The Seven Stars Read online

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Proculus, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘I was no different at your age. I had to learn the hard way, that’s all. Now let’s get you sorted out with that letter.’

  The following day the wind remained favourable and the Minerva was soon in the calmer waters of the Bay of Naples, with the towering green pyramid of Vesuvius dominating the horizon. As they neared the coast, Josephus leaned on the rail captivated by the view. Perched above the cliffs or sited in remote coves stood what he thought at first were small villages, but as they drew closer he could see that they were in fact individual villas of enormous size and opulence. One particular example which caught his eye sported a series of linked bathing pools, tumbling hundreds of feet in a single cascade from the cliff-top down to a private jetty where a yacht was being made ready for sea, its white sails, edged in purple an ostentatious reminder to all who saw it of the owner’s patrician status.

  Alityros joined him on the rail. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘I never imagined houses like that existed,’ replied Josephus, still wide-eyed in amazement.

  ‘This isn’t even the half of it. It stretches all the way round the bay from Capri to Misenum – you should have seen it before the quake. A lot of the really grand ones got flattened, including the emperor’s place which was a bit further round towards Herculaneum. Poppaea’s family have a huge villa at Oplontis with a heated swimming pool two hundred feet long – look, you can see the town there, just to the west of Pompeii – it got badly knocked about and they’re in the middle of rebuilding.’

  ‘But how on earth do people afford these places?’ Josephus asked.

  ‘You really did come down with the last shower of rain, didn’t you?’ laughed Alityros. ‘New money mainly; patronage, corruption, banking – although that’s the same as corruption I suppose – skimming tax revenues, nice little governorship of a wealthy province, property speculation: the list is endless and incredibly vulgar.’

  ‘Looks fantastic to me,’ said Josephus wistfully.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s fantastic all right but it’s a world turned upside down.’ Seeing Josephus puzzled expression he continued. ‘In Rome and pretty much everywhere else in the Empire it’s breeding, family and the right connections that count. Here it’s different.’

  ‘Different in what way?’

  ‘Here it’s money, pure and simple; and sometimes the weight of money in sufficient quantity is enough to overbalance the social order. That’s what’s happened here. Freedmen, crooks, chancers, speculators and every other hustler with an eye to the main chance have always done well for themselves round the Bay of Naples and now it’s the well-born who have to suck up to them.’

  ‘I’ll bet they don’t like that.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ laughed Alityros. ‘Behind closed doors the patricians are happy to sneer, but when it comes down to it, they have to hold their noses and pay court to these people. And then when the earthquake happened it got even worse: the rule of law broke down and it was every man for himself – years of practice at fighting for scraps in the gutter turned out to be a far better training than years studying Greek poetry.’

  ‘Or Greek theatre, I suppose?’

  ‘No need to rub it in,’ said Alityros. ‘I’d be way out of my depth here and anyway, the risks are too high. Even I have my limits.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you an example. You see that place with the swimming pools? – they’re all heated too by the way. The owner was a praetor called Antistius, but apparently one night he got drunk at a party and said something that Nero interpreted as plotting against him and so that was curtains for Antistius and his entire family. The emperor had the Senate condemn him to death – legally sanctioned, but murder none the less.’

  ‘So who owns it now?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Josephus saw that Alityros was no longer smiling.

  ‘Of course, why ever not?’

  ‘The people Nero gave it to of course. I won’t mention the name of the family – what you don’t know you can’t ever reveal – but they have a ten-year-old son, a very pretty boy: now do you understand?’

  Josephus shook his head. ‘You’re going to think me terribly naïve, but no.’

  Alityros gave a sigh. ‘Very well, if you must, I’ll spell it out for you,’ he said. ‘It’s no secret that Nero likes little boys and this lad’s family are extremely ambitious. So as soon as he turns twelve they’ve agreed to pack him off to Rome and in return for their son’s arse Nero lets them keep the villa. Nice people, eh?’

  Josephus turned to look at him, expected to see a smile that would tell him that the actor had once again strung him a line. Alityros remained stony-faced. ‘But that’s terrible,’ said Josephus. ‘There’s nothing in the world I’d do something like that for.’

  ‘Really?’ Alityros raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a matter of degree, that’s all. We all prostitute ourselves when it suits us, we only differ in how far we’re prepared to go.’ Josephus looked at him sceptically and Alityros continued. ‘You might not believe me now, but wait till you get to Rome, then you’ll see what I mean.’

  Josephus heard the words but nothing Alityros said could break the spell that the coastline and its magnificent houses had cast upon him and he continued to gaze in wonder as the panorama slid slowly by. ‘You’re right,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘But it just looks incredible and I don’t care if it’s vulgar, I’d still love to own a house here one day.’

  The Minerva docked at the small harbour of Pompeii and they made their way up the slope to the Marina gate and into the crowded streets beyond. Once inside the walls it was stiflingly hot and the air was thick with the smells from innumerable food stalls and with the cries of merchants and hawkers offering everything from Indian spices to slaves: to Josephus it seemed impossibly exotic despite the omnipresent evidence of the destruction wrought by the earthquake which had hit in February. In places, the town walls, neglected during decades of peace, had tumbled down and their ruins transformed into makeshift stalls and sales pitches. Even in the middle of the day, brightly clad prostitutes, some no older than ten, or so it seemed to him, were openly touting for business, seated on their impromptu grandstand of jumbled ashlar blocks.

  According to Alityros who acted as his tour guide, many of Pompeii’s inhabitants had died in the quake, thousands were still homeless and many had fled, but nothing it seemed could dent the city’s energy. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Josephus, staring wide-eyed at the relentless tides of humanity which surged around them as they followed the via Marina, past the ruined portico of the temple of Apollo and into the south west corner of the forum.

  ‘And if you don’t keep your wits about you, you’ll never see your money again either,’ replied Alityros, batting away a group of street-urchins who were lining up Josephus for a distraction scam while another slightly older child followed a couple of paces behind them, ready to lift his purse. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.

  ‘I’d heard the place had been knocked about,’ said Josephus, surveying what had once been yet another temple, now reduced to a pile of rubble fronted by a row of Corinthian columns. ‘But I didn’t know it was this bad.’

  ‘It may look like a building site now but it’ll be back to its old self in no time. There’s money to be made here,’ added Alityros. ‘More so than in Rome if you’re sharp enough and don’t object to rubbing shoulders with new money.’

  Josephus looked at him with a puzzled frown. ‘But if half the population’s dead, homeless or gone, and most of it’s in ruins, how on earth does that work?’

  ‘Simple. But don’t take my word for it. I’ll take you to meet an old friend of mine – he’ll give you the story. If he’s still alive of course.’

  Alityros led the way to a side-street just east of the city’s Ercolano gate. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘It’s sti
ll there.’ Josephus looked to where his friend was pointing and saw a wooden sign bearing a painted image of an elephant, a serpent and a pygmy: beneath the painting was written, “Sittius Fine Dining – Meals to Revive an Elephant”. Under a canvas awning stood a brick-built counter, open to the street, with a row of tall stools for the customers. They each took a seat and Alityros called out, ‘Hey, Sittius, what’s a fellow got to do to get fed in this place?’

  A small, dark-haired man spun round from his cooking pots, ready to deliver a mouthful in return but on seeing his old friend he broke into a broad, toothy grin. ‘Alityros, you old queen! What the Hades are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Athens.’

  ‘I was,’ he replied. ‘In fact, I should’ve been back in Rome ages ago but our ship got wrecked.’ Josephus sat and listened in amused silence as Alityros told the story, now magnified into epic proportions, while Sittius poured them two beakers of wine and flitted back and forwards between his cooking pots. Although autumn was nearly upon them, the day was warm and the smell of cooking, coupled with a second refill of the excellent Falernian that Sittius kept for his favoured customers, left Josephus feeling entirely at ease with the world. However much the pagan city of Pompeii was everything his religion taught him to despise, there was still something that drew him, a guilty pleasure whose temptations he couldn’t resist.

  Trade was slack and the landlord pulled up a stool to join them. ‘I was just telling Josephus here that if you want to make your fortune, this is the place,’ said Alityros. ‘I don’t think he believes me.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, young man,’ Sittius said to Josephus, ‘then you’re a mug.’ He gestured with his head. ‘You see that place across the road?’

  ‘What? The laundry?’

  Alityros and Sittius dug one another in the ribs and hooted with laughter. ‘He is a mug, isn’t he?’ said the innkeeper moving closer to Josephus and talking in a stage whisper. ‘I’ve got ten girls working for me over there, and when they’re not busy at the washing tubs downstairs, they’re looking after my customers upstairs. The places they used to work at got flattened in the quake so if they wanted to carry on earning, their choice was to come to me or take their chances out on the walls with the kids. Know how long girls survive on a beat out there?’

  ‘I dread to think,’ said Josephus.

  ‘Less than a month. The Vigiles have practically given up so there’s nothing to stop the punters doing what they want to the poor little devils. That’s why two or three a night go missing: there are some sick bastards out there and my girls know it which is why they jumped at a chance to make a few asses working in the laundry by day and two asses a trick by night.’

  Josephus frowned. ‘So you’re suggesting I make my fortune by opening a brothel, are you?’

  Sittius gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Entirely up to you how you do it,’ he said. ‘Personally, I can live with the competition, I was just giving you some ideas. The building where my laundry is survived in one piece but the owner and his family didn’t.’

  Josephus looked horrified. ‘But what about laws of rightful succession?’ he asked.

  ‘Never bothered to read them myself: I just crossed the street and took over. It’s as easy as that. Find a nice place that suits you, take it as yours, tart it up on the cheap and sell it on or even better, rent it out – there’s plenty of people desperate for a roof over their heads and with winter not far off, well, you can’t lose.’ Josephus sat open-mouthed listening to Sittius’ tales of his other money-making schemes and of the ruined villa he’d helped himself to down near the coast.

  Well fed, the two companions left the caupona and continued their sightseeing. To Josephus, it seemed that he’d only just begun to explore the city when Alityros drew his attention to a public sundial which showed that their time was almost up. Sure enough, as they came out of the Marina Gate, the casting-off pennant was fluttering at the Minerva’s masthead. ‘What an incredible place,’ said Josephus for about the tenth time that day, reproaching himself as he did so. ‘I’ve got to come back and see more of this.’

  ‘Each to his own,’ sniffed Alityros. ‘As I’ve told you, it’s all right for those with more money than breeding. The emperor loves the place – need I say more.’

  Josephus laughed at his friend’s bitchy aside and the two of them watched in silence as Pompeii receded into the haze.

  Before they disembarked at Puteioli, Proculus was as good as his word and in addition to the letter of recommendation to Poppaea, he also gave them a letter ordering the masters of all ships to provide safe passage, food and accommodation.

  A day later the grain ship, Ceres, slipped into the newly-built harbour basin, past the fortress on the end of the concrete mole, and onto its berth at Ostia, the busiest port in the Empire. They were a mere twelve miles from the centre of Rome.

  ‘Reckon you’ll find a new ship?’ asked Alityros.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Gubs. ‘If I can’t find work here, I’ll never find it anywhere. The owner of the Cygnus will be interested to find out what happened to his ship too.’

  Alityros and Josephus bade their friend a fond farewell on the quayside, leaving him to report to the owner of the Cygnus while they arranged transport for the final leg of their voyage along the Via Ostiensis to Rome.

  Chapter Ten

  Moretti put down the phone and smiled at Flora. ‘Lombardi says it’s ok. He’s going to call his people and tell them to let us onto the site. They jumped into his car and within minutes were peering down into the newly-expanded trench.

  They paused at the top of the ladder. ‘D’you really think we should?’ asked Flora.

  ‘Strictly speaking, no,’ he replied. ‘But if the boss can’t bend his own rules, then who else can? Come on.’

  The shadows had lengthened and little natural daylight penetrated the bottom of the dig which was now three metres below ground level, its sides shored up by metal supports, braced against each other by screw jacks. They both turned on their torches and stopped at the exposed section of wall which separated the robbers’ trench from the scriptorium.

  For almost a minute, neither spoke, too awestruck by what lay in front of them. Flora broke the silence. ‘But it’s beautiful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Absolutely perfect,’ said Moretti. ‘It could’ve been made yesterday. I’ve never seen colours like it.’

  In the centre of an intricate pattern of concentric green and white braiding, surrounding representations of the Roman zodiac, was a mosaic starscape showing Ursa Major and the Pole Star picked out in dazzling white against a dark blue background. He read the Latin inscription: ‘Disce quod ignoras. Docti Iosephi saepe duplex unum pagina tractat opus.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ gasped Flora, translating aloud. ‘Learn what you don’t know. The work of learned Josephus often stretches over one double-sided page. He’s talking to us, Francesco, he’s actually talking to us.’ She paused and stood with her head cocked to one side. ‘Hold on a minute. I know those lines from somewhere.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Moretti. Aren’t they from Juvenal?’

  ‘No. I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘It’s from Martial: so that’s where he cribbed it from, the old fraud: all he did was take Josephus’ words, change the names, stick on a different ending and claim it as one of his own epigrams.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Moretti. ‘He and Josephus were in Rome at the same time and shared the same patron. Just think how much of what’s attributed to St Paul was copied from Josephus too.’

  Flora nodded. ‘It confirms what we thought about the ownership of the villa though. This was Josephus’ place all right. And what better place to boast about it than on the floor of your own scriptorium?’

  ‘But the Ursa Major motif: if it’s not The Seven Stars, what’s he telling us that we don’t already know?’

  ‘If it’s not that, then we’ve got a problem. Maybe it was all such a well-known in-joke t
hat he didn’t need to spell it out,’ she said. ‘Who knows? Seventh heaven, seven-headed beasts – could be anything – seven turns up in just about every mythology and religion there’s ever been.’

  ‘And the Pole Star makes eight,’ said Moretti.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, I think he’s telling us to look at both sides of the page – you know, pay attention or make sure you read the small print. But isn’t it absolutely gorgeous? And just think, Francesco, if it hadn’t been for the tombaroli, you might never have found it.’

  He edged forward on his hands and knees, getting as close as he could to the mosaic.

  ‘Remember what I thought were tadpoles on the copper plates?’ he asked.

  ‘The Ursa Major design. Course I do.’

  ‘And you found that some of the stars were shown with rings around them?’ she nodded. ‘Well all seven have rings round them so far as I can make out in this light.’

  ‘Could just be decoration.’

  ‘Probably, but look,’ he said, swinging his torch to highlight the Pole Star. ‘No ring.’

  ‘I still don’t see any significance in it,’ she replied. ‘Polaris is shown larger than the other stars, so maybe whoever did the mosaic decided it didn’t need an outline. I don’t know.’

  Flora spent the following morning at the lab, working on the remaining fragments from the dig and carrying out further experiments. The precise carbon-dating would have to wait, but so far she had identified three writers, each with his own distinct hand but using chemically identical ink: the thought that one of them might be Josephus himself sent a shiver of excitement down her spine.

  After lunch, she turned her attention once more to an analysis of the text itself, comparing it to her scans of existing fragments.

  The next day Moretti took an early train to Rome to be interviewed on TV about the finds and the robbery. Lombardi’s bosses at the TPC used their media coverage to the full and the fact that many of the documents were in some form of unknown cipher ignited the curiosity of professional and amateur conspiracy theorists alike.