The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (5 page)

Ah yes, Acer’s killer.

Vitellius Acer was, of course, killed by the captured elephant penned up in the stockyard adjoining the plunder store. As everybody knows, elephants have a prodigious memory for past injuries, and an uncanny ability to tell humans apart. As soon as it saw the man who’d wounded it during the battle by sticking a spear through its lip, it pulled up the tethering-pins that were holding it down, rushed across the enclosure, grabbed a stone in its trunk (lucky for it that there was a pile of stones just handy, in the form of the catapult balls) and smashed Acer’s head in for him. Acer did his bit by falling on one of the tethering pegs and smearing blood on it (I wiped chicken’s blood on the other side before I showed it to Scipio); and by knocking over the pile of catapult balls. Some tidy-minded squaddie replaced them at some point before I got there, thereby conveniently smuggling the real murder weapon away from the scene – it was taken along with the rest of the pile to the range and used for target practice. It also helped that Licinius, worried about being accused because his hatred of Acer was so well known, exaggerated how long he’d been with Laelius so as to provide himself with an alibi, though it’s just the sort of thing a clown like that might be expected to do. As for the blacksmith’s hammer, that was pure serendipity, or, as I prefer to believe, the gods helping out a righteous cause.

I was proud of how few outright lies I had to tell Scipio, and how well I blended them in. I am, after all, a trained lawyer.

Elephants are a bit like Greeks, I guess. They never forget who their enemies are.

“A
beautiful day for it,” I said begrudgingly. Cicero nodded and squinted up at the filtered red sunlight that penetrated the awning above our seats. Below, in the arena, the first pair of gladiators strode across the sand to meet each other in combat.

The month was Junius, at the beginning of what promised to be a long, hot summer. The blue sky and undulating green hills were especially beautiful here in the Etrurian countryside outside the town of Saturnia, where Cicero and I, travelling separately from Rome, had arrived the day before to attend the funeral of a local magistrate. Sextus Thorius had been struck down in the prime of life, thrown from his
horse while riding down the Clodian Way to check on the progress of a slave gang doing repair work on the road. The next day, word of his demise reached Rome, where quite a few important persons had felt obligated to attend the funeral.

Earlier that morning, not a few of the senators and bankers who gathered to watch the funeral procession had raised an eyebrow at the sight of Gordianus the Finder among them; feeling the beady gaze of a prune-faced matron on me, I distinctly overheard her whisper to her husband, “What’s
he
doing here? Does someone suspect foul play at work in the death of Sextus Thorius?” But Cicero, when he caught sight of me, smiled grimly and moved to join me, and asked no questions. He knew why I had come. A few years ago, facing the prospect of a ruinous business scandal, Thorius had consulted Cicero for legal advice, and Cicero had sent Thorius to me to get to the bottom of the affair. In the end, both scandal and litigation were averted. Thorius had rewarded me generously, and had subsequently sent quite a bit of business my way. The least I could do on the occasion of his death was to pack my best toga, spend the night at a seedy inn in Saturnia, and show up at his funeral.

We had followed the procession of musicians, hired mourners and family members to the little necropolis outside Saturnia, where, after a few speeches of remembrance, Thorius’s remains had been set alight atop a funeral pyre. At the soonest opportunity to do so without seeming impolite, I had turned to leave, eager to start back to Rome, when Cicero caught my arm.

“Surely you’re not leaving yet, Gordianus. We must stay for the funeral games.”

“Games?” I meant to load the word with irony, but Cicero took the question in my voice literally.

“There’s to be a gladiator show, of course. It’s not as if
Thorius was a nobody. His family wasn’t rich, but they’ll have spent whatever they can afford, I’m sure.”

“I hate watching gladiators,” I said bluntly.

“So do I. But they’re a part of the funeral, no less than the procession and the eulogies. One has to stay.”

“I’m not in the mood to see blood spilled.”

“But if you leave now, people will notice,” he said, lowering his voice. “You can’t afford to have them think you’re squeamish, Gordianus. Not in your line of work.”

I glanced at the faces around us, lit by the funeral pyre. The prune-faced matron was among them, along with her husband and numerous others from the same social set back in Rome. Much as I might hate to admit it, I was dependent on the trust and good will of such people, the sort who had occasion to call on my services and means to pay for them. I ferreted out the truth, and in return they put bread on my table.

“But I have to get back to Rome,” I protested. “I can’t afford another night at that seedy inn.”

“Then you’ll stay with me,” said Cicero. “I have accommodations with a local banker. Good food. Comfortable beds.” He raised an eyebrow.

Why did Cicero want so badly for me to stay? It occurred to me that he was the squeamish one. To watch the gladiators, he wanted the company of someone who wouldn’t needle him about his squeamishness, as so many of his social equals were likely to do.

Begrudgingly, I acquiesced, and so found myself, that fine afternoon in Junius, seated in a wooden amphitheatre constructed especially for the funeral games to honour the passing of Sextus Thorius of Saturnia. Since I was with Cicero, I had been admitted into the more exclusive section of seats beneath the shade of the blood-red awning, along with the bereaved family, various local dignitaries, and
important visitors from Rome. The local villagers and farmers sat in the sun-drenched seats across from ours. They wore brimmed hats for shade and waved brightly coloured fans. For a brief moment, bemused by the fluttering fans, I had the illusion that the crowd had been covered by a swarm of huge butterflies flapping their wings.

There were to be three matches, all fought to the death. Any less than three would have seemed parsimonious on the part of the family. Any more would have begun to look ostentatious, and added to the cost. As Cicero had said, the family of Sextus Thorius, while eminently respectable, was not rich.

The three pairs of gladiators were paraded before us. Helmets hid their faces, but they were easy to tell apart by their different armour and their contrasting physiques. One stood out from all the rest because of his coloration, a Nubian whose muscular arms and legs shone beneath the hot sun like burnished ebony. As the fighters strode before us, each raised his weapon. The crowd responded with polite cheering, but I overheard two men behind us complaining:

“Pretty obscure outfit. Owned by some freedman from Ravenna, I’m told; fellow called Ahala. Never heard of him!”

“Me neither. How did the family settle on this crew? Probably came cheap. Still, I suppose the Nubian’s something of a novelty . . .”

There followed the ritual inspection of weapons for sharpness and armour for soundness, performed by the local magistrate in charge of the games, then the gladiators departed from the arena. The magistrate invoked the gods and delivered yet another eulogy to Sextus Thorius. A few moments later, to a blare of trumpets, a pair of gladiators re-emerged and the first bout commenced. The shorter, stockier fighter was outfitted in the Thracian manner with a small round shield and a short sword. His tall, lumbering
opponent wore heavier Samnite armour and carried an oblong shield.

“Samnite versus Thracian – a typical match,” noted Cicero, who often fell to lecturing when he was uneasy or nervous. “Did you know that the very first gladiatorial matches took place right here in Etruria? Oh, yes; we Romans inherited the custom from the Etruscans. They began by sacrificing captive warriors before the funeral pyres of their leaders –” Cicero gave a start as the sword of the Samnite struck one of the iron bosses on the shield of the Thracian with a resounding clang, then he cleared his throat and continued. “Eventually, instead of simply strangling the captives, the Etruscans decided to have them fight each other, allowing the victors to live. We Romans took up the custom, and so developed the tradition of death-matches at the funerals of great men. Of course, nowadays, anyone who was anyone must be honoured with games at his funeral. I’ve even heard of gladiator matches at the funerals of prominent women! The result is a tremendous demand for fresh gladiators. You still see captive warriors among them, but more and more often they’re simply slaves who’ve been trained to fight, or sometimes convicted criminals – murderers who’d otherwise be executed, or thieves who’d rather take a chance in the arena than have a hand chopped off.”

Below us, the Thracian thrust past the Samnite’s shield and scored a glancing cut across the man’s sword-arm. Blood sprinkled the sand. Cicero shuddered.

“Ultimately, one should remember that it’s a religious occasion,” he noted primly, “and the people must have their religion. And quite candidly, I don’t mind watching a death-match if both the combatants are convicted criminals. Then at least there’s something instructive about the blood-letting. Or even if the fighters are captured warriors; that can be instructive as well, to take a good look at our enemies and to
see how they fight, and to celebrate the favour of the gods, who’ve put us in the stands and them down there in the arena. But more and more the trend is to have trained slaves do the fighting –”

The tall Samnite, after a staggering retreat under the Thracian’s relentless assault, suddenly rallied and managed to score a solid thrust at the other’s flank. Blood spattered the sand. From behind his helmet the Thracian let out a cry and staggered back.

Behind us, the two men who had earlier complained now both roared with excitement.

“That’s how to turn the tables! You’ve got him now, Samnite!”

“Make the little fellow squeal again!”

Cicero fidgeted in his seat and cast a a disapproving glance behind us, then looked sidelong at the young woman seated next to him. She was watching the bout with narrowed eyes, one hand touching her parted lips and the other patting her heaving bosom. Cicero looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “And then there’s the unwholesome glamour which these gladiators exert on certain women – and on more than a few men, as well, I’m sad to say. The whole culture has gone gladiator-mad! Roman boys play at being gladiators instead of generals, Roman ladies swoon whenever they see one, and do you know, I’ve even heard of Roman citizens who’ve volunteered to fight as gladiators themselves. And not just for the money – although I understand even some slaves are paid handsomely if they can survive and make a name for themselves – but for some sort of perverse thrill. I can’t begin to imagine –”

His objection was abruptly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. The stocky Thracian had rallied and was once again relentlessly pushing the taller Samnite back. Sword clanged against sword, until the Samnite, tripping, fell backwards.
The Thracian stepped onto the shield the Samnite had drawn over his chest, pinning the man down. He pressed the tip of his sword against the Samnite’s wind-pipe. The Samnite released his sword and instinctively grasped the blade, then drew back his hand, flinging blood from the cuts across his fingers.

The Samnite had been worsted. From behind the visor of his helmet, the triumphant Thracian scanned the stands, looking to the crowd for judgment. Following the ancient custom, those who thought the Samnite should be spared would produce handkerchiefs and wave them, while those who wanted to see him put to death would raise their fists in the air. Here and there I saw a few fluttering handkerchiefs, all but submerged in a sea of clenched fists.

“I don’t agree,” said one of the men behind us. “I rather liked the Samnite. He put up a good fight.”

“Bah!” said his friend, shaking his fist in the air. “They’re both amateurs! The whole match was barely acceptable; I wouldn’t give a fig to watch either of them fight again. Send the loser straight to Hades, I say! Anything less would dishonour the memory of Sextus Thorius.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said the other, and from the corner of my eye I saw him put away his handkerchief and raise his fist.

The Thracian looked to the magistrate in charge of the games for the final judgment. The man raised his fist and nodded curtly, and the Thracian drove the sword into the Samnite’s throat. A great fountain of blood spurted from the wound, gushing across the Samnite’s helmet and chest and onto the sand all around. The man thrashed and convulsed, very nearly throwing the Thracian off-balance. But the Thracian steadied himself, shifting more weight onto the shield that confined the Samnite and bearing down on his sword until it penetrated the back of the
Samnite’s neck and was driven firmly into the packed sand beneath.

With a roar of triumph, the Thracian stepped back and thrust his fists in the air. The Samnite bucked his hips and thrashed his limbs, pinned to the earth by the sword through his neck. The Thracian performed a victory strut in a circle around him.

“Disgusting!” muttered Cicero, pressing a clenched fist to his lips and looking queasy.

“Delightful!” uttered one of the men behind us. “Now that’s more like it! What a finish!”

Then, as a single body – myself included – the crowd drew a gasp. With one of his thrashing hands the Samnite had managed to grab hold of the Thracian’s ankle, and with his other hand he had somehow managed to regain his sword. He pounded the pommel against the sand, as if to still that arm from thrashing, so that the blade pointed rigidly upright. The Thracian lost his balance and, making circles in the air with his arms, began to tumble backwards.