The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (47 page)

Antheses hung his head. “I didn’t think – too shook up – I thought maybe I could buy information –”

“You thought she might’ve come and taken what’s rightfully hers, you mean. Antheses, I think it’s time you came
with me and spent some time in our nice comfy prison. See what other stories you can come up with.”

“No – I mean, what’s the hurry? Look, there’s plenty of gold here – plenty for two, if you know what I mean. Some for me, some for you – some for Sahia too, if you say.”

“Hmm – interesting proposition. Needs a second opinion. Let’s see what the guards say – did you hear that, lads?”

There was an answering shout from outside. Brutus took hold of Antheses’ shoulder again. “Time we went. Let someone else finish your digging, then we’ll hold the gold for when she returns. Meanwhile, I’ve got plenty more questions waiting to be answered.”

Legio Augustus II, all bar a skeleton staff of men headed by Lucan left to guard Isca, marched out of the fort on their way north. Julius rode beside Centurion Brutus who, he noticed, kept glancing over his shoulder.

“You have an uneasy look about you,” he said.

“I know Antheses is locked up and you’ve given him a good long sentence for duping the widow out of her husband’s money – how Faustinius came by it we’ll never know, now she’s gone. But I have this horrible feeling that he’ll manage to give us the slip and get out.”

“Well, if he does, he’ll go in the opposite direction as us, so he’ll be someone else’s problem.”

“I wanted to tell you as soon as the arm was discovered to keep an eye on him, but I only had gossip and rumour that he was seen coming and going from Faustinius’s villa. They were working together on some scheme. But I only thought he might lead us to the killer.”

“Every time we questioned him we got a different story. You can forget him now – you’ve done a good job, Brutus.”

“I never suspected he might’ve killed Faustinius, because I thought he needed the merchant more than the merchant
needed him. People like Antheses are ten a penny. Faustinius, he was the clever one.”

“And the lucky one, married to Sahia, most would agree. Wherever she is, we wish her well. She knows her children are safe with my wife, and they’re good companions for our children. Now Brutus, forget Isca – keep your eyes on the road ahead.”

Lucan stretched, luxuriating in the press of Sahia’s naked body next to his. When she came to him begging for his help, he knew instantly what to do. A friend of his had left this small dwelling an hour’s ride from Isca, and he had helped her flee. As soon as the Legion marched away, he had come to her and they had embraced and – he dropped a kiss on her forehead. For him it was passion, for her – perhaps comfort, at the moment, but who knew where it might lead?

And finally she had revealed to him why she had been so afraid. That foolish husband of hers had double-crossed the Silurians he traded with. He’d given them short measure, increased his prices – he’d been overconfident. No wonder they’d set their Druids on him. And Sahia was terrified they’d come for her too.

Silly girl, he thought, stroking her rounded hip. At least he wouldn’t have to double-cross anyone to shower her with gold and presents. His family had money enough to keep Sahia happy. One day they might even send for her children, safe with Modestina Publius, when things had quietened down.

Mind busy with happy plans, Lucan too fell asleep.

Antheses watched the dust settle after the last soldiers marched out of the fort, and felt a great stillness fall. All the hustle and bustle was gone. This was going to be a dull place, he thought. Where should he head for next? Hibernia
possibly, or maybe Gaul – yes, Gaul was probably a land of opportunity for men such as himself.

He sat on the hard stone floor and took out his dice and began to play with them. Funny how thoughts kept coming back to you when it was still and quiet. Thoughts you didn’t want. Like the look on Faustinius’s face when he’d cut his throat. He looked so surprised. Like he didn’t believe it was happening. The blood – the blood kept coming . . .

Antheses tossed the dice, scooped them up, tossed again. That’s when he’d had the idea – he’d heard all about those wild men and their barbarian ways. Human sacrifices – ugh. At least that had worked. Everyone had fallen for it, even the Silurians. They were just glad Faustinius was dead. If he hadn’t got him, they would have, in revenge for his double-dealing.

No, Faustinius had only himself to blame. He’d been just too clever for his own good. Coming back upriver like that, bursting with pride at all his clever deals, boasting to Antheses. Then letting slip about the hoarded gold. The picture of it had burst in Antheses’ mind like a rising sun. Such a golden opportunity – to end the life he’d led till then, somehow he would become a man of substance, invent a new Antheses who wouldn’t be looked down on, have to do the worst jobs to eke a living. The knife had been in his hand before he even knew it and then –

Then he just had to dispose of the body. The coracle would lead everyone to the Silurians. But the arm in the hypocaust – well, that had been his bit of fun. He couldn’t resist it. So close to the truth, and no one even guessed. But the cutting, that had been hard –

No, he would get rid of these thoughts. He tossed the dice again, then called out, “Antoninus, fancy a game? Now, what shall we use for stakes?”

T
o most of us an iron knife is just an iron knife. Of course, there are different qualities of blade, which is why some of them become almost magical, though I bought one from a pedlar once which would scarcely cut a piece of cheese. Mostly, however, knives are simply things for carrying in one’s belt, useful if one is unexpectedly invited out to dine, or as a scant protection against bandits, wolves or bears while travelling. Scarcely a commodity to risk execution for. Yet there is the curious case of Calvus, who did exactly that.

His real name isn’t Calvus, obviously. Few people are called “Baldy” legally, but since he hailed from Gaul and had a name which no one could pronounce, Calvus he
instantly became. And it was as Calvus the meat-butcher that he sent word to me, when he was captured and locked up in the Glevum market cells.

I knew him only slightly, and liked him even less. He was a small, fat swarthy man, bald as a pig, with a smile as unpleasant as any of his wares. Standing at his
marcellum
, his market stall, with a hatchet in his hand, spattered from head to foot with blood and entrails, and surrounded by bleeding carcasses, he was a fearsome sight. Mothers murmured, “Calvus will get you” when children disobeyed.

It was Junio, my slave, who brought me the news. I’d sent him to collect water from the town fountain, and when he returned, he came panting into my rickety workshop to say, “Master, Calvus the butcher is in jail, and I am sent to ask if you will speak to him.”

I put down my selected tiles with a grunt. I was engaged on a complex piece of work, a decorative panel in honour of the impending visit of an ambassador from Rome. I was assembling it on a piece of hessian and was hoping to take it to the council chambers on my handcart the next afternoon. With a little planning, I could take out a section of the existing tiles and put my insert in, while all the councillors were busy at the baths. It is a technique I have perfected over years, and it requires concentration on my part. I was not pleased to be interrupted by a summons from a common butcher who had no rank at all.

I bridled. “He sends a message, does he? I wonder how many guards he had to bribe for that.” Common prisoners in the filthy Glevum jail are not usually privileged to summon friends.

Junio gave his cheekiest grin. “You forget, master, he is one of Marcus’s
clientes
. No doubt that’s why he asked for you.”

It was true, I had forgotten that. Calvus had first come to
Glevum as a gift, to Marcus Aurelius Septimus (one of the most powerful men in the entire province of Britannia) from a friend. He was then a kitchen-slave, but Marcus had permitted him to buy his freedom shortly afterwards – partly, I suspect, because he didn’t like Calvus any more than I did. So Calvus was legally Marcus’s freeman – which meant that he had lifelong duties to his patron, naturally, but also that Marcus was more or less obliged to offer protection in return. Which, unfortunately, was where I came in. Marcus Aurelius Septimus is my patron too.

“Marcus suggested it?” I said, knowing what the answer was. I’ve solved a few crimes for Marcus in the past, and he has formed a habit of involving me. I got up resignedly and gestured for my cloak. No question, now, of my refusing this or
I
was likely to end up in the cells.

I didn’t take Junio with me to the jail. I’d spent a day and night there once myself. The cells are filthy, stinking, dark and damp and men are shackled to the floor like animals: not a place to take an impressionable boy My decision wasn’t very wise perhaps, since, seeing me turn up at the gates tunic-clad and without an attendant slave, the guard on duty almost refused to let me in.

I almost pointed out that I was a full Roman citizen, but remembered that, in that case, I was supposed to wear a toga on business at all times. I let the matter rest. I said, humbly, “His Excellency Marcus Aurelius Septimus required me to come. One of his clientes is in jail.”

The soldier looked me up and down. “Calvus the butcher, is it? I was warned to expect somebody for him. Through that door there, in the jailer’s house.”

I should have predicted that. Having a powerful patron won you certain rights. It wasn’t like being a citizen, of course (Calvus wasn’t born in Glevum, which would have given him automatic rights) but Marcus’s name was
sufficient to ensure that our interview would not take place in the foul darkness of a cell. Indeed, the room I was shown into was a pleasant one, with a shuttered window space and a rough stool and table set for me. There was even a jug of cheap watered wine, and a few battered-looking dates.

Calvus looked in worse condition than the fruit. His legs were bruised, his clothes were torn, and a bloodied blackness round his eyes and mouth suggested a less-than-gentle arrest. Before they found out who his patron was, the jailers had obviously chained him up “slave-wise”, with a collar around the neck linked to his arms and feet. The victim cannot stand upright, nor move without half-strangling himself. Of course, these bonds had been removed by now, but Calvus still walked painfully.

The big guard who had brought him in prodded him towards me with his sword and winked. “All yours,” he said. “And welcome to him, too. I was told that you could talk to him alone, on His Excellency’s orders, but I’ll be right outside the door. If he’s any trouble, just give me a shout.” He patted his dagger cheerfully and left. I heard the heavy key grate in the lock.

“Well,” I said to Calvus, “What’s this all about?”

He half-raised his head. “An . . . n . . .,” he managed, in a voice still cracked with thirst.

I knew I would get nothing from him in this state. I let him have the wine-jug. He lifted it two-handed and drank, straight from the lip, in deep grateful gulps. When he had half-emptied it, I took it from him and said, “Well?” again.

He looked at me. “A knife,” he gabbled. “It all started with an argument about a knife. I admit that. But it wasn’t me who kidnapped him and tied him up . . .”

I interrupted him. “Suppose you start at the beginning, Calvus. Who did you have this argument with, and where?”

The butcher heaved a huge sigh. “It was like this . . .” he
said, and launched into his tale. It was a long and rambling version of events, but this – effectively – was what he said.

It happened some months earlier, in Corinium. Calvus had gone there to try and buy a slave to help him with his trade. The slave market at Corinium is a lively one, with slaves from all corners of the Empire – much better than the weekly one held in the forum here. So, Calvus left his brother-in-law to mind the stall, hired a mule, and went to Corinium overnight – to another relative who kept an inn. He wanted to be at the market shortly after dawn to get the best choice of slaves available, and perhaps to make some other purchases.

He didn’t find a slave to suit, he said, but he was haggling with the vendor of some wool when an itinerant cutler came into the market-place – a dramatic figure, in a multi-coloured robe, with an impressive beard, long hooked nose, and a huge red turban wrapped round his head. I have seen such men in Corinium myself; they come from the North African Province, and their very appearance draws a crowd at once.

This man did. People were already crowding round as he drew a coloured blanket from his handcart, spread it out, and then reverently lifted down a big, carved box.

He didn’t open it at once, but stood admiring it, which only made his audience more curious. They jostled closer.

At last, he opened up the front. It hinged apart like a pair of double doors. The watchers gave a gasp. Inside were knives, cleavers, hatchets, every kind of blade. Then, in a high-pitched sing-song kind of voice, he began his cry – holding a piece of linen in one hand and running a blade down it so it fell in two. “Best knives. Finest in the Empire. Feel the weight. What do you offer me for these amazing blades? Just like those used by the Emperor himself. Twenty denarii? Fifteen? You won’t believe it, gentlemen, I’m asking
only five denarii. It is a crime. I’m robbing myself at the price. Only twenty left. Who’ll buy the first?”

As Calvus described the scene I could imagine it too well. Five denarii was a fair price for a good knife, and some credulous fool in a tunic was soon pressing forwards, eager to part with his hard-earned coin. Then there was another, and another, until all the knives were gone.