The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (23 page)

Volusia struggled to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know where to begin –” She nibbled the coffee-ball and made a face, then continued in a stronger voice. “You see, I was born in Britannia, in Londinium. My father grew rich as a merchant trading goods with Hibernia where, as you know, there is much trade with Egypt. On his voyages my father became interested in the Egyptian religion, in fact fascinated. Baptized. My brother is an Hibernian priest, my elder sister has modelled her life on the Virgin.”

Quistus nibbled his coffee. “The Egyptians worshipped many gods of their own once, but now they prefer obedience to the gods of Rome, and the Emperor who is a god, of course.”

Volusia shook her head. “Some time ago the Egyptian traders took to the Jewish God, yet kept their ancient rituals
of spring-birth and winter-death of Amen, their own most powerful god. Now the two religions have come together, fused. The Egyptians believe that the Jewish God has had a Son. They
know
.”

“The Jews of Judea believe in one god, called God. Not two.”

“The traders
know
the Son was born to a virgin of the Jerusalem Temple. About sixty years ago. He was educated in Egypt, just as Isaiah prophesied. They
know
He walked among us on this earth, in the flesh. It’s proven – His sayings have been written down and are the Truth which guides us.” She reached under her clothes, pulled out a slim book. “This is the gospel truth.” She held it out.

Dangerous even to touch it.

Quistus reached out and took the book in his hand.

He leafed a few pages. Latin, but not in the difficult joined-up Roman style; this writing was presented in short verses for easy reading aloud, to a small circle or congregation perhaps. He chose a verse at random. “ ‘Blessed are you that you did not waver at the sight of me.’ ”

“From the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.” Volusia leaned forwards, her eyes alight with devotion. “One day Paul hopes to assemble these many scriptures into one great Bible.”

“Paul?”

“Our leader, a Roman citizen. So does Peter, too, plan a book of books, a Bible – but they argue about which gospel is truest.”

He laid the book carefully on his desk. “The author of these sayings is the Son of God? What’s his name?”

“The Jerusalem priests mocked Him as Yehoshua ben-Mary. But some Greeks, a few, reverence His name as Iesous Christos. In Latin, Iacimus Christus. But all mean Jesus Christ.”

Quistus, bright-eyed, helped himself to another ball of coffee. “Fifteen or twenty years ago troublemakers, followers of someone called Chrestus, rioted in Rome. Is that the same man?”

“We are not troublemakers.”

“But trouble follows you.”

“We believe in peace, in love. We die rather than kill. Christ teaches us by His example. He allowed Himself to be crucified that we may learn how to live.”

“So,” Quistus said, “if your Christ is dead, and you’re not troublemakers, what’s the problem? There are hundreds of gods in Rome.”

“Christ is not dead. He was crucified and entombed, yes, but He arose, resurrected,
redivivus
, after three days. Now Jesus Christ is alive inside me and inside everyone who believes in Him. In His own words He tells us” – she touched the book, but knew the words by heart – “ ‘Beware that no one lead you astray, ordering Go here or Go there! For the Son of Man is within you.’ ”

“Your god is inside you, so you need no public temple or statues?”

“We worship in small families of friends, in secret. Often underground, for safety, in private houses. But they find us even there.”

“They?”

“The devils of the Beast.”

“How many of you are there?”

“So many, Paul says, that because Christ is within each one of us we should call ourselves Christians. There are many Christians.”

Omba said, “Sometimes I swear by Jupiter, but I’m not a Jupiteran. And Janus looks after every door in my master’s house, but I’m not a Janusian.”

“Christians have a new way of believing,” Volusia said.

Quistus steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “New beliefs attract persecution from old beliefs.”

“We Christians are given no peace. We are hounded from house to house by the imperial interrogator, Matrusus. Thug, bully, torturer, destroyer, he is the chief devil sent by Satan, the Beast, to try us.”

“And this morning he found you?” Quistus said gently, “I cannot protect you from Matrusus.”

“I do not ask you to. This morning Matrusus ordered the house of Pudens, where we had gathered in prayer, burnt over our heads. Some Christians were burnt alive, afterwards others were tortured by Matrusus, horribly tortured. He carves the sign of the Cross, which is holy to us, upside-down, in blood . . .” She shuddered. “I hear Pudens screaming still.”

Heedless of her filth, Quistus took her hand. “But something even worse than that has happened, hasn’t it?”

She nodded, squeezing his fingers tight.

“Matrusus has been murdered.”

“Omba, stay here.” Quistus crossed the courtyard of the Villa Marcia.

“Me, stay?” she called. “I’m not staying. Who would look after you?”

He whistled from the gate. The Vicus Armilustri was a wealthy street and at once a waiting sedan chair of the Subura cartel, the “family” of Vitellius, was lifted and run smartly to him. The slaves hefting the poles were the usual hairy barbarians, broken-down warriors from forgotten wars, the blind one at the back, and at the front the one with eyes but no arms, lifting with a neck-sling. There was nothing wrong with their muscle-strapped legs.

“Pomegranate Street.” Quistus handed Volusia aboard. “The house of Pudens, near the Basilica Opimia.” The blind
one nodded eagerly, carrying a map of Rome in his head. “Run all the way and there’s an extra penny for you, each. And I won’t tell Vitellius.”

The men heaved the weight, taking the uphill slope at a run. Volusia sat on the narrow bench opposite him, their knees almost touching. He looked out. “They’ll take away Matrusus’s body soon. The
praetor urbanus
will decide if there is a case to answer. A prosecutor will be appointed. I’ve got to get there first.”

“Why?”

Still he wouldn’t look at her. “There may be signs that tell us what really happened. Perhaps that Matrusus was indeed murdered by Pudens, or by your father. Or not, as you say.”

“We believe in peace. It is impossible for a Christian to commit murder. We are the Lambs.”

He said nothing.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’re so pale.”

He gazed at the crowds pushing and shoving. “Your clean clothes. Omba gave you my wife’s clothes to wear.”

“Does it offend you?”

He looked from the window. “It . . . reminds me.”

“Marcia.”

“Yes. That was her name.”

“You have no idea at all?”

“Not one clue. Death is not reasonable, perhaps.”

“In your military career and as a diplomat you must have known many men die.” The coffee would not let Volusia go. “Perhaps death follows you,” she blurted. “That must be hard for a logician to accept.”

“Logic is simply a way of discovering the truth.”

“To discover truth you must become a Christian.”

“I believe death always has a reason.” No sign of Omba following them, but he knew she’d be close, no one knew the back ways of Rome like Omba. He closed the curtains,
suddenly hating the crowds. “Sometimes a reason is so hard to discover. I am
Septimus
because I am my father’s seventh son, it was his pet name for me. Now I can hardly bear to hear it said. My own seventh son is Septimus.”

“Is?”

“His body was not found with the others.”

“What does that tell a logician?”

“That Septimus is still alive.”

“Isn’t that a father’s faith, desperate hope, not logic?”

The curtains blew open in the wind and he closed them. “Logic says perhaps he killed them.”

“All of them?”

“His sister was not found. Perhaps they both killed their brothers and their mother and ran away together.” He shrugged. “Perhaps there is no reason or logic to be found. Perhaps it just . . . happened.”

“My father did not kill Matrusus.”

“Then,” Quistus said, “in order to prove that, we have to prove who did.” And he ignored her angry stare.

The sedan stopped, dropped. A knock on the roof. “No further can we go,” called the blind man’s heavy German accent. “My penny now please sir.”

Quistus gazed across the heads of the crowd as he paid the fare, tossed the men an extra penny each. The house of Pudens was burned out. A flapping sound in the sky: the apartment blocks on each side attracted the wind, setting the washing flying and twisting on the ropes strung between them. “Keep close.” Towing Volusia after him, muttering an apology to the bald-headed man he knocked aside, Quistus pushed to the front. He tapped the Guard on his greasy shoulder. “Let me pass.”

“Piss off.”

Sword clenched in hand, the body of Matrusus lay where
it fell, outstretched on the cobbles, rubbish blowing past it, cloak rippling like living blood. The spear-shaft standing between his eyes nodded gently in the wind, its movement making Matrusus appear oddly alive, wisely nodding at his own death. “I want carts! And carpenters!” A squat man gave orders to soldiers and scribes. “I want crosses. Yes, crosses.”

Quistus murmured, “Stigmus. I feared it.” He called, “Stigmus!”

“You?” The squat man turned. “Are you mad? Are you with these people?”

“Let me through.”

“Stay away, Septimus Severus Quistus. You can do no good here.”

“I am merely curious.”

“Curious? I thought you were dead. Yes, pass him.” He beckoned.

“Stay out of sight,” Quistus whispered to Volusia. “Stigmus and I go back.” But she exclaimed, seeing her father lined up with the other Christian rebels by the wall, their clothes torn, trembling and nervous. They had not been lightly treated. Several men had the shape of a cross cut into their heads, still trickling. Their wives held the wounds closed.

“Father! Mother!” Volusia twisted from his grasp, ran to Pedilla and Faustinus, embraced them. Stigmus watched attentively, saw enough, then moved his hand lightly in command. Two soldiers dragged Volusia to the end of the line, threw her down. “A touching reunion. Thank you, my dear Quistus. Another fish drawn into my net to wait her turn.”

“She’s done nothing wrong, Stigmus.”

“Fish, yet another secret name of these Christian martyrs, did you not know? Graffiti of the Fish are scrawled on street corners everywhere. It will stop. I will stop them.”

If any man could, Quistus knew, that man was Stigmus. The prosecutor was forty-five years old, thickset, powerful, determined, ambitious. His grey hair was tightly curled across his forehead, his square face surprisingly intelligent, slightly too red, faintly debauched. His eyes were cold, dark stones.

“Let her go, Stigmus. She doesn’t belong here.”

“She’s a Christian. Promise me she hasn’t involved you. This is a bad place.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“A Christian riot.”

“You know Matrusus better than that.”

“Knew.” Stigmus moved one hand from the folds of his toga, gestured at the body, but his eyes did not move. “Murdered.”

“He was a murderer many times over.”

“Killed by a single spear thrust through the face. Directly between the eyes. Perfect symmetry. One can only admire these Christians’ skill and strength and astonishing precision, as well as their viciousness.”

“He won’t be missed.”

“The Emperor will miss him. Nero cried when he heard. Do not get mixed up with Christians, my friend.” By friend Stigmus meant enemy. “I warn you, the Emperor is interested. Personally. I have full powers of investigation.”

“I can guess what the result will be.”

“I’m a fair man. As usual they will be asked to invoke our gods, worship the image of Nero, and curse Christ. If they refuse they are guilty and I shall crucify them as their god was crucified, except upside-down. They hate that. They believe in an underworld, a place of fire and torture called Hell, and they don’t want to fall to it head-first.”

“All of them? A spear can fly from only one pair of hands.”

“They say they’re all guilty. In the next breath they say
they’re all innocent.” He shook his head in disgust. “They want to die. It’s the same in all these pagan religions, they all believe in death. Die, be happy. You know their Christ preached revolution? Destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. His closest advisers were zealots, assassins, the poor – desperate enough to do anything. Don’t believe a word Christians say.”

“Why does Nero hate them so?”

“Because he is tolerant and they are not. Their God excludes all other gods – including the Emperor, who is of course a god,
pater
, Pope,
Pontifex Maximus
, the bridge between this world and the next, married to immortal Rome. When Nero dies he will rise again,
redivivus
– an idea the Christians have actually stolen for their own Christ! Blasphemy.”

“Stigmus –”

“You know what your Christians call our Emperor? The Beast. Worse names. 666. Satan. You can’t expect him to love them for it.”

“Who carved the cross on their foreheads?”

“Matrusus’s signature. You know his sense of fun. A blood cross. They call it the mark of the Beast.”

“I need to examine the body.”

“They killed him, and that’s that. Matrusus died unnecessarily, they will die legally and horribly. Now, I have an interrogation to conduct.” Stigmus threw back over his shoulder, “You’re wasting your time!”

Quistus knelt. Matrusus stared at the sky. The spear had pierced him exactly between his eyes – as Stigmus said, with absolute precision. Almost eerie precision. Very skilled. Would Faustinus the merchant, thin and looking the far side of fifty, have such strength, such skill? Pedilla his wife, or Volusia? One of the soldiers was calling their names, a
scribe writing them down. Linus might be strong enough. What about Timothy, who crouched away from the women? The one called Peter was too old. Pudens looked like an intellectual, a poet, but he sat beside a strong-looking redheaded woman.