Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (74 page)

I looked at Eco, who looked back at me. He had heard it, too. No one else in the audience seemed to have noticed, but the actors on stage must have heard something. They bungled their lines and turned uncertainly towards the door, stepping on one another’s feet. The audience only laughed harder at their clumsiness.

The quarrelling cooks came to the end of their scene and disappeared backstage.

The stage was empty. There was a pause that grew longer and longer. Strange, unaccountable noises came from backstage – muffled gasps, confused shuffling, a loud shout. The audience began to murmur and shift restlessly on the benches.

At last the door from the left wing opened. Onto the stage stepped a figure wearing the mask of the miser Euclio. He was dressed in bright yellow as before, but it was a different cloak. He threw his hands in the air. ‘Disaster!’ he cried. I felt a cold shiver down my spine.

‘Disaster!’ he said again. ‘A daughter’s marriage is a disaster! How can any man afford it? I’ve just come back from the market, and you wouldn’t believe what they’re charging for lamb – an arm and a leg for an arm and a leg, that’s what they want . . .’

The character was miserly Euclio, but the actor was no longer Panurgus; it was Roscius behind the mask. The audience seemed not to notice the substitution, or at least not to mind it; they started laughing almost immediately at the spectacle of poor Euclio befuddled by his own stinginess.

Roscius delivered the lines flawlessly, with the practised comic timing that comes from having played a role many times, but I thought I heard a strange quavering in his voice. When he turned so that I could glimpse his eyes within the mask, I saw no sign of his famous squint. His eyes were wide with alarm. Was this Roscius the actor, frightened of something very real – or Euclio, afraid that the squabbling cooks would find his treasure?

‘What’s that shouting from the kitchen?’ he cried. ‘Oh no, they’re calling for a bigger pot to put the chicken in! Oh, my pot of gold!’ He ran through the door backstage, almost tripping over his yellow cloak. There followed a cacophony of crashing pots.

The central door was thrown open. One of the cooks emerged onstage, crying out in a panic: ‘Help, help, help!’

It was the voice of Statilius! I stiffened and started to stand, but the words were only part of the play. ‘It’s a madhouse in there,’ he cried, straightening his mask. He jumped from the stage and ran into the audience. ‘The miser Euclio’s gone mad! He’s beating us over the head with pots and pans! Citizens, come to our rescue!’ He whirled about the central aisle until he came to a halt beside me. He bent low and spoke through his teeth so that only I could hear.

‘Gordianus! Come backstage, now!’

I gave a start. Through the mask I looked into Statilius’ anxious eyes.

‘Backstage!’ he hissed. ‘Come quick! A dagger – blood – Panurgus – murder!’

From beyond the maze of screens and awnings and platforms I occasionally heard the playing of the pipes and actors’ voices raised in argument, followed by the muffled roar of the audience laughing. Backstage, the company of Quintus Roscius ran about in a panic, changing costumes, fitting masks onto one another’s heads, mumbling lines beneath their breath, sniping at each other or exchanging words of encouragement, and in every other way trying to act as if this were simply another hectic performance and a corpse was not lying in their midst.

The body was that of the slave Panurgus. He lay on his back in a secluded little alcove in the alley that ran behind the Temple of Jupiter. The place was a public privy, one of many built in out-of-the-way nooks on the perimeter of the Forum. Screened by two walls, a sloping floor tilted to a hole that emptied into the Cloaca Maxima. Panurgus had apparently come here to relieve himself between scenes. Now he lay dead with a knife plunged squarely into his chest. Above his heart a large red circle stained his bright yellow costume. A sluggish stream of blood trickled across the tiles and ran down the drain.

He was older than I had thought, almost as old as his master, with grey in his hair and a wrinkled forehead. His mouth and eyes were open wide in shock; his eyes were green, and in death they glittered dully like uncut emeralds.

Eco gazed down at the body and reached up to grasp my hand. Statilius ran up beside us. He was dressed again in blue and held the mask of Megadorus in his hands. His face was ashen. ‘Madness,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody madness.’

‘Shouldn’t the play be stopped?’

‘Roscius refuses. Not for a slave, he says. And he doesn’t dare tell the crowd. Imagine: a murder, backstage, in the middle of our performance, on a holiday consecrated to Jupiter himself, in the very shadow of the god’s temple – what an omen! What magistrate would ever hire Roscius and the company again? No, the show goes on – even though we must somehow figure out how to fill nine roles with five actors instead of six. Oh dear, and I’ve never learned the nephew’s lines . . .’

‘Statilius!’ It was Roscius, returning from the stage. He threw off the mask of Euclio. His own face was almost as grotesque, contorted with fury. ‘What do you think you’re doing, standing there mumbling? If I’m playing Euclio, you have to play the nephew!’ He rubbed his squinting eyes, then slapped his forehead. ‘But no, that’s impossible – Megadorus and the nephew must be onstage at the same time. What a disaster! Jupiter, why me?’

The actors circled one another like frenzied bees. The dressers hovered about them uncertainly, as useless as drones. All was chaos in the company of Quintus Roscius.

I looked down at the bloodless face of Panurgus, who was beyond caring. All men become the same in death, whether slave or citizen, Roman or Greek, genius or pretender.

At last the play was over. The old bachelor Megadorus had escaped the clutches of marriage; miserly Euclio had lost and then recovered his pot of gold; the honest slave who restored it to him had been set free; the quarrelling cooks had been paid by Megadorus and sent on their way; and the young lovers had been joyously betrothed. How this was accomplished under the circumstances, I do not know. By some miracle of the theatre, everything came off without a hitch. The cast assembled together on the stage to roaring applause, and then returned backstage, their exhilaration at once replaced by the grim reality of the death among them.

‘Madness,’ Statilius said again, hovering over the corpse. Knowing how he felt about his rival, I had to wonder if he was not secretly gloating. He seemed genuinely shocked, but that, after all, could have been acting.

‘And who is this?’ barked Roscius, tearing off the yellow cloak he had assumed to play the miser.

‘My name is Gordianus. Men call me the Finder.’

Roscius raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard of you. Last spring – the case of Sextus Roscius; no relation to myself, I’m glad to say, or very distant, anyway. You earned yourself a name with parties on both sides of that affair.’

Knowing the actor was an intimate of the dictator Sulla, whom I had grossly offended, I only nodded.

‘So what are you doing here?’ Roscius demanded.

‘It was I who told him,’ said Statilius helplessly. ‘I asked him to come backstage. It was the first thing I thought of.’

‘You invited an outsider to intrude on this tragedy, Statilius? Fool! What’s to keep him from standing in the Forum and announcing the news to everyone who passes? The scandal will be disastrous.’

‘I assure you, I can be quite discreet – for a client,’ I said.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Roscius, squinting at me shrewdly. ‘But perhaps that’s not a bad idea, provided you could actually be of some help.’

‘I think I might,’ I said modestly, already calculating a fee. Roscius was, after all, the most highly paid actor in the world. Rumour claimed he made as much as half a million sesterces in a single year. He could afford to be generous.

He looked down at the corpse and shook his head bitterly. ‘One of my most promising pupils. Not just a gifted artist, but a valuable piece of property. But why should anyone murder the slave? Panurgus had no vices, no politics, no enemies.’

‘It’s a rare man who has no enemies,’ I said. I could not help but glance at Statilius, who hurriedly looked away.

There was a commotion among the gathered actors and stagehands. The crowd parted to admit a tall, cadaverous figure with a shock of red hair.

‘Chaerea! Where have you been?’ growled Roscius.

The newcomer looked down his long nose, first at the corpse, then at Roscius. ‘Drove down from my villa at Fidenae,’ he snapped tersely. ‘Axle on the chariot broke. Missed more than the play, it appears.’

‘Gaius Fannius Chaerea,’ whispered Statilius in my ear. ‘He was Panurgus’ original owner. When he saw the slave had comic gifts he handed him over to Roscius to train him, as part-owner.’

‘They don’t seem friendly,’ I whispered back.

‘They’ve been feuding over how to calculate the profits from Panurgus’s performances . . .’

‘So, Quintus Roscius,’ sniffed Chaerea, tilting his nose even higher, ‘this is how you take care of our common property. Bad management, I say. Slave’s worthless, now. I’ll send you a bill for my share.’

‘What? You think I’m responsible for this?’ Roscius squinted fiercely.

‘Slave was in your care; now he’s dead. Theatre people! So irresponsible.’ Chaerea ran his bony fingers through his orange mane and shrugged haughtily before turning his back. ‘Expect my bill tomorrow,’ he said, stepping through the crowd to join a coterie of attendants waiting in the alley. ‘Or I’ll see you in court.’

‘Outrageous!’ said Roscius. ‘You!’ He pointed a stubby finger at me. ‘This is your job! Find out who did this, and why. If it was a slave or a pauper, I’ll have him torn apart. If it was a rich man, I’ll sue him blind for destroying my property. I’ll go to Hades before I give Chaerea the satisfaction of saying this was my fault!’

I accepted the job with a grave nod, and tried not to smile. I could almost feel the rain of glittering silver on my head. Then I glimpsed the contorted face of the dead Panurgus, and felt the fall gravity of my commission. For a dead slave in Rome, there is seldom any attempt to find justice. I would find the killer, I silently vowed, not for Roscius and his silver, but to honour the shade of an artist cruelly cut down in his prime.

‘Very well, Roscius. I’ll need to ask some questions. See that no one in the company leaves until I’m done. I’d like to talk with you in private first. Perhaps a cup of wine would calm us both . . .’

Late that afternoon, I sat on a bench beneath the shade of an olive tree, on a quiet street not far from the Temple of Jupiter. Eco sat beside me, pensively studying the play of leafy shadows on the paving stones.

‘So, Eco, what do you think? Have we learned anything at all of value?’

He shook his head gravely.

‘You judge too quickly,’ I laughed. ‘Consider: we last saw Panurgus alive during his scene with Statilius at the close of the first act. Then those two left the stage; the pipers played an interlude, and next the quarrelling cooks came on. Then there was a scream. That must have been Panurgus, when he was stabbed. It caused a commotion backstage; Roscius checked into the matter and discovered the body in the privy. Word quickly spread among the others. Roscius put on the dead man’s mask and a yellow cloak, the closest thing he had to match Panurgus’ costume, which was ruined by blood, and rushed onstage to keep the play going. Statilius, meanwhile, put on a cook’s costume so that he could jump into the audience and plead for my help.

‘Therefore, we know at least one thing: the actors playing the cooks were innocent, as were the pipe players, because they were onstage when the murder occurred.’

Eco made a face to show he was not impressed.

‘Yes, I admit, this is all very elementary, but to build a wall we must begin with a single brick. Now, who was backstage at the time of the murder, has no one to account for his whereabouts at the moment of the scream, and might have wanted Panurgus dead?’

Eco bounded up from the bench, ready to play the game. He performed a pantomime, jabbering with his jaw and waving his arms at himself.

I smiled sadly; the unflattering portrait could only be my talkative and self-absorbed friend Statilius. ‘Yes, Statilius must be foremost among the suspects, though I regret to say it. We know he had cause to hate Panurgus; so long as the slave was alive, a man of inferior talent like Statilius would never be given the best roles. We also learned, from questioning the company, that when the scream was heard, no one could account for Statilius’s whereabouts. This may be only a coincidence, given the ordinary chaos that seems to reign backstage during a performance. Statilius himself vows that he was busy in a corner adjusting his costume. In his favour, he seems to have been truly shocked at the slave’s death – but he might only be pretending. I call the man my friend, but do I really know him?’ I pondered for a moment. ‘Who else, Eco?’

He hunched his shoulders, scowled and squinted.

‘Yes, Roscius was also backstage when Panurgus screamed, and no one seems to remember seeing him at that instant. It was he who found the corpse – or was he there when the knife descended? Roscius is a violent man; all his actors say so. We heard him shouting angrily at someone before the play began – do you remember? “Fool! Incompetent! Why can’t you remember your lines?” Others told me it was Panurgus he was shouting at. Did the slave’s performance in the first act displease him so much that he flew into a rage, lost his head and murdered him? It hardly seems likely; I thought Panurgus was doing quite well. And Roscius, like Statilius, seemed genuinely offended by the murder. But then, Roscius is an actor of great skill.’