He guessed the Judaean’s age at between fifty-five and sixty. The heavy, tight-curled beard would be with him until he died, perhaps a little whiter. Deep lines that might have been carved by a knife point etched hollow cheeks and a high forehead, providing a permanent reminder of a life of toil, trial and, Valerius suspected, physical suffering. The folds of a thick eastern coat engulfed his thin frame, yet beneath the robe lay a suggestion of power conserved for more important days. The eyes, solemn and steady and the colour of damp ashes, had an ageless quality, and their depths contained conflicting messages: wariness, which was only sensible in the circumstances; understanding, but of what? Humour was there, held in reserve for a more appropriate moment, and knowledge for the time it was needed. But a single quality stood out above all. Certainty. This man knew precisely who and what he was.
‘ Salve. You are welcome to my home.’ The greeting was formal and the curious lisping accent turned the v into a w.
Valerius bowed. ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, at your service. I apologize for the late hour and the lack of an appointment, but I have come on a matter of urgency.’
The beard twitched, but Valerius couldn’t be certain whether it was in irritation or acknowledgement. ‘May I offer you wine?’
‘Thank you, no,’ the Roman said, not impolitely, but aware that he was unlikely to enjoy anything served in this household. He glanced at his surroundings. Small cloth sacks, each with its clear label, were stacked in heaps along the rear wall. Shelves filled with stoppered jars. Odd-shaped objects whose origin he didn’t like to speculate. The scent of herbs and spices filled his nostrils, but there was something else too, a heaviness in the atmosphere that told him other people had shared this room only a few moments earlier. He wondered again about the chanting, and noted that the Judaean had made no attempt to introduce himself. The grey eyes studied him and he found himself resenting the frank, penetrating gaze. ‘My sister…’ he blurted.
‘Is sick.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you come to me for help… at this hour? Are all your Roman physicians asleep?’ The man smiled gently to take the sting from his words.
‘As I say, it is urgent. Olivia…’
‘I am sorry.’ The Judaean shook his head. ‘I regret I cannot help you. It is forbidden. I may only work within my own community. You understand? With my own people.’
Valerius felt a momentary panic. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘At least listen to what I have to say.’
The physician turned back to his work and the rumble of pestle in mortar was an invitation for Valerius to leave. But he had underestimated the Roman’s determination. Valerius’s sword came half clear of its scabbard and the unmistakable metallic hiss brought the grinding to a halt. The Judaean raised his head with a look of regretful distaste.
‘So, a true Roman warrior. At his best when his opponent is unarmed. You would threaten a harmless old man? Would it salve your conscience? Would it make…’ he frowned, ‘Olivia… well again?’ He shook his head. ‘Spilling blood never solved anything, my young friend.’
Valerius held his gaze, but the grip on the sword loosened. He hadn’t even realized he’d drawn it. ‘They said things about you. I had hoped they were not true.’
The bearded man gave a humourless laugh. ‘They fear me. They say I am a fraud and a murderer. That I poison husbands for their wives and wives for their husbands. They say,’ he stretched for a jar behind him, reaching inside to display its contents, a slimy piece of off-white flesh, ‘that I use the fruits of our circumcisions in my potions.’ Valerius swallowed. The Judaean smiled. ‘The poison sac of a sea snake. It has medicinal qualities. As you can see, all that they say is true.’
‘They also said you were a magician. I had hoped that was true.’
The older man gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Do you pray? Then pray to your gods to help your sister.’
Valerius had an image of Divine Claudius, immortalized in bronze, towering over the doomed fugitives huddled in the grandiose temple built in his name. ‘I no longer pray. The gods have deserted me.’
For a few moments the only sound in the room was the faint, irregular buzz of the old man’s breathing. ‘Tell me.’
Valerius closed his eyes and the words came out in a rush. ‘She woke up one morning a month ago and had lost the use of her arms and legs.’
‘Entirely?’
‘No. Not completely. She could move them, but not use them properly. She made a slight improvement, but two weeks ago she could not get out of bed. She has been in it since. Now she cannot raise her head to take food. She weakens by the day.’
The Judaean chewed his lip. ‘Has she had convulsions, seizures?’
Valerius shook his head.
A long silence developed from seconds into minutes. Eventually, Valerius could take the tension no longer. ‘Can you help us?’
The Judaean turned to him, the grey eyes serious. ‘Perhaps. Please fetch Rachel for me. She is in the next room.’
When Valerius returned, the man whispered instructions in the girl’s ear and she hurried off, returning a few minutes later with a small twist of cloth, which she handed to the Roman.
‘You must dissolve this in boiling water and make her drink every drop. You understand? Every drop, or it is wasted.’
‘Then?’
‘Then you wait.’
Valerius hesitated. He looked down at his hand. Was this all he’d come for? A tiny twist of grey powder? But what more had he expected? ‘Thank you,’ he said, reaching for his purse.
The Judaean shook his head. ‘When the day comes to repay me, you will know it.’ For some reason a chill ran through Valerius at the innocuous words. He waited for further explanation, but the physician continued: ‘Do not raise your hopes too high. The elixir will help for a time but the effects will not be permanent.’
He ushered Valerius out, accompanying him through the corridor and into the room which led to the street. The white cloth had slipped from the chest, which told Valerius where the Judaean kept the powder. He noticed a faint symbol carved into the wood. It looked like a large X transfixed by a single vertical stroke with a small half-circle attached to the top.
The old man saw his interest. ‘The symbol of my craft,’ he said dismissively. ‘Interesting, but unfortunately valueless in Rome.’
Valerius turned in the doorway. ‘Will you visit her?’
The Judaean sighed. ‘My name is Joshua. Yes, I will visit her.’
IV
The performer gazed out over his audience seeking signs of genuine approval. Instead, all he saw were the imbecilic fixed smiles of those too uncultivated to appreciate the finer points of his art and held in thrall by the singer, not the song. The song was the tale of Niobe, which he had performed at the Neronia, the festival he had endowed, and told the story of a woman brought low by her own ambition; a queen who had attempted to supplant Apollo and Diana with her own children, only to lose them all. He heard his voice quiver with emotion as he reached the point where the seven sons and seven daughters were hunted down by the arrows of the gods and their mother turned to stone, a memorial to her own greed. A tear ran down the cheek of the Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus. His mother, Agrippina, had likewise died of greed.
Hadn’t he given her everything, palaces, gold, jewels and slaves? Influence even. Perhaps too much influence. Still it wasn’t enough; she had to have power. She thought he was still a child. They were staring at him now, mouths open, and he realized he had stopped singing before the end of the song. How strange she still had such an effect on him. He smiled, and bowed, and the slack faces resumed their grinning and the cheering began, washing over him like a warm, oily sea, sensuous and invigorating. How he despised them all.
Yes, she had to have power; he of all people could understand that. When one has tasted ultimate power, the power to decide whether a man — or a woman — lives or dies, no other power will suffice. He had been weak at first, even kind, in the years after he had ascended to the throne of Rome. He had listened to his advisers. But when he had spoken those close to him had not listened nor understood. That was before he had proved he was capable of wielding true power. After a few carefully chosen disposals even Seneca had listened, he who had never known when to keep his mouth closed but had still managed to survive the wrath of Uncle Gaius and devious old Claudius. He liked Seneca, had even trusted him once, but now he was nothing but a nuisance. He picked up a flower that had been thrown at his feet. It was long-stemmed with a fringe of small white petals and he began to pluck them one by one, still smiling and acknowledging the cheers; kill him, don’t kill him, kill him, don’t kill him… He continued until he came to the last petal and paused… don’t kill him. He sighed. Seneca, always the fortunate one.