light feathered the room, then set it beside the bed.

‘The room has been paid for until dusk,’ he said. ‘We’ll be gone long before then. What we have to do won’t take long.’

He sat with his back to the wall, looping his hands behind his head. ‘If I may reprise,’ he said, ‘you wish to prevent the destruction of Jerusalem while my lord Seneca wishes to prevent the burning of Rome, as does Nero. The man you call the Apostate wishes to bring about the Kingdom of Heaven and so will do his best to destroy Rome and then Jerusalem. It seems to me that the first may be easy — Rome is a tinder box and fires run through it like mould through cheese — but Jerusalem is not for the taking.’

‘If the young men rebel, Nero will send in the legions,’ Shimon said. ‘He has promised it. They’ll raze Jerusalem to the ground.’

‘And will the young men rebel?’ Pantera asked.

The old zealot nodded sadly. ‘Jerusalem, like Rome, is a tinder box waiting for the match. Every day I wake fearing I will hear news that riots have already begun.’