The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (57 page)

“That I believe, for men die from falls while riding,”
Eutherius remarked drily. “My friend, if you wish to bring charges against Paulinus, I will support you as well as I can. I do urge you, however, to remain silent. I would be grieved if your great history remained unwritten.”

I was moved by this, and I thanked Eutherius warmly and told him that I would not risk pressing charges against Paulinus, which seemed to reassure him. My own household having come out to assist me, I descended from the litter and went to rest in my own bed.

I remained there for several days, for the ill treatment I had received brought on a fever which made it impossible for me to rise. Eutherius sent Sannio every day to inquire how I was. On the first of these visits I remembered to express my gratitude, not only to Eutherius, but also to Sannio himself, for I was well aware that if the slave had not brought his master so speedily I would have perished in the house of Anicius Paulinus. Sannio confessed himself relieved by my thanks, saying that he had been ashamed at abandoning me to the intruders in the tavern, but that he had seen no other way to secure help. I praised his clear thinking, and made him a gift of money.

Sannio was able to tell me that the Anicii had returned the stolen letter to its author, pretending that it had merely been found by Achilles’ body. Eutherius, however, had written a note to Symmachus, advising him of the true state of affairs, and, so Sannio said, informing him of my own part in the matter. At this I was elated, despite my bruises, for I anticipated great benefits from Symmachus’ gratitude.

On the second day of my illness, Sannio brought further evidence of Eutherius’ noble nature, for he carried a very beautiful edition of the
Annals
of Cornelius Tacitus, which his master had sent to keep me occupied, as he said, in my illness. It did indeed occupy me most fruitfully, for as I admired again the beauty of that lofty prose, I was struck by
the thought that no historian since could match him. It was then that I conceived the notion of extending my own history to cover all the events that have transpired since the end of the works of Tacitus, in tribute to that great historian.

When I was at last able to rise from my sickbed, however, my first thought was to call upon Symmachus. Accordingly I hired a sedan chair and went to the house of my patron.

I expected that as soon as I entered the atrium, the slave would rush to announce me to his master, and I was surprised to receive instead yet another solicitation of a bribe. When I declined to pay it, the insolent slave left me to wait in a small and very familiar antechamber. I consoled myself that Symmachus would be angry to hear that I had been kept waiting, and that in future I would be received with far more courtesy.

When I was at last admitted to the dining room where Symmachus received his clients, however, I found the prefect of the city distracted and inattentive. When I advanced to give him a friend’s embrace, he turned aside, and offered me instead his hand to kiss. “Ah, Ammianus,” he said. “I hope you are feeling better?” His manner proclaimed that he felt he had shown me abundance of courtesy in remembering that I had been ill.

I told him that I was much better, and asked him to assure me that he had indeed recovered the letter that had occasioned me so many pains.

At first he seemed doubtful as to which letter I might mean, but, at length recollecting it, said that, indeed, Anicius Paulinus had returned it, though he did not know why Eutherius and I attached so much importance to it, since it was merely an inquiry about provisions for the games. It was very foolish of me, he said, to have trespassed in Paulinus’ house to retrieve it, and it was not surprising the slaves had taken me to be a thief, and beaten me.

I was so entirely at a loss how to respond to this that I was bereft of speech. Symmachus, perceiving this, told me that at least it showed a commendable devotion to himself, and, offering me his hand again, urged me to take myself home and rest, as I was dreadfully pale.

I neglected to kiss his hand and departed in a passion, cursing the injustice of Fate and the vanity of human endeavour. I made my way to the house of Eutherius, where I was at once admitted, and there I unburdened myself to my friend, who listened patiently until I fell silent, and then commanded his slaves to bring us wine.

“I feared that you might meet with such a reception,” he told me. “I received a similar response to my own letter, but I did not want to disturb you on the subject while you were ill.” Then he spoke very wisely, pointing out that ingratitude and negligence are such common ills that we should rather wonder when we do not meet them than when we do, and that philosophy teaches us to bear them patiently. “Though indeed,” he said, “it must be very hard, to be obliged to suffer the malice of the Anicii in silence, and to be cheated of any reward by your patron’s complacency. I myself would gladly offer you patronage for your history, but I know I could never equal Symmachus in wealth, let alone in culture and esteem.”

I told him that in my esteem he far surpassed the prefect, and that a true friend is far more precious than a patron. “But,” I continued, “you are wrong to think that I am obliged to suffer the malice of the Anicii in silence. Though I do not dare to bring charges against them, still I can speak out. I shall tell the truth about them whenever I have occasion to mention them in my history, and thus reveal their disgrace not just to the present age, but to all posterity. As for you, however, I will devote an entire chapter to your praise.”
¹²

At this Eutherius laughed. “And what will you give to Symmachus?”

“Since he has done nothing of note,” I replied, “I do not see why I should mention him at all.”
¹³

1
This manuscript appears from its references and style to be the work of the fourth century historian Ammianus Marcellinus. If it is genuine, it constitutes a fascinating expansion upon many of the hints of the surviving books of his history (the
Res Gestae
). However, this is probably a modern forgery.

2
AD
363; however, Ammianus is generally believed to have spent some years in his native Antioch after that event.

3
De Amicitia
, 21, 79.

4
Milan. In the fourth century, emperors did not reside at Rome, which was too remote from the frontiers.

5
AD
359
Res Gestae XIX
.

6
Q. Aurelius Symmachus held that office in 384.

7
An informer who brought a successful prosecution for treason was entitled to a portion of the traitor’s estate. Ammianus accuses the Anicii of enriching themselves in this way in XVI.8.19 and and XXVII.11.3 as well.

8
If this dinner took place during the prefecture of Symmachus, the emperors in question would be Theodosius and Valentinian II.

9
The full story is in
Res Gestae XV
, 5. Ammianus undoubtedly would remember it “very well”, since he helped to arrange Silvanus’ assassination.

10
St Ambrose

11
In May 392 Arbogast rebelled, naming a Roman associate Eugenius as emperor.

12
It’s
chapter 7
,
Res Gestae XVI
.

13
He doesn’t.

J
ohn sensed movement above him and jumped aside just before a marble Aphrodite plunged head first into the soft earth at the base of Hadrian’s mausoleum. Up on the ramparts of the turret-shaped bastion, guards shouted. A dog barked nearby.

Oblivious to the commotion, John’s rotund companion bent over the broken statue. “If this isn’t Praxiteles’ work, I’m the pope’s bastard!”

“Hurry up! Zeus is liable to show up next and he won’t care whose bastard you are,” John replied. “I thought you said this aqueduct came out on the other side of the Tiber?”

The river blocking their escape was a featureless band of darkness, its presence announced by the choking stench of putrefaction emanating from its waters.

“No wonder this purported map cost so little,” Cupitas muttered. “When I find him again, that scoundrel’s going to regret bilking me!”

He remained rooted, staring at the sculpture. When he spoke again his breath formed a faint cloud in the chilly air. “Do you know what a genuine Praxiteles is worth, my friend? I’ve never glimpsed anything but copies. Few have. If there were just some way I could get her out of here –”

John suddenly tugged the man’s arm, pulling him aside. A cobblestone toppled out of the twilight to embed itself in the ground an arm’s length from where the two conversed. Perhaps the Romans had exhausted their arsenal of statuary in the Goth attack the day before.

Casting looks of longing at the recumbent goddess, Cupitas allowed himself to be led around the side of the massive tomb. John hoped the shadows clustered there would hide them from arrows.

He’d already called up that he and Cupitas were Romans, shouting first in Greek, then Latin and finally Egyptian, since he wasn’t certain from which part of the empire
General Belisarius had recruited these particular men. Not surprisingly, the guards paid no attention. Goths seeking to breach Rome’s defences weren’t likely to announce their real identities.

“At least this expedition hasn’t been a total loss,” Cupitas grinned.

John saw the man had a delicate marble finger clutched in one pudgy hand. Had it broken off the statue when it hit the ground or been snapped off afterwards?

“An exquisite finger of the love goddess,” orated Cupitas, “shaped by Praxiteles himself. Snatched from under the noses of Witiges’ hordes as they besieged the army of Belisarius in Rome in the year 537. A truly desirable item!”

Despite his annoyance, John smiled. “Don’t forget to add that you were assisted in retrieving it by none other than the Lord Chamberlain to Emperor Justinian.”

“An excellent selling point which one might think would doubtless add to its value, but unfortunately who would believe such a ridiculous claim?”

John was about to remark that he himself could hardly believe he was trying to help such a fool as Cupitas out of danger when he heard the jangle of chain mail and a huge figure loped out of the darkness to confront them. The shadowy giant displayed an axe. John’s hand went to his blade.

Then the figure let out a bellowing laugh and stepped forward. John recognised the dark features and jet black hair of the Moorish auxiliary, Constantine.

“I see it is my friend from the inn.” The man addressed John. “You shouldn’t be out here. They say night air is bad for the health.”

“Especially when it’s filled with falling statuary,” remarked Cupitas.

The big Moor directed a scathing glance at the plump
trader, but spoke to John again. “You’re fortunate I found you. I’m about to go off duty and none too soon. Patrolling the walls is a lonely job without Achilles for company. Come on, I’ll escort you both back to Mount Olympus.”

The sprawling mountain of brick and masonry looked across a forum overgrown with weeds. A mosaic cross set in the wall beside the inn’s door gave assurance that its pagan name was merely an homage to the city’s glorious past. Only when John stepped into its smoky interior did he realize just how cold he was. His fingers had turned almost as white as the precious marble digit Cupitas carried. The warm air of the inn was redolent of the usual simmering porridge and, this evening, something more savoury.

The slightly built, balding innkeeper, Titus, hurried to greet the arrivals as they entered.

“So you haven’t left us after all, Lord Chamberlain! Excellent!” He beamed and gave a bob of his head that passed for a bow. “I have obtained a goat for dinner! I found it wandering around the Capitoline Hill. Consider it a gift from the old gods for our illustrious guest from the emperor’s court!”

“A gift you’ll expect us to pay a good price for,” Cupitas grumbled.

Constantine gave the trader an impatient frown. “I hear there’s gold to be had for any kind of meat, but then I’m sure you’re already aware of that.”

“Fronto’s almost finished cooking the meal,” Titus said. “As soon as he does, I’ll be able to offer you a real banquet.”

John, who didn’t care much for banquets, thanked Titus and went to warm his hands over the brazier. Spring was still weeks away and since many of the besieged city’s ancient pines and stately cypresses had already been sacrificed for fuel he was grateful that the innkeeper had managed to find enough to warm his establishment. It had been some weeks
since he had travelled from Constantinople to deliver Justinian’s congratulations to General Belisarius on the reconquest of the empire’s birthplace. Unfortunately the Goth leader Witiges had arrived with his army before John was able to leave.

John looked up at the sound of a grating voice.

“Back so soon, Cupitas? Did you really suppose the Lord would let a black-hearted blasphemer creep away to safety without retribution? I’ll have an audience with the pope before you do, you and your vile frauds. Relics? Salted cuts of meat, more like.”