The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (38 page)

“Oh,” said Flavia. “You mean a model of eyes, made of clay?”

Nubia nodded.

“That will be a votive,” said Flavia. “A votive is a model of the part of your body you want cured. It reminds the goddess of your prayer.”

“Is there something wrong with somebody’s eyes?” said Alma, coming into the dining room. She set a platter of bread drizzled with olive oil on the table.

They all reached for a piece and Flavia nodded. “Titia. She has cross eyes and wants to be beautiful to win a husband.”

“Oh yes, Titia. The poor thing,” said Alma. “Pomegranate juice or barley water?”

“Pomegranate juice, please.” As Alma went out Flavia turned back to Nubia. “You said Titia gave the priestess a gift. What was it?”

“I am not certain,” said Nubia. “But I think it was small loaf of bread.”

They all looked at one another. “A loaf?” asked Flavia. “Not a roll?”

“No,” said Nubia. “It was being a loaf.”

“What about you, Jonathan? You followed Teneme. Did he run away again?”

“No.” Jonathan sighed and spat an olive stone onto his plate. “Teneme just went to the Imperial Granary and stood in a queue and collected a big bag of grain. Then he brought it back to the bakery. He arrived just as you left, Flavia. I saw you and Scuto walking home. Did you find out anything?”

“Not really. I talked to the slave called Tertius. He does the accounts. I found out that Pistor doesn’t trust him and has started to check his calculations. But there was one thing . . . I just remembered. It might be a clue.”

“What?”

“Tertius is very educated. In fact, he used to be a teacher at the Forum School. He collects puzzles and codes like me, and he’s given Porcius and Ericius private nicknames. He calls Porcius Pelops, which makes sense.”

“Why?” asked Jonathan. “Who is Pelops?”

“He was an ancient Greek who loved racing chariots,” said Flavia. “And we know Porcius is mad for the races so that fits. But Tertius called Ericius something else. Eris-something.” She chewed an olive thoughtfully. “Erysichthon. That’s it! Now if only I could remember where I saw that name . . .”

Alma came into the dining room with four beakers on a tray.

“You know,” said Jonathan, “There are still two people we haven’t followed.”

Flavia nodded. “Pistor’s wife Fausta,” she said, “and her slave-girl.”

“Oh, my dears, you don’t want to follow Fausta,” said Alma, setting down the tray and handing out the beakers.

“Why not?” said Flavia, taking a sip of pomegranate juice.

“She’s far too preoccupied to steal a dozen bread rolls once
a week,” said Alma, and then lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper. “It’s common knowledge that she and her slave-girl go down to the Forum Baths every afternoon to watch the gladiators work out!”

Flavia stood on tiptoe on her father’s table and stretched for the highest shelf.

Nubia looked round nervously. “Flavia. You are not supposed to be reading the Ovid.”

“I know,” said Flavia, “but I just have to look up one thing. Are you keeping a lookout, boys?”

Jonathan and Lupus each stood in the doorway of the study. Lupus grunted yes.

“Pater or Alma might come home any minute so I need to be quick. If I can just . . . Oh, Pollux!”

A cylindrical leather scroll case tumbled from the top shelf. Nubia caught it deftly in both hands. Then she sneezed; the scroll case was dusty.

“Well caught, Nubia!” Flavia clambered down off the desk. She glanced towards the folding door of the study. “Any sign of Caudex?” she whispered.

“He’s in his cubicle,” said Jonathan. “I think I can hear him snoring.”

Flavia nodded with satisfaction, turned back to the scroll case and lifted off the lid. “Ten. I think it’s in scroll ten.” Her finger hovered over the open case for a moment and then she pulled out a scroll.

“Ten!” she said, and unrolled it on her father’s desk. Nubia watched Flavia expertly twist her hands so that the blocks of writing scrolled past her eyes.

Flavia murmured as she read. “Ugh!” she shuddered as she read one passage.

At last Flavia whispered: “
Eureka
! Here it is: right at the end. I knew it was in Ovid.” She glanced around at her
friends. “A king named Erysichthon scorned the gods – something you must never do, by the way – and he cut down a sacred tree. He also killed the nymph who lived there, so the goddess Ceres cursed him with a terrible hunger. Listen: ‘a desperate craving for food rules his ravenous jaws and his churning stomach . . .’ ”

Flavia’s finger moved down the scroll: “And here: ‘His hunger remained untouched and his greed unsatisfied’ ” Flavia shuddered. “Finally he gets so hungry he devours himself,” she said.

Nubia stared at Flavia in horror. “That is a story of Ovid?”

Flavia nodded as she rolled up the scroll and dropped it back into its cylindrical case.

“I’ll bet Tertius calls Ericius ‘Erysichthon’ because he’s always hungry.” She climbed back up onto the table and replaced the scroll case on the highest shelf.

“Jonathan,” she said thoughtfully, as she jumped down off the table again.

“Yes?”

“Do you think your father would mind if I asked him a medical question?”

“Worms,” said Mordecai ben Ezra. “Roundworms, tapeworms, whipworms. They are all types of parasites that can make a man ravenously hungry. Other symptoms include coughing, wheezing and vomiting.”

“Yes!” cried Flavia. “Ericius coughed a lot. And he doesn’t look very well.”

“What is parasite?” asked Nubia.

“It’s an animal that lives off another animal to survive,” said Mordecai.

The girls looked at one another and shuddered.

“Ugh,” said Flavia. “I could never be a doctor.”

“Why not?” Mordecai smiled at her from beneath his dark turban. “Being a doctor is a lot like being a detective. You have to discover the underlying causes for things that happen.”

“I think I have worms,” said Jonathan slowly. “I wheeze.”

“That’s because you have asthma,” said Mordecai. “I’m fairly certain you don’t have worms.”

“But I’m hungry all the time.”

“And that’s because you’re an eleven-year-old boy. Your body is growing faster now than at almost any time in your life. It needs bread to live.”

“But how can I tell whether I have worms?”

“Do you really want to know?”

They all nodded.

“After you’ve been to the latrine, you must take the bucket into bright sunlight and carefully examine your stool.”

“My stool?” Jonathan looked puzzled. After a moment understanding dawned in his eyes: “My stool! Ugh!”

Lupus guffawed.

“Yes,” said Jonathan’s father. “And if you see anything . . . er . . . moving there, well, you probably do have worms.”

Flavia looked at Mordecai. “So if I wanted to find out whether Ericius has worms, then I’d have to . . .”

Mordecai nodded. “You’d have to take his latrine bucket and have a good look.”

Flavia looked ruefully at her three friends. “I guess,” she said, “a detective
does
have to empty latrine buckets after all.”

“Yes,” said Mordecai, coming into the atrium a few hours later. “I’ve just been round to Pistor’s. I’m afraid young Ericius does have worms. I’ve prescribed a tincture of
pomegranate skins and wormwood, after a three day purge. Poor boy.”

“I guess you can’t blame him for stealing the bread rolls,” said Flavia. “I just hope his father doesn’t beat him.”

“Oh, he’s not your culprit,” said Mordecai. “I spoke to him gently and he swore he wasn’t the thief.”

“And you believed him?” said Jonathan.

“Yes. The poor boy lives in fear of his father.”

“Pollux!” muttered Flavia. “If Ericius didn’t steal the bread rolls then who in Hades did?”

“Let me have your theories,” said Flavia, absently scratching a flea-bite on her forearm. “And remember to give me the motive, means and method. That’s what Pliny says in his scroll.” They were sitting in the boys’ bedroom, the girls on Jonathan’s bed, the boys on Lupus’s.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “My theory is that Porcius is stealing the bread rolls,” he said. “His motive could be to raise enough money so that he can run away to chariot school in Rome. His father obviously wants him to become a baker, not a charioteer.”

“That’s an excellent motive,” said Flavia. “And we know he has the means; he works at the shopfront every morning. But what about his method?”

“I’m not sure,” said Jonathan. “Maybe he slips some rolls into his satchel and then sells them to the other boys in his class.”

“But remember, it was always a dozen rolls and it’s only every seven days.”

Jonathan sighed. “I know. That’s what I can’t figure out.”

“Nubia,” said Flavia. “Who do you think stole the bread?”

“I think Titia is stealing the bread to give to the lady priest
at the temple of Venus. If Titia is giving the lady priest much bread then the god Venus will be favourable to her prayers and make Titia’s eyes not crossed any more so she can marry a handsome man.”

“Good reasoning,” said Flavia. “But again: why every seven days and why a dozen?”

Suddenly Lupus gave a grunt of excitement.
I KNOW WHY XII
, he wrote on his tablet. They all leaned forward eagerly as he wrote:
EACH TRAY FOR ROLLS HOLDS XII

“Brilliant!” cried Flavia. “Someone could grab a tray and take it. But why just one tray?”

“It’s quick!” said Jonathan. “You grab the tray, empty it into a sack or satchel, then put it back.”

“And maybe the person’s bag holds just about twelve rolls,” continued Flavia. She sighed. “That doesn’t really help us. Titia could put twelve rolls in her shopping basket but the boys’ school satchels could hold about a dozen rolls, too.”

Lupus wrote on his tablet:
I THINK TENEME DID IT

“Motive, means and method,” said Flavia briskly. “What motive would he have; why would he steal bread rolls?”

SUPPLIES FOR IF HE RUNS AWAY?

“That’s worth considering. But remember, the thefts have been occurring for half a year. If he’s been storing up supplies for when he runs away . . . well, some of those rolls will be pretty stale.” Flavia sucked a strand of hair which had come unpinned. “And we still come back to that strange clue: why every seven days? I’m certain that’s the key to this mystery.”

“Tomorrow,” said Flavia, “I’d like to post watch on Pistor’s bakery again. We’ll have to do it before lessons, so we’ll need
to be up very early.” Flavia tore a piece from the last of the special plaited Sabbath loaf. She and Nubia had been invited to eat dinner at Jonathan’s and now the four friends were dining with his sister Miriam and his father Mordecai. The six of them sat on floor cushions around a low hexagonal table.

“Tomorrow early?” said Jonathan, with a glance at his father. “I can’t tomorrow.”

“Why not? The Sabbath is over, isn’t it?”

“You know why not.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Flavia,” said Mordecai. “Tomorrow is the first day of the week. Jonathan and Miriam and Lupus and I will be celebrating the Lord’s supper as we do every week. Some of the other believers on the street will join us.”

“I’m sorry,” said Flavia. “I forgot you’re Christians as well as Jews.” She sighed. “Then I guess it’s just you and me, Nubia.”

That night Flavia couldn’t sleep.

She kept thinking of all the mysteries she had solved in her short career as a detective. She thought about the assassin they had exposed in Rome: how his disguise had almost tricked them. She thought about the kidnappers from Pompeii: how the obvious culprit was innocent. She thought about the blacksmith’s riddle: how it had turned out to be a secret password.

The night oil-lamp washed the plaster wall with a pale orange light which was swallowed by the shadows above her head.

Presently, to calm her churning thoughts, Flavia closed her eyes and printed the words of Tertius’s magic square on an imaginary scroll in her mind. She visualized it as a grid and noticed that the word TENET appeared
horizontally as well as vertically, and that there was a pleasing symmetry of letters. That helped. Already she felt her eyelids relaxing.

Next she imagined the black letters were ants, running back and forth across the parchment. She smiled. Now they were forming the palindrome: the sentence which could be read both backwards and forwards. “The sower, Arepo, holds the wheels at work.”

What a strange sentence, thought Flavia, but now her body felt heavy and warm; she knew she was drifting into sleep. The letters were moving again, slowly rearranging themselves to form patterns. A circle. A diamond. A cross . . .

Suddenly Flavia was wide awake. She opened her eyes, lifted herself on one elbow and wrote on the wax tablet she always kept beside her bed. The dimly burning night oil-lamp gave her just enough light to see.

“That’s it!” she whispered. “I’ve solved the mystery!”

Nubia did not understand why she and Flavia stood shivering by the shuttered caupona, watching the back door of the bakery. It was cold and damp and it was well before dawn.

Luckily there was a full moon, and although it was low in the west it cast a wash of silver over the deserted streets of Ostia.

“I am so cold,” said Nubia. “And sleepy.”

“I know,” whispered Flavia. “The only time my teeth stop chattering is when I yawn.”

“I do not think we should be out at night alone.”

“You’re absolutely right, Nubia. We shouldn’t. We could get kidnapped or murdered. Look! The bakery door is opening!”

A figure moved out of the inky shadows. It was a man in a
hooded cape. He held a flickering oil-lamp. As they watched, he turned towards Ostia’s main road, the Decumanus Maximus.

“Come on,” hissed Flavia. “Let’s follow him.”

They slipped out of their protective shadow and moved quietly after him, staying on the pavement close to the shuttered shops. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Nubia’s heart was pounding but her feet in their leather boots made no sound on the cold stones and no watchdogs nearby barked.

In less than three minutes the man stood before one of the double doors of the Imperial Granary. He glanced around, then knocked softly. The door opened immediately and there was a whispered greeting. Then their culprit slipped inside.