Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (16 page)

‘Our rooms are at the back of the building. We don’t have a window on the street at the front. What’s your interest in the matter, anyway?’

I shrugged. ‘I only happened to be walking past and noticed the handprint. It seemed strange that no one should have covered it over.’

‘My wife,’ the old man said, with a pained expression. ‘Superstitious, like most women.’

The knife came down. ‘It stayed there for a very good reason. Have we had any thefts since it happened? Have we?’

The old man wrinkled his lips. ‘She imagines that it keeps out thieves at night. I told her it was more likely to keep out customers.’

‘But when the door’s open, nobody can see it, it’s hidden on the other side. It’s only when the door’s shut that you see it from the street, only when we’re closed, and that’s when we need the protection. You call me superstitious? A common criminal will think twice about robbing a shop after he’s seen a bloody handprint on the entrance. They chop off a thief’s hands, you know. It carries a power, I tell you. If we had contrived it ourselves, if it were anything less than blood, it would mean nothing, protect nothing. But the mark of a dying man, made with his own blood by his own hand, it carries a power. Ask the stranger here. He could feel it. Couldn’t you?’

‘I felt it!’ It was Tiro, standing behind me. Three pairs of eyes turned to watch him blush apple-red.

‘You’re sure you won’t sell him?’ asked the old man, who suddenly started to wheeze.

‘I told you already—’

‘A power in it!’ shrieked the old woman.

‘Tell me: who saw the murder? There must have been gossip. People are in and out of your shop all day. If someone actually witnessed it, you would know.’

The old man abruptly stopped wheezing. He stared at me for a long moment, then looked at his wife. As far as I could see she only scowled back, but it may be that she made some sign imperceptible to my eyes, for when he turned back it seemed he had been given grudging permission to speak.

‘There was one person. . . a woman. She lives in the tenement across the way. Her name is Polia. A young woman, a widow. Lives with her son, the little mute boy. It seems I recall another customer saying that Polia was talking to everyone about the murder right after it happened, how she had seen it with her own eyes, looking out of her window. Naturally, the next time they came into the shop I asked her about it. And do you know what? She wouldn’t speak a word about it, turned as mute as the boy, except to say that I should never ask her again, and not to tell anyone anything that might . . .’ He abruptly clamped his jaw shut with a guilty twitch.

‘Tell me,’ I said, picking through the dried figs to find a few worth eating, ‘does the little mute boy like figs? Tiro, give the man a coin from my purse.’

Tiro, who had been carrying my bag across his shoulder, reached into it and pulled out a copper as. ‘Oh, no, more than an as, Tiro. Give the man a sesterce, and let him keep the change. After all, I have an account for such expenses from your master.’

The old man accepted the coin and looked at it suspiciously. Beyond him I could see his wife, chopping away with an expression of grudging satisfaction.

‘Such a quiet slave, and such fine manners. You’re sure you wouldn’t like to sell him?’

I only smiled and motioned to Tiro to follow. Before I stepped into the sunlight I turned back. ‘If your son insisted on selling the only slave you had, why isn’t he here to help you himself?’

As soon as the words were spoken, I knew the answer. I bit my lip, wishing that words once said could be unspoken.

The woman abruptly hurled the knife across the room, plunging it into the wall with a shudder. She threw her arms heavenward and flung herself face down across the counter. The old man bowed his head and wrung his hands. In the gloom of the dilapidated shop they seemed posed in an eerie tableau, frozen in a sudden eruption of grief that was almost terrifying, almost comic.

‘The wars,’ the old man muttered. ‘Lost in the wars . . .’

I turned and put my arm around Tiro, who stood dumbfounded. Together we stole into the sunshine of the street.

X

The tenement house across the way was of fairly recent construction. The windowless walls facing the street had as yet been defaced with only a modest amount of electioneering slogans (elections having continued, though without much enthusiasm, under Sulla’s dictatorship). More common were some choice selections of ribald graffiti, probably left, to judge from the content, by satisfied customers on their way home from the House of Swans. I saw Tiro twisting his head to catch one of the more obscene phrases, and clicked my tongue like a disapproving schoolmaster. But with one eye I scanned the litanies myself, curious to see if a certain name appeared; but Elena – she who had summoned Sextus Roscius – and whatever specific talents Elena might possess were not mentioned.

A brief flight of steps led up to the tenement door, which stood propped open in the morning heat. From a small, bare anteroom, two passageways led off to the left. One was a long, enclosed stairway up to the second floor. The other was a dark hallway that ran the length of the building, flanked by numerous cubicles covered over with ragged, unmatched draperies.

From the end of the hallway a tall, gaunt man sprang up from where he had been sitting on the floor and loped towards us, turning his head sidelong and rubbing his chin. He was the watchman. Every tenement has at least one, and sometimes in larger buildings one for every floor – an otherwise unemployed resident who collects a small fee from the others, or else from the landlord, to watch their belongings while they’re out during the day, and to keep an eye on strangers and visitors. Sometimes a slave may be used for the duty, but this tenement hardly looked like the dwelling of slaveowners; besides, I saw at a glance that he wore the iron ring of a free Roman.

‘Citizen,’ he said, coming to an abrupt halt before us. He was very tall and gaunt, with a grizzled beard and a slightly wild look in his eyes.

‘Citizen,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for a woman.’

He smiled stupidly. ‘Who isn’t?’

‘A woman named Polia.’

‘Polia?’

‘Yes. Upstairs, I think.’

‘Polia?’ he said again, rubbing his chin.

‘A widow, with a young son. The boy is mute.’

The man shrugged, exaggerating the gesture. At the same time he slowly turned his right hand palm-up.

‘Tiro,’ I began, but Tiro was already ahead of me, reaching into the leather bag across his shoulder. He drew out a couple of copper asses and showed them to me. I nodded, but made a gesture that he should wait. Meanwhile the gaunt giant loomed over us, staring at Tiro’s closed fist with unabashed greed.

‘There
is
a woman named Polia who still lives here?’ I said.

The man pursed his lips, then nodded. I inclined my head to Tiro, who handed him a single as.

‘And is she in her room now?’

‘Can’t say for certain. She’s upper-storey. Has a room with a door and everything.’

‘A door that locks?’

‘Not well enough to bother with.’

‘Then I suppose I’ll have to deal with another watchman at the head of the stairs, won’t I? Perhaps I should save the rest of my coins for him.’ I turned towards the stairway.

The giant restrained me with a surprisingly gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Citizen, wait. You’d only be wasting your coins on him. He’s good for nothing, starts drinking wine from the moment he wakes up. Probably asleep right now, in this heat. You’d only have to wake him up to ask him where Polia’s room is. Here, I can show you myself, only walk quietly up the stairs.’

The giant led the way, easily taking two steps at a time, walking on exaggerated tiptoes; he seemed about to lose his balance with each step. As he had predicted, the upstairs watchman was fast asleep at the head of the stairs. The round little man sat against the wall with his pudgy legs spread out before him, a wineskin draped over one knee and a clay bottle propped lewdly between his thighs. The giant gingerly stepped over him, turning up his nose.

The narrow hallway was dimly lit by small windows at either end. The ceiling was so low that our guide had to stoop to avoid the lower beams. We followed him to a door midway down the hall, and waited while he quietly knocked. With each tap of his knuckles against the wood, he glanced nervously back at the sleeping watchman at the landing, and once when Tiro made the floorboards creak he pleaded for silence with both hands. I could only assume that the little drunkard had powers of retribution invisible to a stranger.

After a moment the thin, narrow door opened a finger’s width. ‘Oh, you,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times already,
no.
Why won’t you just leave me alone? There must be fifty other women in this building.’

The giant glanced at me and actually blushed. ‘I’m not alone. You have visitors,’ he hissed.

‘Visitors? Not – my mother?’

‘No. A man. And his slave.’

She sucked in her breath. ‘Not the ones who came before.’

‘Of course not. They’re standing here beside me.’

The door opened farther, just enough to reveal the widow’s face from cheek to cheek. There was not much to see in the dimness except two frightened eyes. ‘Who are you?’

At the end of the hall the drunken watchman turned uneasily, upsetting the bottle between his legs. It spun about and rolled towards the steps.

‘By Hercules!’ The giant gasped and leaped on tiptoes towards the landing. Just as he arrived the bottle rolled over the edge and began descending the stairway, striking each step with a loud bang.

The little watchman was instantly awake. ‘What’s that? You!’ He rolled forwards and staggered to his feet. The giant was already descending the stairs, hands over his head, but the little man was too quick for him. In an instant he had taken up a long wooden slat and was batting it about the giant’s head and shoulders, screeching at him in a loud voice. ‘Bringing strangers onto my floor again! Stealing my tips! Didn’t think I’d catch you! Worthless pile of dung! Go on, go on, or do I beat you like a dog?’

The sight was absurd, pathetic, embarrassing. Tiro and I simultaneously laughed, and simultaneously ceased as we turned back to look at the young widow’s ashen face.

‘Who are you? What did you come here for?’

‘Gordianus is my name. Employed by the most esteemed advocate, Marcus Tullius Cicero. This is his secretary, Tiro. I only want to ask a few questions, about certain events of last September.’

Her face grew even paler. ‘I knew it. Don’t ask me how, but I knew. I dreamed about it again last night. . . But you’ll have to go away. I can’t talk to anyone right now.’

Her face withdrew. She pushed at the door. I blocked it with my foot. The wooden panel was so thin and shoddy that it cracked from the pressure.

‘Come now, won’t you let me in? That’s quite a watchdog you have at the head of the stairs, I hear him coming back now. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe – you need only cry out if I should do something improper.’

The door abruptly swung open, but it was not the widow who stood before us. It was her son, and though he must have been no more than eight years old, he did not look particularly small, especially clutching an upright dagger in his right fist.

‘No, Eco, no!’ The woman grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him back. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, unblinking. Up and down the hall, doors rattled open. The little watchman, returning up the stairs, called out in a drunken voice, ‘What’s going on there?’

‘Oh, for Cybele’s sake, come in.’ The woman succeeded in pulling the knife from her son’s grasp and quickly latched the door behind us.

The boy kept his eyes on me, staring sullenly. ‘Carve these instead,’ I said, pulling out the figs and tossing them. He caught the lot with one hand.

The room was small and cramped, like most such apartments in most such buildings, but it had a window with shutters and space for two to sleep on the floor without even touching.

‘You live here alone?’ I asked. ‘Just the two of you?’ I glanced about at the few personal items that littered the room: a change of clothing, a small basket of cosmetics, a few wooden toys. Her things, his things.