The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (58 page)

The speaker was the Greek pilgrim, Makarios, a withered man who was practically a relic himself. He was perched as always on the three-legged stool in the corner furthest from the brazier.

Cupitas merely sighed. “Those without ambition always envy men of business,” he observed to John. “Now, I was wondering, do you have anything I could persuade you to part with? A personal seal perhaps? Something I could show a prospective buyer to prove that Justinian’s Lord Chamberlain really did assist me in obtaining this priceless memorial to the siege of Rome?”

John had no time to reply to the outrageous question because Cupitas spotted a burly man entering the room.

“I saw that fellow driving a cart across the forum the other day,” the trader remarked. “He has a most sturdy-looking vehicle. I wager it’d hold a statue of Aphrodite, if we could just contrive to hoist her up on it.” He hurried away to engage the man in conversation.

“Sir? If I may trouble you.” A stooped, elderly man, his sinewy, brown speckled hands clenched together, stood at John’s elbow. Fine white hair rose from his pink scalp like a marsh mist. John had the impression he had been waiting, silently, to speak to him for some time.

“Of course, Fronto. What is it?”

“The master wonders if you have a preference as to wine? There are several amphorae of fine vintages in the cellar even yet, if you would care to inspect them and make your choice.”

“Wine? Drinking wine as the bodies pile up around us?” Makarios put in loudly from his perch on the stool.

John ignored the pilgrim and indicated to Fronto that whatever wine the innkeeper served would be acceptable.

“If you please, sir, I would be most grateful if you’d make the selection. The master doesn’t like to leave anything to Fortuna, or so he always says.” Fronto swayed slightly, looking exhausted.

“Very well, I’ll see what’s there, but you’ll have to allow me to carry the amphora upstairs.”

Fronto feebly protested as he led John down a steep stairway into a stone-walled cellar that smelled of mildew.

“It isn’t your place to help me, sir,” the servant said. “It’s true my master has run me off my feet, ever since Belisarius ordered all the women and children out of the city. I don’t question the decision, you understand. It means less mouths to feed and moves the less hardy out of danger. But Titus employed mostly women as servants and now all their jobs are mine as well as the cooking. The mistress did that, and a fine cook she was too.”

A few rats scrabbled away as Fronto chose an ornate if tarnished silver serving dish from a cobwebbed shelf. “I hope this will be acceptable once I’ve polished it up. The master has always prided himself on having every detail perfect.”

John looked around. Sculptures, rolls of fabric and other decorative items formed a heap in one corner. A wall hanging bordered in garish red lay partly unrolled atop the pile, revealing a lusty scene from the Goths’ legendary association
with the Amazons. Several busts of their king, Theodoric, dead now for a decade, stared out into the vermin-infested room.

“I pray General Belisarius can defend the city,” Fronto was saying as he brushed cobwebs from the tarnished dish. “We had to bring all those busts of King Theodoric down here practically before the Goths had run away, just as Belisarius arrived at the gates. As you probably noticed, the master has replaced them with marble Roman emperors who’ve been languishing down here in the damp for years. I don’t have the strength to keep changing allegiances at my age, especially when it involves hauling busts and statues up and downstairs. Damian did most of the heavy work here, and now he’s left in a pique.”

To Fronto’s horror, John picked up an amphora of the inexpensive, raw Egyptian wine he preferred from a dusty crate shoved into a damp corner.

At the top of the cellar stairs they were met by Cupitas, who clapped his fat hand on Fronto’s bent back.

“There you are, you old villain,” the trader said in a jovial tone. “Hiding in the cellar again when you should be stoking up the brazier in my room.” The trader turned to John. “It’s as cold as the member on a bronze stallion up there. And talk about draughty! Cracks so big a whole troupe of performing dwarfs could fit through them. Ah, but better times and lodgings are in my future. That cart driver thinks he can help me win the favour of fair Aphrodite. Now if I can just manage to bribe some guards to look the other way when we elope with her. Do you think that hulking Moor might assist with the lifting? Let’s not talk business now, though, since I see it’s time to eat.”

Sunset was fading as John stepped outside. The innkeeper’s promised banquet had turned out to be a spare repast
consisting of stewed, stringy meat that had not tasted like any goat which had appeared on John’s plate.

A chilly wind was rising. It would be another cold night, he thought with a shiver. The innkeeper and Cupitas however were keeping warm by means other than a brazier, for as he strode briskly around the side of the building to escape the wind, John heard the two of them arguing.

“No, the tree we cut down yesterday was the last one left around here!” the innkeeper shouted as John turned the corner of the building. “Everyone got there ahead of us. You’d be lucky to find a twig anywhere by now. Pretty soon we’ll have to start burning the furniture! Not to mention when the fuel runs out, we’ll all be eating uncooked food, assuming we can even find any.”

Cupitas muttered something unintelligible.

“Oh, of course,” Titus shot back. “You think you’re entitled to take anything you can get your hands on. I know your sort!”

The two men stood near the inn’s back door. Beyond lay the desolate space which had been a garden filling the vacant area where a building had stood in more prosperous times. Cupitas turned on his heel as John appeared. With a curt nod at him, he went into the inn and slammed the door.

Titus released a long sigh and rubbed his face wearily. “My apologies, sir. Sometimes my guests are difficult to please. I should not be short-tempered with them, I know, but Cupitas has been complaining about the cold ever since he got here. I’m sick of hearing about it. We’re all cold, not just him. Then today I have been forced to cut down my wife’s rosebay. It was a hard thing to endure. I’d hoped to preserve it for Tullia’s return.” His voice faltered.

John glanced at him keenly. The man looked stricken.

Titus bent to pick up a small branch and placed it in the basket he carried. “It was a special tree to us, you see, sir. I
planted it for my wife the day we were married. I wish you could have seen it when it flowered. Covered in red blossoms every year, it was.” Tears formed in his eyes. “When Tullia was forced to leave with the rest of the women and children and slaves at Belisarius’ order, she promised me she would be back before it bloomed again.”

“Perhaps she will,” John offered awkwardly.

Titus scowled. “She didn’t want to leave and I didn’t want her to go. What husband or father would? There’s no food to be had in Campania. Belisarius took the entire harvest for Rome. What’s she going to do without shelter or anything to eat? And now when she gets back she’ll be heartbroken about our tree. That miserable bastard Belisarius!” he burst out. “I notice it’s all right for his wife to stay in Rome, but not the wives and families of decent citizens!”

John shook his head. It was a not uncommon complaint in the city, he had noticed even in the short time he had been trapped there. Before he could frame a suitably tactful answer, Titus hefted the basket.

“I apologize for burdening you with my troubles, sir,” he said, obviously regretting his outburst and particularly that he had spoken hastily to a man who was in Rome to see the general. “I should not criticize Belisarius. No doubt he has the interests of all at heart. Now I have work to do, short-handed as I am.” With that, he stepped back into his establishment, leaving John to continue his interrupted walk through fast-encroaching shadows.

Few were abroad that evening. It was not the hour for the watch to change and the Moorish dog patrols had yet to appear. Everyone was apparently sensibly staying indoors. John continued his circuit of the inn, then crossed the deserted forum in front and before long was pacing rapidly alongside the city wall. He could make out the fires of the besieging army twinkling as night drew rapidly on. No doubt
the Goths would also be preparing their evening meals. It was a strange thought that the two opposing armies had one thing in common apart from the desire to occupy Rome and that was that on both sides of the river cooking pots were being stirred and whatever food the day’s foraging had provided ladled onto waiting plates.

But such philosophical musings were dispersed to be replaced by the gloomy thought that soon rats would be eating better than either Romans or Goths, for John had caught a shadowy glimpse of several bloated corpses in the debris floating downriver.

John slept fitfully during a chilly night. The morning sun brought to the inn scant warmth and an emissary from Belisarius.

“Procopios!” John greeted the lean, elegant man shaking street dust from a deep blue cloak whose colour bordered dangerously near to purple.

The general’s aide glanced around and arched an eyebrow. “I am surprised you disdain our hospitality for these rustic surroundings, Lord Chamberlain.”

“It suffices. I am a man of simple tastes.”

John did not mention his other reasons for preferring to keep his distance from Belisarius. John’s friend Anatolius, Justinian’s secretary, had helped compose the congratulatory message John had delivered to the general. The indiscreet young secretary had mentioned to John that, although the emperor’s letter instructed Belisarius in great detail concerning preparations for the siege that would doubtless follow the occupation of Rome, it offered no immediate reinforcements for the forces defending the city. Given that Justinian had ordered Italy be regained as part of his plan to restore the empire to its former glory, the oversight seemed strange indeed and John was not certain how Belisarius might treat
the bearer of such ill tidings. What was more, he had no desire to remain anywhere in the vicinity of the general’s wife. Antonina was a confidante of Empress Theodora, whose enmity towards John was no secret.

Procopios might have read John’s thoughts. “If only Antonina had such simple tastes,” he lamented. “Belisarius has instructed me to find a gift for her. There’s nothing suitable left in the city to buy, needless to say. However, I’ve been advised to ask here for a man named Cupitas. Apparently he has quite a reputation for putting his hand on items others cannot obtain.”

“Yes, he has a finger in everything, including the most vile sacrilege.” It was Makarios, the pilgrim, perched on the stool where John had seen him the previous evening. Had he even left the room? The man seemed to have a remarkable talent for remaining rooted to the spot. “What is it you want for Antonina, anyhow? Some ingredients for her diabolical potions?” His voice was strident.

“Pay no attention to him,” John advised his visitor. “The man’s a devout Christian. Not dangerous at all.”

Procopios gave the vague smile he often displayed, reminding John of his initial impression that the comments that came out of the man’s mouth had little relation to what he was actually thinking.

“I am aware of Antonina’s reputation, John, including what the gossips say about her,” Procopios said. “She practices magick, they claim. She employs love philtres so the great general crawls around at her feet, snuffling and panting like a dog. She knows every poison, from hellebore and monk’s hood to oleander and aconite, and isn’t averse to using any of them.” He laughed softly. “Ludicrous rumours, all of them, and not worth repeating.”

Titus emerged from the kitchen. The innkeeper’s face turned white when he spotted the man, so obviously of high
rank, speaking to John. Cupitas had not yet descended from his room, he said with a low bow in response to Procopios’ inquiry. The innkeeper appeared relieved to learn that the official visitor had arrived on a personal errand and urged the new arrival to take a seat.

“My apologies, good sirs,” Titus went on. “The morning meal would be ready if my servant weren’t such a sluggard. I suggest you sit by the brazier, well away from our religious friend.” He wrinkled his nose. “I swear he hasn’t been out of those greasy robes since the days when there was a Roman on the throne. Speaking of which, I am something of a student of history and you might be interested to hear Romulus Augustulus stayed in this very inn whenever he came into Rome from Campania.”

After some time Fronto, looking even frailler in the morning light than he had the night before, set boiled eggs and bread out for the guests. John and Procopios ate slowly. The Moor Constantine clattered downstairs and Procopios asked him if he had seen Cupitas.

“No. Doubtless he’s still lazing in bed, dreaming up new thefts,” was the curt reply.

John guessed their strenuous but ultimately fruitless journey through the underground aqueduct the day before had exhausted the corpulent trader. He was pondering whether he should ask for the return of his contribution to the fee paid for the fraudulent map when the cart driver who had been there the night before arrived. He was in a foul temper.

“He was supposed to meet me by the fountain outside an hour ago,” the carter complained to the innkeeper. “We were going to pick up some goddess or other, or so he said.”

John suggested it was time Cupitas was roused.

A rap at the trader’s locked door elicited no response. John knocked harder and called out his name. Still no reply came.

Constantine, who had followed John and the others upstairs,
banged the door planks briskly with the handle of his axe.

Silence.

After years at the imperial court, John could sense something was wrong.

“We’ll have to break the door down. Don’t worry,” he told Titus, who looked horrified at the prospect of his property being destroyed, “I’ll compensate you for the damage.”

Constantine grinned as he hefted his axe. “Maybe Satan’s carried the bastard off in the night!”

The axe smashed the lock. A second blow punched a hole in the door. Shockingly, as if to confirm the big Moor’s words, a cloud of acrid smoke billowed out into the hallway.