Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (83 page)

‘The thing pushed him?’

She shrugged. ‘Whether he fell or was pushed, it was his fear of the thing that finally killed him. He survived the fall; he lingered through the night and into the next day. Twilight came. Titus began to sweat and tremble. Even the least movement was agony to him, yet he thrashed and writhed on the bed, mad with panic. He said he could not bear to see the lemur again. At last he died. Do you understand? He chose to die rather than confront the lemur again. You saw his face. It was not pain that killed him. It was fear.’

I pulled my cloak over my hands and curled my toes. It seemed to me that the brazier did nothing to banish the cold from the room. ‘This lemur,’ I said, ‘how did your husband describe it?’

‘The thing was not hard to recognize. It was Furius, who owned this house before us. Its flesh was pocked and white, its teeth broken and yellow. Its hair was like bloody straw, and there was blood all around its neck. It gave off a foul odour . . . but it was most certainly Furius. Except . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Except that it looked younger than Furius at the end of his life. It looked closer to the age when Furius and Titus knew one another in the Forum, in the days of their young manhood.’

‘When did you first see the lemur yourself?’

‘Last night. I was on the balcony – thinking of Titus and his fall. I turned and saw the thing, but only for an instant. I fled into the house . . . and it called after me.’

‘What did it say?’

‘Two words:
Now you
. Oh!’ Cornelia drew in a quick, sharp breath. She clutched at her wrap and gazed at the fire.

I stepped closer to the brazier, spreading my fingers to catch the warmth. ‘What a strange day!’ I muttered. ‘What can I say to you, Cornelia, except what I said to another who told me a tale of lemures earlier today: why do you consult me instead of an augur? These are mysteries about which I know very little. Tell me a tale of a missing jewel or a stolen document; call on me with a case of blackmail or show me a corpse with an unknown killer. With these I might help you; about such matters I know more than a little. But how to placate a lemur, I do not know. Of course, I will always come when my friend Lucius Claudius calls me; but I begin to wonder why I am here at all.’

Cornelia studied the crackling embers and did not answer.

‘Perhaps,’ I ventured, ‘you believe this lemur is not a lemur at all. If in fact it is a living man – ’

‘It doesn’t matter what I believe or don’t believe,’ she snapped. I saw in her eyes the same pleading and desperation I had seen in the soldier’s eyes. ‘No priest can help me; there is no protection against a vengeful lemur. Yet perhaps the thing is really human, after all. Such a pretence is possible, isn’t it?’

‘Possible? I suppose.’

‘Then you know of such cases, of a man masquerading as a lemur?’

‘I have no personal experience – ’

‘That’s why I asked Lucius to call you. If this creature is in fact human and alive, then you may be able to save me from it. If instead it is what it appears to be, a lemur, then – then nothing can save me. I am doomed.’ She gasped and bit her knuckles.

‘But if it was your husband’s death the thing desired – ’

‘Haven’t you been listening? I told you what it said to me:
Now you
. Those were the words it spoke!’ Cornelia shuddered violently. Lucius went to her side. Slowly she calmed herself.

‘Very well, Cornelia. I’ll help you if I can. First, questions. From answers come answers. Can you speak?’

She bit her lips and nodded.

‘You say the thing has the face of Furius. Did your husband think so?’

‘My husband remarked on it, over and over. He saw the thing very close, more than once. On the night he fell, the creature came near enough for him to smell its fetid breath. He recognized it beyond a doubt.’

‘And you? You say you saw it for only an instant last night before you fled. Are you sure it was Furius you saw on the balcony?’

‘Yes! An instant was all I needed. Horrible – discoloured, distorted, wearing a hideous grin – but the face of Furius, I have no doubt.’

‘And yet younger than you remember.’

‘Yes. Somehow the cheeks, the mouth . . . what makes a face younger or older? I don’t know, I can only say that in spite of its hideousness the thing looked as Furius looked when he was a younger man. Not the Furius who died two years ago, but Furius when he was a slender, beardless youth.’

‘I see. In such a case, three possibilities occur to me. Could this indeed have been Furius – not his lemur, but the man himself? Are you certain that he’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘There is no doubt?’

‘No doubt at all . . .’ She shivered and seemed to leave something unspoken. I looked at Lucius, who quickly looked away.

‘Then perhaps this Furius had a brother? A twin, perhaps.’

‘A brother, yes, but much older. Besides, he died in the civil war . . .’

‘Oh?’

‘Fighting against Sulla.’

‘I see. Then perhaps Furius had a son, the very image of his father?’

Cornelia shook her head. ‘His only child was an infant daughter. His only other survivors were his wife and mother, and a sister, I think.’

‘And where are the survivors now?’

Cornelia averted her eyes. ‘I’m told they moved into his mother’s house on the Caelian Hill.’

‘So: Furius is assuredly dead, he had no twin – no living brother at all – and he left no son. And yet the thing which haunted your husband, by his own account and yours, bore the face of Furius.’

Cornelia sighed, exasperated. ‘Useless! I called on you only out of desperation.’ She pressed her hands to her eyes. ‘Oh, my head pounds like thunder. Night will come, and how will I bear it? Go now, please. I want to be alone.’

Lucius escorted me to the atrium. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘I think that Cornelia is a very frightened woman, and her husband was a frightened man. Why was he so fearful of this particular lemur? If the dead man had been his friend – ’

‘An acquaintance, Gordianus, not exactly a friend.’

‘Is there something more that I should know?’

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘You know how I detest gossip. And really, Cornelia is not nearly as venal as some people think. There is a good side of her that few people see.’

‘It would be best if you told me everything, Lucius. For Cornelia’s sake.’

He pursed his small mouth, furrowed his fleshy brow and scratched his bald pate. ‘Oh, very well,’ he muttered. ‘As I told you, Cornelia and her husband have lived in this house for two years. It has also been two years since Furius died.’

‘And this is no coincidence?’

‘Furius was the original owner of this house. Titus and Cornelia acquired it when he was executed for his crimes against Sulla and the state.’

‘I begin to see . . .’

‘Perhaps you do. Furius and his family were on the wrong side of the civil war, political enemies of Sulla. When Sulla achieved absolute power and compelled the Senate to appoint him dictator, he purged the Republic of his foes. The proscriptions – ’

‘Names posted on lists in the Forum; yes, I remember only too well.’

‘Once a man was proscribed, anyone could hunt him down and bring his head to Sulla for a bounty. I don’t have to remind you of the bloodbath, you were here; you saw the heads mounted on spikes outside the Senate.’

‘And Furius’ head was among them?’

‘Yes. He was proscribed, arrested, and beheaded. You ask if Cornelia is certain that Furius is dead? Yes, because she saw his head on a spike, with blood oozing from the neck. Meanwhile, his property was confiscated and put up for public auction – ’

‘But the auctions were not always public,’ I said. ‘Sulla’s friends usually had first pick of the finest farms and villas.’

‘As did Sulla’s relations,’ added Lucius, wincing. ‘When Furius was caught and beheaded, Titus and Cornelia didn’t hesitate to contact Sulla at once and put their mark on this house. Cornelia had always coveted it; why pass up the opportunity to possess it, and for a song?’ He lowered his voice. ‘The rumour is that they placed the only bid, for the unbelievable sum of a thousand sesterces!’

‘The price of a mediocre Egyptian rug,’ I said. ‘Quite a bargain.’

‘If Cornelia has a flaw, it’s her avarice. Greed is the great vice of our age.’

‘But not the only vice.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell me, Lucius, was this Furius really such a great enemy of our late, lamented dictator? Was he such a terrible threat to the security of the state and to Sulla’s personal safety that he truly belonged on the proscription lists?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘There were those who ended up on the lists because they were too rich for their own good; because they possessed things that others coveted.’

Lucius frowned. ‘Gordianus, what I’ve already told you is scandalous enough, and I’ll ask you not to repeat it. I don’t know what further inference you may have drawn, and I don’t care to know. I think we should drop the matter.’

Friend he may be, but Lucius is also of patrician blood; the cords that bind the rich together are made of gold, and are stronger than iron.

I made my way homeward, pondering the strange and fatal haunting of Titus and his wife. I had forgotten completely about the soldier until, as I neared my own house, I heard him hissing at me over his garden wall.

‘Finder! You said you’d come back to help me, and here you are. Come inside!’ He disappeared, and a moment later a little wooden door in the wall opened inward. I stopped and stepped inside to find myself in a garden open to the sky, surrounded by a colonnade. A burning smell filled my nostrils; an elderly slave was gathering leaves with a rake and arranging them in piles about a small brazier in the centre of the garden.

The soldier smiled at me crookedly. I judged him to be not too much older than myself, despite his bald head and the grey hairs that bristled from his eyebrows. The dark circles beneath his eyes marked him as a man in desperate need of sleep. He hobbled past me and pulled up a chair for me to sit on.

‘Tell me, neighbour, did you grow up in the countryside?’ His voice cracked slightly, as if pleasant discourse was a strain to him.

‘No, I was born in Rome.’

‘Ah. I grew up near Arpinum, myself. I only mention it because I saw you staring at the leaves and the fire. I know how city folk dread fires and shun them except for heat and cooking. It’s a country habit, burning leaves. Dangerous, but I’m careful. The smell of burning leaves reminds me of my boyhood. As does this garden.’

I looked up at the trees that loomed in stark silhouette against the cloudy sky. Among them were some cypresses and yews that still wore their shaggy grey-green coats, but most were bare. A weirdly twisted little tree, hardly more than a bush, stood in the corner, surrounded by a carpet of round yellow leaves. The old slave walked slowly towards the bush and began to rake its leaves in among the others.

‘Have you lived in this house long?’ I asked.

‘For three years. I cashed in the farm Sulla gave me and bought this place. I retired before the fighting was finished. My leg was crippled. Another wound made my sword arm useless. My shoulder still hurts me now and again, especially at this time of year, when the weather turns cold. This is a bad time of year, all around.’ He grimaced, whether at a phantom pain in his shoulder or at phantoms in the air I could not tell.

‘When did you first see the lemures?’ I asked. Since the man insisted on taking my time, there was no point in being subtle.

‘Just after I moved into this house.’

‘Perhaps the lemures were here before you arrived.’

‘No,’ he said gravely. ‘They must have followed me here.’ He limped towards the brazier, stooped stiffly, gathered up a handful of leaves and scattered them on the fire. ‘Only a little at a time,’ he said softly. ‘Wouldn’t want to be careless with a fire in the garden. Besides, it makes the pleasure last. A little today, a little more tomorrow. Burning leaves reminds me of boyhood.’

‘How do you know they followed you? The lemures, I mean.’

‘Because I recognize them.’

‘Who were they?’

‘I never knew their names.’ He stared into the fire. ‘But I remember the Etruscan’s face when my sword cut open his entrails and he looked up at me, gasping and unbelieving. I remember the bloodshot eyes of the sentries we surprised one night outside Capua. They’d been drinking, the fools; when we stuck our swords into their bellies, I could smell the wine amid the stench that came pouring out. I remember the boy I killed in battle once – so young and tender my blade sliced clear through his neck. His head went flying off; one of my men caught it and cast it back at me, laughing. It landed at my feet. I swear, the boy’s eyes were still open, and he knew what was happening to him . . .’

He stooped, groaning at the effort, and gathered another handful of leaves. ‘The flames make all things pure again,’ he whispered. ‘The odour of burning leaves is the smell of innocence.’