The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (13 page)

“Where is the body?”

The Centurion’s harsh bass voice caused a short alarm, and then two men brought in the corpse and set it before him.

“Stabbed. So who did this?”

I stepped forwards. “We do not know. All we are sure of is that no one opened the gate, so the killer must be among the hostages.”

“You think so?” he sneered. “It is good to hear from a man with such a wealth of experience of legal matters.”

His tone made me stiffen, and hearing a chuckle from one of his guards, I felt the flush begin to rise from my collar. I had been forced to leave Rome because of an accusation of fraud made against me, and that was why I was penniless and in the army. My Centurion had quickly learned of the accusation, and enjoyed that knowledge at my expense. Now, though, there was a harsh edge to his tone. It wasn’t simple ribbing of an underling. Yes, the gods must have had a good laugh when they saw fit to put me in his century.

He continued, “Perhaps you have a better understanding of the criminal mind? Or maybe you’re protecting one of your own comrades? Like that fool there, or the one you call the dagger? Who was on guard duty last night?”

Reluctantly Pugio, As, Consul and I myself moved forwards. Briefly, he questioned us all. When I said that I was asleep, he gave me a hard stare.

Pointing, he called As and Pugio forwards, and had them give up their weapons before questioning them in his rough, cynical manner. While he did so, I spoke to the whore.

“Last night. Did Consul go to you?”

“Why?”

I realized he might have covered his tracks. “He has already told me he did, so you can tell me.”

“I had a quiet night. I might have again tonight, too,” she said, and suddenly I felt her hot little hand sliding down under my kilt, caressing my buttocks.

“Um, no, please,” I said weakly. “I am trying to learn what happened, that’s all.”

“He came to see me later. Perhaps you should come to my tent tonight and question me again?”

“Look, he went to you, right?”

“You look worried.” Her face was suddenly sharply concerned. “Is he in trouble?”

“Yes. If the Centurion learns . . .”

She chuckled. “He knows.”

“Shit.”

“No! It was the Centurion suggested I should go to him. He said that your men had all been fighting hard, and Consul deserved a little rest. He even paid me a little money to go to him. Soon after I got back to my tent, there was Consul.”

She had given me plenty to think about, but it was a relief to see her swaggering backside rotating away along the roadway. Still, I was left with the question of why the Centurion would have paid to have Consul taken away. Perhaps he had taken a “liking” to Consul. I glanced at the Centurion. No. There were some things that stretched the imagination too much. Anyway, he’d hardly send a woman if he was after Consul himself.

Someone with a weapon had killed the lad. Someone who wanted him dead. Perhaps the Centurion wanted him dead. Yet he still couldn’t have opened that gate without Pugio and As hearing it. No one could have got in. Which left the impossible position of the people inside the stockade having killed the lad. Except there was no weapon.

And then a snippet of conversation came back to me. As the Centurion lost interest in As and Pugio, I beckoned As to me and spoke to him quickly. I also sent Consul with him to make sure he didn’t get confused. They were not long in returning, and As handed me the bloody weapon. It was a used Roman javelin tip without the shaft, the tip bent at the soft steel section.

“Centurion, I think that I can clear this up quickly,” I announced.

“Certainly, step forwards and enlighten us,” he said sarcastically.

Holding the javelin-point behind my back, I stepped forwards. “This murder must have been committed by someone inside the compound. If a Roman had entered, the noise of the bar must alert all those inside. They did not all wake. Thus the gate remained shut.”

“Perhaps some of them did wake.”

“Only one admitted to waking.”

“So you are saying that your men didn’t search them properly? The hostages were allowed to bring in a weapon?”

“No, sir. I think that while one of my men was away from the gate, someone threw in a weapon . . .” I paused as I brought the weapon into the open and suddenly, as I saw the Centurion’s expression alter, I realized what had really happened. Suddenly I wasn’t sure how to continue. All I could do was point at Trin and demand that the translator question him.

“Did you kill the prince to avenge your dead father?”

“No!” The emphatic nature of the denial was very convincing.

“You found this javelin point and stabbed him . . .”

“I didn’t get it!”

“You don’t deny you saw it?”

“I . . .”

“Perhaps we should use a little torture?” I enquired. The translator obliged me by telling the lad.

“No! I saw it after the Centurion visited us yesterday. Verc took it up. I saw him. Later, he killed my cousin. My cousin tried to escape the stockade when he saw Verc advancing towards him, he tried to climb the wall, but someone told him to stop. He was grabbed and killed before he could demand help.”

“You say this, yet you kept away from the body like a man who felt his guilt.”

“My uncle told me to keep away. I was scared of him. He could have killed me with his bare hands.”

“Why should he kill your cousin?”

“He wants to have all power,” Trin said, his eyes sliding over towards his uncle, who stood silent and calm.

I shot him a look. Any man usually who heard himself accused in this way would argue, would declare his innocence, or try to bolt. This man did nothing. He stood with a half smile on his face. The look he returned to me held only contempt, as though I was achieving nothing. And then he glanced at the Centurion.

Trin continued, “He killed my cousin so that he could take the leadership of the tribe when our chieftain dies.”

“And he agreed to make sure that the chieftain will die,” I heard the Centurion mutter.

Now, thinking back, I find it hard to imagine why I had not realized what had happened. All so clear, all so simple. The Centurion had spoken to all the hostages when they arrived, and no doubt sounded out Verc immediately. Last night he had gone through the gate with Consul specifically to drop the weapon, proof of his arrangement with Verc. Verc took it up as soon as Consul and the Centurion left; Consul hadn’t seen the weapon dropped because he had been watching the hostages, like any sensible guard.
He hadn’t expected the danger to come from his own leader.

The Centurion bribed Flower to go to Consul so that no one could hear the attack. Probably he told Verc to wait until Consul had gone, and then to attack near the gate, where there would be no guard to hear. It was sheer misfortune that Pugio had heard them and bellowed to them to shut up.

When it was dark, Verc heard the conversation between Consul and his Flower, and knew that the coast was clear for him. When he was sure that the guard at the gate had left his post, he stole over to the boy with the javelin point in his hand. The boy woke to find a dark figure over him. Overwhelmed with terror, he ran to the stockade wall, but died before he could scream for help, he was so petrified with terror. And as soon as he fell, Verc hurled the weapon over the wall. It fell among trees, startling some bats or birds, while As wondered whether they could speak to each other. If they could, they were only complaining about being stirred so early.

I looked at the Centurion, who met my gaze resolutely.

“Sir, this man killed a hostage purely for his own advancement, and put the legion in danger. We could be attacked at any time, but if the tribes think that we have harmed their hostages, freely given to us as a token of peace, they will attack us in force. Our safety is under threat. We must make an example of this man.”

“What if it was the other one, the fellow you called ‘Trin’?”

“I think we could discount that. Why should he want to kill his cousin? It would bring him no advantage.”

The Centurion rose and motioned for the hostages to be returned to their pen. When he spoke to me, his voice was only a little above a whisper. “Very well. Think like this. I do not admit anything, but what if the tribes were to learn that a
hostage of such importance had died? They would attack, as you say, and those who defended this place would win a place in Rome’s history.”

“Unless we are all killed,” I pointed out somewhat sorely.

“That is unlikely. And the next leader of the tribe will be a sworn ally of Rome.”

There it was. He’d done a deal: attack us, we’ll kill your leader, and you become the new leader and our ally. “
Him
?” I asked, staring at Verc’s back. “You think
he’s
a safe ally?”

“Next year we will be back here again. This is only a short reconnaissance. Next year we land in force,” my Centurion said, his eyes gleaming. “This tribe may attack, but we can beat them off. We will annihilate them. Verc will be the new chieftain, and we will win much praise for our courage! Perhaps even
you
will be rewarded with honour,” he added slyly. He seriously thought that it could motivate me to support him, even though he was risking my neck and the other men’s.

As though there was any need, he added dreamily, “
Or
, as a sleeping guard yourself, perhaps you prefer to be beaten to death?”

What could I say? I wanted to make sure that I lived, and trying to accuse my own leader of such insane dealings was a short trip to a charge of mutiny and a not so swift death. So I did what I had to. I smiled knowingly, understanding, and smarmed my way out of his presence. Jesus, it was like trying to placate a snake. His venom was never so deadly as when you weren’t sure where he was or what he was doing.

I did the best I could. I received his assurance that the lads were safe from any accusations. Pugio wouldn’t be under threat, and nor would As. Instead we would put all the blame on Trin and let him carry the can. I felt a bit sorry for the fellow, but there was no choice. I couldn’t win against the word of a Centurion. Armies work like that.

*   *   *

Well, the tribes attacked only a couple of days later. We were out collecting corn from a nearby field, when the enemy suddenly sprang out from the surrounding trees. They were on us, killing several before we knew what was happening. We couldn’t do much, because our weapons were all on the ground while we gathered the corn, and it was a mad scramble to collect them up again. I can vividly remember the long javelin plopping into the soil beside me as I grabbed for my
gladius
, staring at it in horror, imagining what it could have done to my back, and then I grabbed it, turned, and hurled it on.

Later, of course, the body was found. Do I feel guilt?

It was his machinations which had caused the attack in the first place. He was prepared to risk all our lives, even the whole army. And he was happy to see Pugio die to support his plan – it was only my own guesses which had stopped that and saved Pugio. If the Centurion had succeeded, he would certainly have won renown and the praise of our general, but that wouldn’t have helped us, would it? The mad bastard.

Verc the politician died, happily, on that battlefield. Perhaps it’s bad to lose a potential ally, but I don’t think so. He was prepared to sell his own people, so how trustworthy was he for us? So Verc died, a Roman javelin in his guts, ironically, rather like the tip that he used to murder his nephew, just one more unmissed and unlamented politician. And not far from him, there lay a dead Centurion.

He won’t be missed either. There are enough ambitious men in the world for one Centurion to go unrecorded.

T
iro, Cicero’s faithful freedman and secretary, brought him word that a lady who had come all the way from
Rome begged to be permitted to see him. She was Favilla, the wife of Gnaeus Manlius Ordo.

The great old advocate frowned. He had recovered from his first overwhelming grief at the death of his adored daughter; had even been able to move from Lanuvium back to his villa of Tusculanum where she had died; but he was trying to drug his sorrow by the writing of philosophy, and he desired and allowed no visitors.

“I know the family, of course,” he said to Tiro. “They belong to the late opponents of our benevolent master in Rome – just as I did, until it was too hopeless. I believe Manlius is still in Spain, hesitant about coming home since the final defeat of the Pompeians, unless Caesar issues an amnesty. And I have a vague memory that I once knew the wife, though I can’t quite place her. I have met too many people in the past forty years.”

“She asked me to say,” the secretary interposed deferentially, “that she was a dear friend of Tullia’s when they were girls together, and that she pleads for an interview with you for Tullia’s sake.”

The tears started to Cicero’s eyes, as always at the mention of that beloved name. He turned his head for a moment; not even Tiro knew what he had suffered.