Agrippina would have recognized the Christians for the threat they were. Foul creatures spreading their filthy philosophy across the land like so much manure, each dropping encouraging a new crop of rabble-rousers. What was it that drew people to them? How could men risk their lives at the behest of an obscure criminal whose words should have died with him on the cross? He had personally questioned Cornelius Sulla in an attempt to understand them better, but instead of begging for his life the man had tried to convert him. It was a kind of madness for which there was only one cure. The soldier, Valerius, had been given his opportunity to find the leader of the sect, but he would fail. A strange choice of investigator, but Torquatus had been most persuasive in urging his appointment. These Christians lived among the Judaeans like diseased cattle hidden in a herd, so the Judaeans would die and the Christians would be wiped out with them. Without the leadership of the Judaean Christians the sect would undoubtedly wither and die, but he intended to make an example of the Roman converts. He would squash them one by one the way a beggar crushes lice between his fingernails.
Poppaea, lying back pale and beautiful on the padded couch, watched as he resumed his place in the bow and took up the first of the songs with which he would astonish the people of Neapolis. She preferred the screaming of the gulls.
XXXVIII
White smoke wreathed the rocky headland a mile to the east and for a few moments it looked as if the whole length of the peninsula was ablaze. The captain of the small cargo ship noticed Valerius’s interest.
‘The Fields of Fire,’ he said morosely. ‘A terrible place where people say giants walk at night. A good landmark for a sailor, though. Even when you can’t see it for the mist you can smell the sulphur a mile away.’
Valerius thought the bay beyond the headland must be one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen. A sweeping crescent of rugged cliffs and sandy inlets stretched almost as far as the eye could see, dominated by an enormous, steep-sided cone of a mountain clad in a ragged cloak of greens and browns. At the foot of the mountain nestled the city of Neapolis, a glittering ribbon of cream and ochre surrounded by the scattered white dots that represented the grand villas of rich Romans escaping the furnace of a Roman summer. Beyond the mountain, rugged peaks stretched into the distance and formed an imposing backdrop that glittered in the heat of the morning. The sea around the ship was a restless blanket of blue and aquamarine, broken by the outline of three islands which dotted it like jewels laid out on a piece of shimmering silk.
To Valerius’s surprise they sailed past the main port. ‘Too many tax collectors,’ the captain grunted. ‘See that floating brothel?’ He pointed to a golden ship larger than any other craft moored in the harbour. ‘It means your master’s in town and the place will be crawling with his guards. That’s the place you want over there.’ He pointed to a spot on the shoreline directly ahead where a river flowed into the sea, creating a natural harbour. ‘Oplontis.’
They landed thirty minutes later and Serpentius and Heracles unloaded their gear while Valerius and Marcus walked from the harbour into the town to find horses. They were directed to a stable beyond the walls, where Valerius negotiated the hire of four reasonably sound mares and asked directions to the villa owned by Poppaea’s family.
‘A mile south on the Pompeii road overlooking the sea. Big place. You’d have to be blind to miss it.’ The stableman laughed, eyeing Valerius’s expensive tunic. ‘They might even offer you a job, it being harvest time.’
Harvest time? Of course, why hadn’t he considered it earlier? All the way south Valerius had been trying to work out how Petrus would get his Christians into the villa unnoticed. Now he had his answer. Groups of itinerant farm workers would be travelling up and down the country from estate to estate supplementing the work of the local slaves. Petrus could turn up at Poppaea’s gate and her overseer would allow them in, feed them and house them in the slave quarters. It was perfect. They could pass Olivia off as a wife who had been taken ill on the journey.
Fabia had said Poppaea would complete the journey overland, while Nero stayed in Neapolis to prepare for his performance the following night. She would travel with only her own personal retinue, stay at the villa for two nights, then return to celebrate his triumph with him. If Valerius’s calculations were correct, that meant she was already at the house.
They walked back to the harbour through narrow streets that sloped down towards the sea, stopping for a drink at a public fountain close to a bakehouse. The water burbled and trilled as it fell from the pipe into a cistern and Valerius drank deeply from a cup scooped from the pool. His nose caught the scent of baking bread and he bought two loaves and handed one to Marcus.
As they emerged from the arcade into the sunshine he felt a slight tremor. ‘What was that?’
Marcus felt it too, but he only shrugged. ‘They must be milling the grain. Sometimes you can feel it in the next street when one of those big grinders is working.’
As they walked away they didn’t notice that the flow from the pipe supplying the fountain had slowed to a trickle.
The steward stared suspiciously at the travel-stained, bearded figure in the thick robe. If his mistress wished to speak to the man alone there was little he could do about it, but what she had to say to an impoverished wandering labourer was entirely beyond him.
Petrus allowed himself a smile as the man bowed low and backed out of the room. ‘Am I really so repellent?’ he asked Poppaea.
‘You said no one would be aware of your presence, yet the first thing you do is ask for an audience.’ Poppaea tried to hide her anger. Her feelings for Petrus alternated between something close to worship and intense irritation at the casual way the Judaean played with other people’s lives. ‘That was hardly the act of someone who wished to keep his existence here a secret. Remember, you do not only place your own life in danger, but mine and many others.’
He bowed in acknowledgement of the rebuke. ‘I merely wished to pass on my thanks for your hospitality.’
Poppaea frowned. She would never accuse Petrus of lying, but sometimes omission could be just as great a sin. What he didn’t say was that his presence in this chamber increased his hold on her, and her reliance on him, in equal measure. She could never deny knowing him as long as the steward lived. Once, that complication might have been swiftly dealt with, but Petrus taught that all human life was sacred. ‘When will you carry out the ceremony?’
‘Your mother and father…?’
‘Are already on the way to Neapolis to greet the Emperor.’
‘And the servants?’
‘I have made arrangements. Only one or two remain and unless I call for them they will not dare to come near the pool.’
‘Then the ceremony will take place once the moon has risen. You will be baptized and brought into the community of God and your soul will be taken into his keeping. God will live within you and you will live for ever with God’s blessing.’ Poppaea closed her eyes and a wave of relief washed over her. Never again would she need to fear Nero.