Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (82 page)

These days, I see Lucius Claudius quite often in the Forum, in the company of reasonably honest advocates like Cicero and Hortensius. Rome can always use another honest man in the Forum. He tells me that he recently completed a book of love poems and is thinking of running for office. He holds occasional dinner parties and spends his quiet time in the country, overseeing his farms and vineyards.

As the Etruscans used to say, it is an ill will that doesn’t bring someone good fortune. The unfortunate Asuvius may not have left a will, after all, but I think that Lucius Claudius was his beneficiary nonetheless.

THE LEMURES

The slave pressed a scrap of parchment into my hand:

From Lucius Claudius to his friend Gordianus, greetings. If you will accompany this messenger on his return, I will be grateful. I am at the house of a friend on the Palatine Hill; there is a problem which requires your attention. Come alone – do not bring the boy – the circumstances might frighten him.

Lucius need not have warned me against bringing Eco, for at that moment the boy was busy with his tutor. From the garden, where they had found a patch of morning sunlight to ward off the October chill, I could hear the old man declaiming while Eco wrote the day’s Latin lesson on his wax tablet.

‘Bethesda!’ I called out, but she was already behind me, holding open my woollen cloak. As she slipped it over my shoulders, she glanced down at the note in my hand. She wrinkled her nose. Unable to read, Bethesda regards the written word with suspicion and disdain.

‘From Lucius Claudius?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘Why, yes, but how – ?’ Then I realized she must have recognized his messenger. Slaves often take more notice of one another than do their masters.

‘I suppose he wants you to go gaming with him, or to taste the new vintage from one of his vineyards.’ She tossed back her mane of jet-black hair and pouted her luscious lips.

‘I suppose not; he has work for me.’

A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth.

‘Not that it should be any concern of yours,’ I added quickly. Since I had taken Eco in from the streets and legally adopted him, Bethesda had begun to behave less and less like a concubine and more and more like a wife and mother. I wasn’t sure I liked the change; I was even less sure I had any control over it.

‘Frightening work,’ I added. ‘Probably dangerous.’ But she was already busy adding my fee to the household accounts in her head. As I stepped out of the door I heard her humming a happy Egyptian tune from her childhood.

The day was bright and crisp. Drifts of leaves lined either side of the narrow, winding pathway that led from my house down the slope of the Esquiline Hill to the Subura below. The tang of smoke was on the air, rising from kitchens and braziers. The messenger drew his dark green cloak more tightly about his shoulders to ward off the chill.

‘Neighbour! Citizen!’ A voice hissed at me from the wall to my right. I looked up and saw two eyes peering down at me over the top of the wall, surmounted by the dome of a bald, knobby head. ‘Neighbour – yes, you! Gordianus, they call you; am I right?’

I looked up at him warily. ‘Yes, Gordianus is my name.’

‘And “Finder” they call you – yes?’

I nodded.

‘You solve puzzles. Plumb mysteries. Answer riddles.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Then you must help me!’

‘Perhaps, citizen. But not now. A friend summons me – ’

‘This will only take a moment.’

‘Even so, I grow cold standing here – ’

‘Then come inside! I’ll open the little door in the wall and let you in.’

‘No – perhaps tomorrow.’

‘No! Now! They will come tonight, I know it – or even this afternoon, when the shadows lengthen. See, the clouds are coming up. If the sun grows dim, they may come out at midday beneath the dark, brooding sky.’

‘
They?
Whom do you mean, citizen?’

His eyes grew large, yet his voice became quite tiny, like the voice of a mouse. ‘The lemures . . .’ he squeaked.

Lucius Claudius’ messenger clutched at his cloak. I felt the sudden chill myself, but it was only a cold, dry wind gusting down the pathway that made me shiver; or so I told myself.

‘Lemures,’ the man repeated. ‘The unquiet dead!’

Leaves scattered and danced about my feet. A thin finger of cloud obscured the sun, dimming its bright, cold light to a hazy grey.

‘Vengeful,’ the man whispered. ‘Full of spite. Empty of all remorse. Human no longer, spirits sucked dry of warmth and pity, desiccated and brittle like shards of bone, with nothing left but wickedness. Dead, but not gone from this world as they should be. Revenge is their only food. The only gift they offer is madness.’

I stared into the man’s dark, sunken eyes for a long moment, then broke from his gaze. ‘A friend calls me,’ I said, nodding for the slave to go on.

‘But neighbour, you can’t abandon me. I was a soldier for Sulla! I fought in the civil war to save the Republic! I was wounded – if you’ll step inside you’ll see. My left leg is no good at all, I have to hobble and lean against a stick. While you, you’re young and whole and healthy. A young Roman like you owes me some respect. Please – there’s no one else to help me!’

‘My business is with the living, not the dead,’ I said sternly.

‘I can pay you, if that’s what you want. Sulla gave all his soldiers farms up in Etruria. I sold mine – I was never meant to be a farmer. I still have silver left. I can pay you a handsome fee, if you help me.’

‘And how can I help you? If you have a problem with lemures, consult a priest or an augur.’

‘I have, believe me! Every spring, in the month of Maius, I take part in the Lemuria procession to ward off evil spirits. I mutter the incantations, I cast the black beans over my shoulder. Perhaps it works; the lemures never come to me in spring, and they stay away all summer. But as surely as leaves wither and fall from the trees, they come to me every autumn. They come to drive me mad!’

‘Citizen, I cannot – ’

‘They cast a spell inside my head.’

‘Citizen! I must go.’

‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘I was a soldier once, brave, afraid of nothing. I killed many men, fighting for Sulla, for Rome. I waded through rivers of blood and valleys of gore up to my hips and never quailed. I feared no one. And now . . .’ He made a face of such self-loathing that I turned away. ‘Help me,’ he pleaded.

‘Perhaps . . . when I return . . .’

He smiled pitifully, like a doomed man given a reprieve. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘when you return . . .’

I hurried on.

The house on the Palatine, like its neighbours, presented a rather plain facade, despite its location in the city’s most exclusive district. Except for two pillars in the form of caryatids supporting the roof, the portico’s only adornment was a funeral wreath of cypress and fir on the door.

The short hallway, flanked on either side by the wax masks of noble ancestors, led to a modest atrium. On an ivory bier, a body lay in state. I stepped forward and looked down at the corpse. I saw a young man, not yet thirty, unremarkable except for the grimace that contorted his features. Normally the anointers are able to remove signs of distress and suffering from the faces of the dead, to smooth wrinkled brows and unclench tightened jaws. But the face of this corpse had grown rigid beyond the power of the anointers to soften it. Its expression was not of pain or misery, but of fear.

‘He fell,’ said a familiar voice behind me.

I turned to see my one-time client, then friend, Lucius Claudius. He was as portly as ever, and not even the gloomy light of the atrium could dim the cherry-red of his cheeks and nose.

We exchanged greetings, then turned our eyes to the corpse.

‘Titus,’ explained Lucius, ‘the owner of this house. For the last two years, anyway.’

‘He died from a fall?’

‘Yes. There’s a gallery that runs along the west side of the house, with a long balcony that overlooks a steep hillside. Titus fell from the balcony three nights ago. He broke his back.’

‘And died at once?’

‘No. He lingered through the night and lived until nightfall the next day. He told a curious tale before he died. Of course, he was feverish and in great pain, despite the draughts of nepenthe he was given . . .’ Lucius shifted his considerable bulk uneasily inside his vast black cloak, and reached up nervously to scratch at his frizzled wreath of copper-coloured hair. ‘Tell me, Gordianus, do you have any knowledge of lemures?’

A strange expression must have crossed my face, for Lucius frowned and wrinkled his brow. ‘Have I said something untoward, Gordianus?’

‘Not at all. But this is the second time today that someone has spoken to me of lemures. On the way here, a neighbour of mine – but I won’t bore you with the tale. All Rome seems to be haunted by spirits today! It must be this oppressive weather . . . this gloomy time of year . . . or indigestion, as my father used to say – ’

‘It was not indigestion that killed my husband. Nor was it a cold wind, or a chilly drizzle, or a nervous imagination.’

The speaker was a tall, thin woman. A stola of black wool covered her from neck to feet; about her shoulders was a wrap of dark blue. Her black hair was drawn back from her face and piled atop her head, held together by silver pins and combs. Her eyes were a glittering blue. Her face was young, but she was no longer a girl. She held herself as rigidly upright as a Vestal, and spoke with the imperious tone of a patrician.

‘This,’ said Lucius, ‘is Gordianus, the man I told you about.’ The woman acknowledged me with a slight nod. ‘And this,’ he continued, ‘is my dear young friend, Cornelia. From the Sullan branch of the Cornelius family.’

I gave a slight start.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘blood relative to our recently departed and deeply missed dictator. Lucius Cornelius Sulla was my cousin. We were quite close, despite the difference in our ages. I was with him just before he died, down at his villa in Neapolis. A great man. A generous man.’ Her imperious tone softened. She turned her gaze to the corpse on the bier. ‘Now Titus is dead, too. I am alone. Defenceless . . .’

‘Perhaps we should withdraw to the library,’ suggested Lucius.

‘Yes,’ said Cornelia. ‘It’s cold here in the atrium.’

She led us down a short hallway into a small room. My sometime client Cicero would not have called it much of a library – there was only a single cabinet piled with scrolls against one wall – but he would have approved of its austerity. The walls were stained a sombre red and the chairs were backless. A slave tended to the brazier in the centre of the room and departed.

‘How much does Gordianus know?’ Cornelia asked Lucius.

‘Very little. I only explained that Titus fell from the balcony.’

She looked at me with an intensity that was almost frightening. ‘My husband was a haunted man.’

‘Haunted by whom, or what? Lucius spoke to me of lemures.’

‘Not plural, but singular,’ she said. ‘He was tormented by one lemur only.’

‘Was this spirit known to him?’

‘Yes. An acquaintance from his youth; they studied law together in the Forum. The man who owned this house before us. His name was Furius.’

‘This lemur appeared to your husband more than once?’

‘It began last summer. Titus would glimpse the thing for only a moment – beside the road on the way to our country villa, or across the Forum, or in a pool of shadow outside the house. At first he wasn’t sure what it was; he would turn back and try to find it, only to discover it had vanished. Then he began to see it inside the house. That was when he realized who and what it was. He no longer tried to approach it; quite the opposite, he fled the thing, quaking with fear.’

‘Did you see it, as well?’

She stiffened. ‘Not at first . . .’

‘Titus saw it, the night he fell,’ whispered Lucius. He leaned forward and took Cornelia’s hand, but she pulled it away.

‘That night,’ she said, ‘Titus was brooding, pensive. He left me in my sitting room and stepped onto the balcony to pace and take a breath of cold air. Then he saw the thing – so he told the story later, in his delirium. It came towards him, beckoning. It spoke his name. Titus fled to the end of the balcony. The thing came closer. Titus grew mad with fear. Somehow he fell.’