The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (44 page)

Another lantern was uncovered. A dark curtain was drawn aside, and there, seated in a niche of stone was a young man, naked but for a strip of cloth about his loins. I could see that he had indeed been crucified. The horrible wounds on his wrists and feet were not healed. His eyes were open. His expression was completely blank. Did anyone else notice that his bare chest did not rise and fall, that he was not breathing?

Did anyone? There were exclamations. The girl writhed and began to moan. The congregation shouted prayers and thanks to their god.

Then the boy began to speak, or at least someone spoke. It
was hard to tell. The sound echoed strangely in the little cave.

“
Catia
,” came the voice, “
I long for you. I am coming back to you, my love. Soon we will be in one another’s arms for ever and ever, and no one can ever separate us
–”

Did
anyone
notice? Yes, my faithful Arpocras did. Once again we exchanged glances. I gave a signal.

Then many things were happening all at once. The girl broke away from her captors, and staggered forwards, screaming. The massive Pudens lumbered forwards like a maddened bull and tackled the Masked One, who went down with an audible crunch. Now everyone was screaming. The cultists swarmed over me, wrestling with me as I got out a clay whistle I wore around my neck and blew on its as hard as I could.

Arpocras uncovered his lantern, and light filled the cave. I saw Pudens on top of the still-struggling Masked One, while cultists scrambled over him, like, indeed, dogs attacking a bull in the arena.

Behind him the corpse of the boy Charicles – for corpse it was – toppled out of its niche.

Lightning flashed. Someone hauled me to the ground. Several more swarmed over me, pushing my face down into the mud. I gasped. I was drowning. Then there came thunder, hoofbeats, and the
Chrestianoi
released me and tried to scatter.

There were shouts and screams among the tombs, but soldiers burst out everywhere, and I do not think very many of the culprits escaped.

I stood up, sputtering, as Catius Magnus held onto his sobbing daughter, and forced her to look long and hard at the Masked One, who without his mask was an ordinary, bearded man, his features distorted by pain from a broken leg. And likewise he made her gaze upon the nearly naked
corpse of the unfortunate, fanatic Charicles, which Pudens had dragged out into the rain, into the clear light of reason and Arpocras’s lantern.

Subsequent investigations, Emperor, were by more orthodox means. It was soon discovered that this Masked One was a Hellenized Egyptian, whose Greek name was Lysimachus. He had become notorious as a fraud and swindler in Alexandria, where he used sleight of hand and various trick effects – indeed he had the ability to disguise his voice or even cast it elsewhere, so that an invisible spirit might seem to be speaking out of the air. Thus he had relieved the gullible Alexandrians of their money until he was finally uncovered and driven away. He fled, then, to his native district in the heart of Egypt, where he consorted with all manner of magicians and scoundrels. He learned from the priests there
some of the secrets of preserving corpses
, at which the Egyptians are so adept. Again, his reputation caught up with him, so he made his way to Asia, appearing in Bithynia under a variety of assumed names, and presenting himself to his followers in a mask, claiming that his face was too holy to look upon and that he was an actual contemporary of Jesus – which would make him more than a hundred years old, unaged and (so he asserted) immortal.

This much I learned mostly from him during his interrogation, after which he proved quite mortal when I had him executed.

Therefore I am writing to you, sir, to assure you that
this time
the pestilence of
Chrestianoi
has been eradicated, and that the people of Heracleia Pontica are returning in great numbers to the worship of the gods. Sacrifices are offered, as is proper, before your statue and those of your deified predecessors.

I write, too, to ask of you one more thing, a boon perhaps, though hardly a trivial favour, or even anything for myself.
You have instructed me to describe things to you as a friend might, when corresponding with another, not merely as an official reporting to his Emperor. So I have. But as a friend, then, I dare to ask your advice. You have always said to me, “I trust you implicitly. Use your own judgment.” But what if I no longer quite trust my own judgment? Catius Magnus is a good and loyal man, and a responsible father. According to the law, as laid down by your own instructions, the girl Catia, who, despite everything, persists in proclaiming herself a Christian, should pay the penalty. But this seems unduly cruel to the father, who would suffer much grief. He has already lost his wife, whom he greatly loved, and he has only this girl, however disordered her mind may be, however outrageous her behaviour, to remind him of her.

Is there any way she may be spared, even if she must be kept under close watch by her father, so that she may not spread her abominable beliefs to others?

Yes, you may spare the girl, because she has clearly departed from reason, and insane people are not to be held entirely liable for their acts. Furthermore it is good to reward the loyalty of Catius Magnus and to spare him further grief.

Sir, before I left Heracleia Pontica to proceed to Amastris, I gave the news of your merciful decision to Catius Magnus, who was moved to tears of joy and thanksgiving.

I am sorry to report that the girl herself is still insane, though Arpocras holds some hope for her eventual cure.
When, in the company of her father, I went to bring the news to the girl herself, she had to be restrained by the two muscular serving-women. Her face was distorted with rage and hatred such as I have never before seen in one so young.

She began to rave and prophesy. She said that one day the
Chrestianoi
would rule the world, that even emperors would bow down before the dead Jesus, and the gods of our country would be overthrown and forgotten, their images broken up into bits and powder.

I repeated to her that her variously named Masked One was a fraud and criminal, who used trickery to deceive, and that her lover was not resurrected. Even now he lay in his family’s tomb, beside his father, the virtuous Damon.

Again she spat and cursed, and announced, amazingly, that she didn’t care about Lysimachus anymore. She knew he was a liar. (On this Arpocras hangs his hope of her recovery, for her reason is not entirely absent.) Indeed she felt no sympathy for him at all.

“He will burn in Hell,” she said, “along with all unbelievers and others like him –” Here she used a word I did not know. “– like all
heretics
.”

I can tell you that he burned as he left this world. I ordered his body cremated and his ashes scattered. He did not rise again.

“I
was just sweeping through the frigidarium – I always does that last, see, once the duty soldiers have lit the boilers, on account of –”

“Yes, yes, get to the point of it, man.” Centurion Brutus twitched his vine stick impatiently at Antheses. The janitor responded by looking at Legate Julius Publius for his nod before continuing.

“Well, as I said, the boilers was stoked up for the morning and I’d cleaned and mopped all through when I saw it.”

All eyes followed his dramatically pointing finger to where the stone drain cover had been moved aside. Beside it lay the thick forearm of a man with the hand still attached. Julius noted that the skin was mottled and that the cut had been neatly done.

“Where exactly was the arm when you found it?” he asked.

“Inside the hypocaust. See, I saw straight off the cover’d been moved, ’cos I swept the dirty water through it earlier myself. So I took a look – saw something down there, reached down and pulled this out.”

Centurion Brutus grunted and poked at the arm with a sandalled foot. Julius swallowed, still not inured to such sights despite his twenty years of military service. But he hid his weakness.

“You’re sure the cover was on when you went through to the caldarium.” Julius thought the man might be lying to cover up for his own slipshod-ness.

“ ’Course! It was all tidy. I didn’t hear nothing neither. Well, I was singing, if you must know. Nice echo in them warm rooms.”

“How long was this room empty?”

Antheses looked shifty. “ ’Bout five minutes – maybe ten. I’m thorough, see, not like some of the others. You can rely on me.”

“That’s enough wasting the Legate’s time,” Brutus ordered. “If you’ve nothing else to tell him, get on your way.”

“But that’s just it. I do have something to say. It’s the arm, see.” Everyone obediently looked again. “I’d know it anywhere. It belongs to old Faustinius.”

“Do you want a spell in gaol?” Brutus growled. “I’m severely tempted to lock you up and throw away the key.”

“No, no.” Antheses wasn’t cowed by the threat, Julius noted. He was sure of his ground. “It’s the ring he’s wearing, see. I recognized it straight away. His personal seal, the eagle engraved on garnet and made of Silurian gold. Very nice, high quality. And if you look inside, you’ll see his and his wife’s initials.”

*   *   *

Julius had ordered everyone else to leave and stood alone in the frigidarium with Brutus. He gazed around at the high vaulted ceiling, the pillared alcoves, the fine mosaics and stone washstands.

“As fine a baths as I’ve seen this side of Rome,” he said.

“And the swimming pool’s a good length. You can get a good workout there and in the gymnasium after. If every soldier went in twice a day they’d be at peak fitness. But they’ve grown soft and lazy, idling about without any action.”

“Then make up a roster for increased exercise.”

Brutus’ brown eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “The men will be brought up to battle readiness. Even though we’ve had no orders as such?”

“It would take a strong man to shift that drain cover.” Julius deliberately did not respond on the subject of future orders. “And I’d guess Antheses was gone a good fifteen to twenty minutes – he was lying about that.”

“Or two men working together.”

“Hmmm. A conspiracy?”

Brutus frowned. Was the Legate making fun of him?

“I
am
interested in your opinion. You’ve been here at Isca how long – a year? I’ve only just arrived. Anything I should know?”

Brutus hesitated then shook his head. “Nothing beyond the usual thieving, gambling and fights you get in a barracks this size. With upwards of five thousand men you’re bound to get wrongdoers but we’ve dealt accordingly – firm but fair. Roman justice.”

“The janitor’s accent is execrable but his Latin is good. Is he Silurian? Could he have done this?”

Brutus snorted. “No, sir. Antheses is a liar and a cheat but he hasn’t the guts for murder, in my opinion. He’s from Londinium originally, I believe. No doubt on the run from something.”

“Otherwise why end up here in the west on the very borders of civilization. Exactly. Tell me about our victim, if it really is him. After all anyone could have put that ring on the hand – Faustinius himself, if he wanted to flee and delay our finding him gone, for example.”

“Import–export. Brings – or brought – supplies up the river Isca from the coast or from Venta Silurum. An older man. A family man. Very successful.”

Brutus waited while Julius paced. This was something he could do without. A test of his leadership when he’d only just arrived. Deliberate, perhaps. Could news of his secret orders from Emperor Hadrian have leaked out already?

“First, have your men search the bathhouse and gymnasium to see if the rest of the body is anywhere about. Then move this and anything else you may find to the hospital. After that the ritual purification will have to take place before the bathhouse can revert to normal use again. I will inform Faustinius’s family and have the ring confirmed as his, if possible.

“Get to it, then.”

Brutus saluted, though Julius sensed again some hesitation, but then he turned and went to carry out his orders.

It was June, a bright summer’s day. Although it had been raining when Julius arrived at his new posting a week ago, today only a few white clouds graced the deep blue sky and the day was becoming warm. On his arrival the rounded hills had looked black and misty. Now he saw only lush greenness and an abundance of different types of trees and bushes.

Standing on the fort ramparts looking towards the amphitheatre he strove to catch a glimpse of the river, but the land the fort was built on was too flat and low lying. Not as beautiful as his native hills north of Rome but more to his
liking than the dark forests of Germany, where he’d also been Legate of a key fort.

He strode on, absent-mindedly acknowledging the salutes of men coming to attention as he passed. Modestina, his wife, always teased him about the way he liked to walk the perimeter every day: “Surveying your kingdom,” she’d say, eyes gleaming, sometimes an invitation to more teasing and perhaps a return to their bedroom together.

Hiding a private smile he continued on more briskly. She was making the best of their move as always, settling the children in at the school and asking no questions. Not that he had any answers. Why had he been chosen for this posting? Tempting to think it was because someone believed he was the best man for the job. But what job? Rome had lived peacefully with the Silurians and other local tribes here in Britain for many years. No, he’d been expecting to be brought back to Rome. Perhaps put up for public service in public works or building, as he’d trained as an engineer when young. Then start looking for a retirement villa with a good stock of vines.