‘And the other attacker?’
‘There was no sign of him, master.’
‘A pity. It would have been useful to question him. We need to know who gave them orders to target my niece.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘While your memory is fresh, what can you remember about these men?’
Marcus collected his thoughts. ‘They didn’t look like ordinary men, master. They were solidly built. Close-cropped hair, like soldiers, or gladiators. They moved like professional fighters.’
‘Gladiators?’ Pompeius raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think our opponents are resorting to using gladiators against us?’
‘Why not?’ Caesar responded. ‘It makes perfect sense. If Cato and the others are taking our conflict on to the streets, then why not employ men who know how to fight? In fact, I wish I’d thought of it first. I own several gladiator schools in Campania.’
‘You’re joking, of course,’ said Pompeius. ‘Think how it would look to the mob if a consul unleashed packs of gladiators upon them. It would be a scandal. Worse than a scandal, it would be a mistake.’
Caesar reflected a moment and flashed a smile. ‘You are right I am joking. Nevertheless, I will send for some of my best gladiators and have them billeted close to Rome, just in case.’
Pompeius sucked in a quick breath. ‘It’s your funeral, Caesar. Just don’t let it be mine as well, or that of our dear friend Crassus.’
Marcus was reminded of his conversation with Portia in the garden — it definitely appeared that whatever alliance existed between the three powerful aristocrats, it was an uneasy one, founded on mutual suspicion rather than any affection. And yet Caesar had let this man’s nephew marry his only niece — a move that spoke more of his ambition than his love for his own flesh and blood. Caesar may have spared Marcus from any punishment this time, but Marcus mustn’t forget a slave meant nothing to him, and he hardened his feelings.
Caesar was gently stroking his jaw as he considered the situation. ‘If the other side has decided to use gangs to undermine us, then we must meet force with force. The trick of it will be to find an intermediary who has connections with the street gangs of Rome. Someone who can be persuaded to use his influence to serve our ends.’ He looked up and fixed his eyes on Pompeius. ‘There is such a man.’
Pompeius thought briefly, then his eyes widened in alarm. ‘Not him. Not Clodius. Please not Clodius. The man is a thug, little better than a common criminal. We can’t use him.’
‘Why not? He could well be the answer to our difficulties.’
‘Or he could just be adding to them, or making them worse.’
‘Then let’s sound him out. Get him in here and talk to him.’
‘On what pretext?’
Caesar thought for a moment and then smiled. ‘So that he can help us identify the body of the man who attacked my niece. After that, we change the subject and see where he stands. What do you think?’
Pompeius shook his head. ‘I think you are mad. But… you are right — there’s no one better connected with the criminals of Rome than Clodius.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Clodius it is then. He’s at his villa in Baiae at present. I’ll send for him at once.’
In the silence that followed, Portia glanced at Marcus before addressing her uncle. ‘First we must provide for Corvus.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The kitchen boy who saved my life,’ Portia reminded him. ‘I promised I’d see that he was given a proper funeral.’
Caesar waved a hand dismissively. ‘It’s not necessary.’
‘I gave my word, Uncle.’
He frowned at her and Marcus wondered if he would refuse. Then he shrugged, and nodded his assent. ‘Very well, you can use one of the carts. Do it at first light tomorrow and return here as soon as it’s over.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
Caesar clicked his fingers at Festus. ‘And you go with them. Take two of your best men with you.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Now I need to be alone with General Pompeius. The rest of you, leave us.’
They filed from the room and Marcus glanced back at the two men as they began speaking in low tones. He focused his attention on Pompeius, heavily built, ornately robed in a purple tunic and cloak, and enslaved by his self-regard. Marcus was determined to show Pompeius he was wrong in his accusation that Marcus had failed to protect Portia. He must prove himself and somehow win the man over. Only then could he claim the one reward he would ever want from Pompeius or Caesar — freedom for himself and his mother, and, one day, revenge on Decimus and his henchman, Thermon.
13
The sun had not yet risen as the cart trundled through the quiet, cold streets of the capital. The cockerels kept within the city’s walls had yet to crow and the numberless people crowded into tenement blocks and houses still slumbered. Festus and his men led the small procession of cloaked figures. Led by a mule, a two-wheeled cart came next, carrying a simple bier on which the body of Corvus had been laid, wrapped in a plain white sheet. Marcus held the mule’s bridle, Portia following the cart with Lupus a short distance behind her. The body lay atop the faggots of firewood to be used for the pyre, with an axe to cut down any further lumber required. No one spoke as they made their way to the city gate and were passed through by the sleepy sentries nearing the end of their watch.
Outside, a thin mist covered the ground as the cart clattered along the road leading south towards Campania. A short distance from the gate they passed a large open grave where the bodies of the unknown and uncared for were dumped and sprinkled with lime. Low mounds on either side of the road marked the position of earlier mass graves. Further along the road the first of the tombs loomed up. It seemed from a distance to be floating on the slow swirl of the mist. Marcus could not help a nervous tremor at the sight of further tombs stretching far ahead and spilling out on either side.
‘What is this place?’ he asked in awe.
‘The Necropolis — the city of the dead,’ Festus explained in a quiet voice. ‘This is where the remains of generations of Romans have been laid to rest. The laws of the city forbid the cremation or burial of the dead within the city boundary for all but the most honoured of citizens.’
Marcus nodded as he glanced warily at the dim outlines of the tombs on either side. They continued in silence a while longer before Festus halted.
‘Up there.’ Festus pointed to a bare hillock a short distance away. Marcus nodded and steered the mule off the paved surface and on to the uneven ground. The cart jolted as it rumbled between the silent tombs before emerging on to open ground. The route to the hillock was well travelled and two ruts led to the crest, where Festus gave the order to halt. As he tethered the mule to the withered stump of a tree, Marcus saw that the ground was marked with the scorch marks of previous cremations.
Festus gestured to Lupus and Marcus. ‘It’s customary for those closest to the dead to make the pyre, but would you prefer that my men and I did it?’
Marcus glanced at Lupus but saw from his trembling lips that the scribe was not ready to speak. He cleared his throat. ‘Lupus and I can do it.’
‘And me,’ Portia added.
For a moment it seemed as if Festus would protest, but then he nodded. ‘As you wish, mistress.’
While Lupus and Marcus lifted the bier from the cart and carried it a short distance away, Portia, having taken one of the faggots, followed them and laid it beside the body.
‘No, that’s not the way to do it,’ Festus said gently. ‘Let me show you.’
He returned to the wagon and fetched the two trestles he had packed in with the faggots. With the help of his two men, he raised the bier up and supported it at each end, so that it was waist high. ‘The faggots go underneath,’ he explained.
Once the two boys and Portia had packed the last of the faggots and kindling tightly together under the bier, Festus took a tinderbox from his haversack and struck sparks into the fine sheets of charred linen. As soon as he had coaxed a small flame to life he set fire to the bundle of dried moss at the foot of the bier. The flames spread rapidly with a light crackling noise, working their way through the faggots then licking up around the shrouded corpse.