Roman Games(2)
The seventh day before the Kalends of Germanicus.
The eleventh hour of the day. Rome.
…I despise you. But if I must betray my friends where else shall I turn for help but to my enemy?
Verpa set the letter down, barked at a slave to bring him chilled wine, wiped his lips with a thick hand and wiped the hand on his thigh. Though the sun had sunk below the housetops, still the heat was insufferable; the fountains that leapt and splashed in his spacious garden did nothing to relieve it. He took a sip of wine and returned to the letter.
…I dare not write directly to the emperor. Too many eyes see his correspondence. Go to our house. Stephanus expects you and will show you where to dig. Take the horoscope that you will find under a paving stone in the garden. It predicts that my husband will sit on the imperial throne. What a cruel joke! Clemens rests with the Patriarchs now, better than any earthly throne.
There was a second horoscope—I don’t know who has it, though I could guess—that predicts the date of the emperor’s death, not many weeks from now. I don’t doubt that the plotters by now have chosen another candidate for the throne.
Bring my husband’s horoscope to the emperor with this letter. It will convince him that I am not lying. But tell him I will give him the other names only in return for my freedom, my children, and my property.
Do not try to deceive me, Verpa—I will answer no communication that doesn’t bear his seal. I’ve no doubt he will reward you for your trouble; he pays his informers well, as who should know better than you? Farewell.
Verpa allowed himself a smile of astonishment. It was seldom that he felt himself at a loss, but this—this had taken him completely by surprise. All the time he was preparing to denounce them for atheism, the two of them had been involved in a plot to assassinate the emperor and replace him with his cousin Clemens! It was easy to imagine how the plotters must have flattered Clemens, the last surviving male member of the dynasty, and he, that amiable sheep, had allowed himself to be persuaded despite the warnings of his hard-headed wife.
And who were these other conspirators that Domitilla was now so anxious to betray? Verpa had not spent thirty years as a Roman senator, courtier, and spy for four emperors without forming some shrewd opinions as to who some of them, at least, were. And what should he do with this information? His civic duty? Warn the emperor? No doubt he would be rewarded. But was there not perhaps a greater reward to be had if he played a different game?
Since the execution of his master and the banishment of his mistress, Stephanus, the house-steward, had taken to carrying his left arm in a sling, telling people that he had broken it in a riding accident. The sling concealed a narrow-bladed dagger. Now, with his right arm, he held a lamp over the three Syrian toughs as they grunted, putting their weight on the pry bar to move the stone. Verpa, hovering behind them, mopped his glistening face and cursed at them to hurry. The lamplight threw their shadows huge against the columns of the portico. Finally, the stone came loose, and Verpa shouldered the men aside, reaching for the oilskin packet that lay beneath it. Even a hand as steady as his shook with excitement. He was holding a fortune.
After they had gone and Stephanus was alone in the dark, deserted villa, he unslung his arm, massaging the stiffness out of it, and ran his thumb along the edge of his dagger. He thought about what he should do.
Oddly enough, while Ingentius Verpa was digging in the traitor’s garden, somebody was digging in his own. The lady Turpia Scortilla, his mate of seventeen years, crouched in a shadowy corner, trowel in hand, excavating a hole in the ivy bed that bordered the wall. It only needed to be a small hole to hold the object that she intended to bury—a tablet of lead, covered with incised letters and wrapped around an iron spike. She had paid the witch a great deal of money for this thing; to possess it was a capital offense.
As she tamped the earth over it and pulled the ivy tendrils back into place, the clouds parted and a full moon cast its rays upon her. Isis, who is also Diana and Hecate, blesses me, she thought, and her heart beat harder. In a whisper she recited the words of the curse:
“I entrust this spell to you,
Pluto and Proserpina,
Ereschigal and Adonis,
And Hermes-Thoth Phokensepsou Erektathou Misonktaik,
And Anubis the powerful, who holds the keys of Hades,
And to you divine demons of the earth.
Do not disregard me, but rouse yourselves for me.
Destroy Sextus Ingentius Verpa—
Bind him, blind him, kill him.
Pierce his heart, O gods.
Pierce his liver, O gods.
Pierce his lungs, O gods.
I conjure you by Barbartham Cheloumbra