Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (175 page)

‘I saw that the notation “A Friend” recurs several times, always connected to a sum of money, often a rather large sum. You don’t suppose that could be a record of investments and disbursements relating to Lucius’s silent partner?’

Crassus gave me a disgruntled look. ‘What I really want to know is what these documents were doing in Dionysius’s room.’

‘I have a theory,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘We know that Dionysius wanted to solve Lucius’s murder, if only to impress you with his cleverness. Suppose he was ahead of us when it came to noticing the bloodstains on the statue that was used to kill Lucius, and had already concluded, even before I arrived, that Lucius was murdered in this room. Suppose also that he had some inkling of Lucius’s shady dealings; after all, he lived in the house and might very well have noticed the flow of silver and arms, no matter how secretive Lucius might have been.’

Crassus nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Knowing these things, he must have purloined these documents himself, before you had a chance to find them, taking them from this room to his own where he could peruse them in secret and search for clues to the murderer’s identity.’

‘Perhaps. But how do you account for this?’ He pointed to the bloodstained scroll.

‘Lucius must have been looking at it when he was killed. It must have been open, here on this table.’

‘And the murderer, who was so careful to drag Lucius’s body into the atrium, left this document for Dionysius to find the next time he came into the library? It seems to me that the killer would have destroyed it rather than leave it for Dionysius to ferret away. This would indicate that the document has nothing to do with the murder.’

Crassus stared at me grimly, then slowly smiled when he saw that I had no answer. He shook his head and laughed softly. ‘I will say this, Gordianus – you are tenacious! If it makes you feel better, I’ll admit that I myself am not entirely satisfied with what we know of the circumstances surrounding Lucius’s death. It does appear, from the evidence you found in the water and from these documents, that my dear, foolish, accursed cousin was involved in smuggling weapons to someone – yes, perhaps even to Spartacus. But that only weakens your case and strengthens mine.’

‘I don’t see it that way, Marcus Crassus.’

‘Don’t you? When word arrived that I was coming on short notice, Lucius panicked and tried to sever his contacts with the representatives of Spartacus, the customers who bought his stockpile of weapons. Seeing they would get no more out of Lucius, they set about taking their revenge on him. Who could these criminals, these agents of Spartacus, have been? Who else but Zeno and the Thracian Alexandros, who were nothing less than Spartacan spies in this household. Yes, I see it quite clearly now – hear me out, Gordianus!

‘They confronted Lucius here in the library, in the dead of night. Zeno, who helped keep his master’s books, produced these various documents exposing Lucius’s perfidy, and threatened to betray him to me if he didn’t continue to smuggle arms to Spartacus. But even blackmail would not sway Lucius; he had decided to sever his ties with the Spartacans, and he would not be intimidated. So Zeno and Alexandros murdered him, using the statue, just as you said. To make his death more public, they dragged his body into the atrium and began to scrape out the name of their master, Spartacus.

‘Ah, but Dionysius was up late that night, mulling over whatever it is that second-rate philosophers mull over in the middle of the night. There was some scroll or other that he needed to fetch from Lucius’s library. He must have made a noise, which disturbed the assassins and sent them flying, before they could finish carving the full name of their master. Dionysius enters the library and sees the bloody scroll. He goes into the atrium and finds the body. But instead of raising an alarm, he concocts a scheme to further his own career. He knows that I’ll be arriving the next day; without Lucius, he has no patron, but if he could somehow attach himself to me, all would be to his benefit. He thinks he can impress me by providing a solution to the murder. He studies the bloodstained document, comprehends its import, and looks through the other scrolls for similarly incriminating evidence. He takes them all back to his room to decipher and piece together at his leisure.’

‘But why didn’t he tell you these things sooner?’ I protested.

‘Perhaps he planned to reveal all he knew at the funeral games tomorrow, thinking his eloquence could compete with the blood and drama in the arena. Or perhaps he was dissatisfied because there were still some scraps of evidence he couldn’t quite piece together; after all, he wanted his presentation to me to be as impressive as possible. Or—’

Crassus’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘Dionysius was on the trail of Alexandros and wanted to deliver the slave to me in person – yes, that solves everything! After all, who else would have poisoned him, expect Alexandros, or another of the slaves acting to protect Alexandros? Dionysius must have discovered Alexandros’s hiding place, and intended to deliver him publicly to me for the execution tomorrow, together with all the evidence he had uncovered.’ Crassus shook his head ruefully. ‘I’ll admit it would have been quite a coup for the old buzzard – a chance for him to show off in front of everyone gathered for the games. I’d have had a hard time begrudging him a place in my retinue after that. So the buzzard turned out to be a fox!’

‘A dead fox,’ I said dully.

‘Yes, and silent forever. Too bad he can’t tell me where to find Alexandros. I should dearly love to have that scoundrel in my hands tomorrow. I’d lash him to a cross and burn him alive for the crowd’s amusement.’ His eyes glinted cruelly, and he was suddenly angry. ‘Do you see now, Gordianus, how you’ve wasted my time and your own, chasing after this illusion that the slaves were innocent? You should have been setting your cleverness to catching Alexandros for me and bringing him to justice, but instead you’ve let the fiend commit another murder in front of your very eyes!’

He began to pace furiously. ‘You’re a sentimental fool, Gordianus. I’ve met your type before, always trying to intercede between a slave and his just deserts, turning squeamish at the ugliness that’s sometimes required to maintain Roman law and order. Well, you’ve done your best to stand in the way of justice in this case, and, by Jupiter, you’ve failed. Call yourself the Finder, indeed!’

He began to shout. ‘We have your ineptitude to thank for Dionysius’s death and for the fact that the murderer Alexandros is still at large. Get out! I have no use for such incompetence! When I get back to Rome I shall make you the laughing stock of the city. See if anyone ever comes seeking the services of the so-called Finder again!’

‘Marcus Crassus—’

‘Out!’ In his fury he seized the documents that littered the table, crushed them in his fists and threw them at me. They missed, but one of them struck Eco in the face. ‘And don’t show yourself to me again unless you can bring me the slave Alexandros in chains, ready to be crucified for his crimes!’

‘The man is more unsure of himself than ever,’ I whispered to Eco as we walked towards our room. ‘The strain of the funeral, the bloodshed that looms tomorrow – he’s become overwrought . . .’

Suddenly I realized that my face was hot and my heart was beating fast. My mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow. Was it Marcus Crassus I was talking about, or was it myself?

I took a few steps and stopped. Eco looked up at me quizzically and touched my sleeve, asking what we should do next. I bit my Up, suddenly confused and disoriented. Eco drew his brows together in an expression of concern. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

What was there left to do? I had been in constant motion for days, always able to glimpse the next step, and now I suddenly found myself adrift. Perhaps Crassus was right, and my defence of the slaves had been a sentimental folly all along. Even if he was wrong, my time was almost up and I had nothing to offer him – except for the fact that I knew, or thought I knew, who had poisoned Dionysius, just as I thought I knew where the slave Alexandros was hiding. If I could do nothing else, at least I might discover the truth, for my own satisfaction.

In our room I produced the two daggers I had brought from Rome and handed one to Eco. He looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Things may come to a crisis very suddenly,’ I said. ‘I think it best that we arm ourselves. The time has come to confront certain persons with
this
.’ I pulled out the bloodstained cloak from where I had hidden it among our things. I rolled it up tightly and tucked it under my arm. ‘We should bring cloaks for ourselves, as well. The night is likely to be chilly. Now, to the stables!’

We walked quickly down the hall, down the stairway, and through the atrium. We stepped through the front doorway into the courtyard. The sun had just begun to sink behind the low hills to the west.

We found Meto in the stables, attending to the horses for the night. I told him to prepare mounts for Eco and me.

‘But it’s getting dark,’ he protested.

‘It will get even darker before I find my way back.’

We were mounted and ready to begin, pausing in front of the stables, when Faustus Fabius and an armed cordon of guards passed through the courtyard. Between the ranks of soldiers, in single file, walked the last of the household slaves on their way to the annexe.

They walked silently, meekly. Some had their heads bowed, weeping. Others looked about with wide, frightened eyes. Among them I saw Apollonius, who walked with his eyes straight ahead, his jaw tightly clenched.

It seemed to me that the villa was being drained of its lifeblood. All those who gave the great house its animation, who kept it in motion from dawn to dusk, were being emptied from its corridors – the barbers and cooks, the stokers of fires and openers of doors, the servitors and attendants.

‘You there, boy!’ yelled Fabius.

Meto shrank back against my mount, clutching at my leg. His hands trembled.

My mouth went dry. ‘The boy is with me, Faustus Fabius. I’m on an errand for Crassus, and I need him.’

Faustus Fabius waved for the contingent to continue to the annexe and stepped towards us. ‘I hardly think that’s the case, Gordianus.’ He gave me one of his aloof, patrician smiles. ‘The story I hear is that you and Marcus have parted ways for good, and he’d just as soon see your head on a platter as on your shoulders. I doubt you should even be allowed to take his horses from the stables. Where are you headed, anyway – just in case Crassus should ask.’

‘Cumae.’

‘Is it as bad as that, Gordianus, that you need to ask the Sibyl for help, and with night falling? Or does your son want a last look at the beautiful Olympias?’ When I made no answer, he shrugged. An odd expression crossed his face, and I realized that a bit of the bloodstained cloak, folded and concealed beneath my own cloak, had slipped into view. I moved to cover it with my elbow.

‘At any rate, the boy comes with me,’ Fabius said.

He grabbed Meto’s shoulder, but the child refused to let go of my leg. Fabius pulled harder and Meto began to squeal. Slaves and guards turned their faces towards us. Eco grew agitated; his mount began to neigh and stamp.

I whispered through my teeth, ‘Have mercy on the boy, Faustus Fabius! Let him come with me – I’ll leave him with Iaia in Cumae. Crassus will never know!’

Fabius relaxed his grip. Meto, shivering, released my leg and reached up to wipe his eyes. Fabius smiled thinly.

‘The gods will thank you, Faustus Fabius,’ I whispered. I reached down to scoop the child onto the horse’s back, but Fabius swiftly pulled him away and stepped back, gripping him tightly.

Fabius shook his head. ‘The slave belongs to Crassus,’ he said. He turned and pushed Meto, stumbling and looking desperately back over his shoulder, toward the other slaves.

I watched dumbly until the last guard disappeared around the corner of the stables. Twilight covered the earth and the first stars glimmered above. At last I spurred my mount and set out. To any god who might happen to be listening, I said a prayer that morning would never come.

XXI

We would have been wiser, I chided myself afterwards, to have taken the road to Cumae rather than the shortcut through the hills that Olympias had shown us. It was on such nights, I imagine, that lemures escape from Hades, rise like vapour from Lake Avernus, and go walking through the fog, spreading the chill of death through the forest and across the barren hills. The presence of the walking dead is attenuated and weak when compared to the vivid, blood-rich fecundity of living matter, like the paleness of a candle when seen beside the sun. But in certain times and places, as on battlefields or around the entrances to the underworld, the spirits of the dead are so concentrated that they can become as palpable as living flesh – or so the phenomenon has been explained by those wiser than myself in such matters. I only know that death stalked the way to Cumae that night, and that those it claimed would not have far to go to be sucked into the mouth of Hades.