The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (60 page)

John left the Moor sunk in surly silence. Here and there along otherwise deserted streets merchants sat, hunched hopefully beside their scanty stock of wares. In the midst of war people still clung to their routines, it seemed, however futile they might be.

When he arrived back at the inn he found Fronto gathering stray sticks in the garden. Most of it had been swept clear, but a few twigs lying in the dry basin of the fountain which had been the garden’s centrepiece had been overlooked. The servant added them to his basket and struggled to lift it, even though it was barely half filled.

“I don’t know what we’ll burn next,” he told John. “This
afternoon the master told me to tear up those codices Cupitas was trying to sell, but even so I fear you will have to pull your pallet closer to the brazier tonight, sir. Unless the master has managed to find some extra wood for you again.”

“Extra wood? Again? What do you mean, Fronto? I made do with a few embers last night. I’m not complaining, mark you. Plenty in the city have even less than that and it was a cold night.”

“I’m glad someone isn’t complaining,” Fronto replied. “It makes a change from Cupitas’ carping about everything. Nothing was ever acceptable to the man. You might have thought the Goths were camped around Rome to besiege him personally. And of course it was his fault that Damian left so suddenly . . .”

A thought occurred to Fronto and he paused as they turned towards the inn. “But surely, sir, you must have seen the wood I placed in your room? The master called me aside yesterday evening. He had a basket full for you. ‘Saved specially for our distinguished guest,’ he told me.”

Puzzled, the pair entered the building.

“Still wasting your time looking for a culprit?” Makarios called out as soon as he saw him. “It was heaven’s work, sir. That’s the truth. It’s not what Procopios expects to see in his report, though, I’ll wager.”

The mention of Procopios stirred something in John’s memory. “What was it that Procopios mentioned the gossips said about Antonina?”

“Belisarius’ wife? The evil magician? He said she knows every poison, from hellebore and monk’s hood to oleander and aconite. She concocts love philtres. I believe it too. In fact, I can tell you much more about that slut than he dared to mention. For example –”

John, however, had already heard enough and was on his way up the stairs to examine the brazier in Cupitas’ room.

It had already been emptied of ashes.

He strode into his room next door. There had been no reason for him to examine his surroundings when he’d thrown off his covers that morning, or so he’d thought. Cold as he was, he had been in a hurry to get downstairs to the relatively warmer room. Now he took a more careful look around. On the floorboards, near the door, he spotted something.

He picked up a long, pointed leaf.

He frowned, trying to remember all of Procopios’ words, not just those concerning Antonina. This time he didn’t need Makarios’ assistance. The general’s counsel had stated that he didn’t want Belisarius to be blamed for the trader’s death. There were some who blamed the Romans for every woe, he’d said.

John put his hand on the door and pushed it. Like Cupitas’ door, it did not fit well, leaving a gap along the bottom. Unlike Cupitas, John had not thought to block the opening. He didn’t like cold, but having lived in tents as a young mercenary he took a fatalistic view towards draughts.

He examined the outside of the door. Stuck to a splinter at the lower edge, he found a couple of threads, the brilliant red of freshly spilt blood.

By the time he had paid a quick visit to the inn’s cellar, night was creeping into the city like a black fog. John hardly heard Makarios’ ramblings as he passed by on his way out of the inn.

He now knew that Cupitas had, indeed, been murdered but the reason rendered his investigation more ironic than he had imagined.

Now, however, he felt it would be wise to make another examination of the trader’s wares to make certain he had overlooked nothing in his rather cursory inspection earlier.
He did not wish to give Procopios any opportunity to point out oversights to Belisarius and an inventory of the trader’s stock in trade had best be included in his report.

The interior of the shabby outbuilding was dark. Just enough twilight filtered in to show that Cupitas’ crates and sacks remained as John had left them. He picked up the sack of supposed relics.

As he straightened, a shadow came flying through the open doorway. Instinctively John ducked, dropping the sack and grabbing for his blade. He glimpsed the axe embedded in a crate and leapt backwards, knocking a precarious pile of crates sideways. Several fell to the straw-covered floor with an echoing crash.

For an instant it sounded as if the whole Goth army was pounding on the city gates. John drew further back and squinted towards the man holding a lantern and standing in the doorway.

“No wonder you rose to hold such a high position at court, Lord Chamberlain,” Titus remarked. “You’re a very clever man. I’ve been watching you. You’ve worked it all out, haven’t you?”

John remained silent.

The innkeeper sighed sorrowfully. “If only you had been clever enough not to deliver that letter to General Belisarius! It was certainly no coincidence my poor Tullia was ordered away with all the others practically an hour after you arrived. It was at Justinian’s orders, wasn’t it? Yes, I know it is unfair you must die,” the innkeeper continued. “Your masters should pay the price too, but heaven has placed only you within my reach. Perhaps in due course it will see fit to grant me the general and the emperor.”

“So you wanted me dead because I delivered Justinian’s message to Belisarius?” John replied softly. “I was not responsible for the orders I carried, Titus. I’m not even
certain Justinian ordered Belisarius to send the women away with the slaves and children. Besides, why do you suppose your wife has come to harm?” He shifted his feet, readying himself to leap forward to grapple with the innkeeper. His toe touched something and he glanced swiftly down.

A hand rested against his boot.

The desiccated hand of Joseph.

“I must have been unforgivably careless,” Titus rambled on. “Was some remnant of that old wall hanging left on your door? That’s why you were in the cellar examining it just now, isn’t it? And doubtless you deduced immediately that I’d used it to block the space beneath your door, to ensure smoke stayed in the room. Unfortunately Cupitas stole the wood Fronto delivered to your room.”

Again the man sighed. “Cupitas never would respect other people’s property. What he wanted, he took. Unless that fool of a servant delivered it to the wrong room . . .”

“Fronto did his duty, Titus. I saw a leaf on the floor of my room.”

“Ah. Did you recognize it? It was special wood, Lord Chamberlain, cut from the rosebay Tullia loved. Oleander, some call it. Every part of it is a deadly poison, even its smoke.”

John, still gauging the situation, continued talking, noting that doubtless his inhalation of the smoke in Cupitas’ room had been the cause of his feeling unwell earlier that day.

“If only you’d breathed more deeply of it!” Titus snapped. “I didn’t want to count on getting rid of you by suffocation alone. Besides, it would have been fitting for one involved in destroying Tullia to have been killed by her rosebay, don’t you think?”

“If you had succeeded, Tullia would have come back to find you had been executed,” John pointed out.

“If I was caught. If she returns.” Titus swung the lantern,
sending light swimming across the cluttered room. “How should I handle the task now, do you think? Ah, I have it. A guest might be waylaid, stabbed by thieves and his body tossed into the river. That wouldn’t raise an eyebrow, even if anyone saw you floating downriver.”

John heard a light scrabbling, accompanied by a strangled whining. Were they manifestations of the shade Fronto had described?

Titus however apparently noticed nothing unusual, since he continued taunting John. “On the other hand, perhaps a fire would be best. No need to haul a body to the river and risk being seen on the way. Especially as I do believe this straw will burn very well if I throw this lantern . . .”

As Titus raised the lantern to suit action to threat, a shadow moved amid the toppled crates. John kicked the hand resting against his boot. It bounced across the floor, like an ungainly spider, landing at the innkeeper’s feet.

A snarling demon flew out of the darkness after it.

Titus screamed as massive jaws clamped on his ankle. In a panic, he dropped his lantern and pummelled the attacker as the pair was propelled out into what remained of the inn’s garden.

By the time the guests had raced out to help John put out the smouldering straw, Titus’ throat had been ripped open.

The black demon leapt at Constantine as soon as he appeared. The auxiliary let out a bellowing laugh. “My prayers have been answered, Lord Chamberlain! I was looking for my axe and instead have found Achilles!”

Two days later John and Constantine stood talking with Procopios in front of Mount Olympus. “Cupitas must have muzzled Achilles, crated him and locked him in there to await the cooking pot,” Constantine said. “When John knocked some of the crates over, that freed him. So it was
Achilles that Fronto heard scrabbling and whimpering. He thought it was a shade. Though I suppose his error is not surprising, since he tells me that the last Roman emperor ruling in the west was strangled to death at this very inn!” Constantine reached down to pat his canine friend’s massive head affectionately.

Procopios raised an eyebrow and then smiled. “I always thought Romulus Augustulus was pensioned off, but that makes a much livelier tale. In fact, it’s almost as entertaining as how John solved this mysterious murder.”

John shrugged. “An ironic story, certainly. Consider, Procopios. If I hadn’t been sent to Rome there would have been no mystery to solve, because Titus would not have killed Cupitas while trying to murder me.”

“Oh, someone would have killed Cupitas eventually,” Procopios replied confidently. “But let’s be off and leave Fronto to manage the inn. Perhaps when Damian hears what happened he’ll come back and give him a hand until Tullia returns. Not a holy hand, of course!”

John took his leave of Constantine.

“So you’re going to try to leave Rome the next time the Goths attack?” the auxiliary asked.

“They can’t be everywhere at the same time,” John pointed out. “I’ll slip out through some unchallenged part of the defences while they are fighting elsewhere along the walls.”

“I see you are determined to attempt to return to Constantinople, Lord Chamberlain,” Procopios put in. “Before you go, then, let me tell you that Belisarius directed me to convey his appreciation to you for the great service you have rendered him.”

John observed that given current conditions in Rome it was heartening that the great general concerned himself with the death of an ordinary trader in an obscure inn.

Procopios laughed. “I’m not referring to that! What pleased him mightily was the gift you found for Antonina. She’s been wearing it on a gold chain ever since you sent it and now she too can’t wait to get back to Constantinople to display it at court. After all, not even Empress Theodora possesses a finger from a genuine Praxiteles Aphrodite!”

“T
his is Deacon Platonius Lepidus, Sister Fidelma. He is a visitor from Rome and he wishes a word with you.”

Fidelma looked up in surprise as the stranger was shown into the
scriptorum
of the abbey. She was a stranger in the abbey herself – the abbey of Augustine. Augustine was the former prior of St Andrews in Rome who had died here scarcely sixty years ago, having been sent as missionary to the King of the Cantware. It was now the focal point of the Jutish Christian community in the centre of the
burg
of
Cantware. Fidelma was waiting for Brother Eadulf to finish some business with the Archbishop Theodore. The religieux who had announced the Deacon’s presence had withdrawn from the library shutting the door behind him. As Fidelma rose uncertainly the Deacon came forwards to the table where she had been seated.

Platonius Lepidus looked every inch of what she knew to be a Roman aristocrat; there was arrogance about him in spite of his religious robes. She had been on a pilgrimage to Rome and knew that his aristocratic rank would immediately be recognisable there. He was tall, with dark hair and swarthy of complexion. His greeting and smile was pleasant enough.

“The Venerable Gelasius told me that you had rendered him a singular service when you were in Rome, Sister. When I heard that you were here in Cantwareburg, I felt compelled to make your acquaintance.”

“How is the Venerable Gelasius?” she rejoined at once for she had warm memories of the harassed official in the Lateran Palace where the Bishop of Rome resided.

“He is well and would have sent his personal felicitations had he known that I would be meeting with you. The
scriptor
has informed me that you are on a visit with Brother Eadulf, whom the Venerable Gelasius also remembers fondly. I was also informed that you are both soon to leave for a place called Seaxmund’s Ham.”

“You are correctly informed, Deacon Lepidus,” Fidelma replied with gravity.

“Let us sit awhile and talk, Sister Fidelma,” the Deacon said, applying action to the word and inviting her to do the same with a gesture of his hand. “I am afraid that I also have a selfish interest in making your acquaintance. I need your help.”