The Water Thief

by Ben Pastor

  Harpocratio wagged his head. “A saddlebag? He never said anything about a saddlebag, old or new. I don’t recall seeing one around, but we have such a large house, and my poor Serenus was forever bringing objects in and out.” He stopped, slamming the table with his ring-heavy hand. “And on top of it, the accursed thieves have gone through everything! You’re welcome to come and take a look as soon as we clean things up a bit.” He motioned to stand. “Which reminds me, I have to try my luck again at the courtroom. I wonder if they have finished burning the books, which you will allow me, much as I don’t like the Christians, goes against my grain as a collector.”

  Aelius walked to the door to summon the housekeeper. “I have access to a third story study, and you can see the horse track from there. Let’s see if there’s smoke rising from it.”

  The midwife-housekeeper led the way up the stairs with a key to the studio. She said, as if it were a cause for entertainment, “There are riots down by the Eastern Gate. The army has just ridden over in full gear. You’ll see people looking from every rooftop.”

  Actually the street riots were not visible, being much too far away and concealed by tall buildings. The flag-bearing rim of the perimeter wall of the horse track, however, could easily be made out at the foot of the Antionan ledge. Against the clear sky, smoke was not clearly distinguishable, but it drew enough of a white spittle on the blue as to betray the bonfire still going below.

  Drawing back from the latticed window Harpocratio said gloomily, “Well, I reckon I’ll have to wait until they’re done.”

  “Yes,” the housekeeper pitched in unbidden, “especially as the crowd tore to shreds the wife of the man they tried today. It’s true,” she spoke up when Aelius seemed to her troubled or incredulous. “They followed her from the courthouse and didn’t even let her get as far as her doorstep, and the soldiers who were escorting her just took to their heels. I wouldn’t go into the streets right now, no sir.”

  Aelius fairly flew down the narrow stairs.

  The First Letter from Diocletian Caesar to Aelius Spartianus:

  Diocletian to Spartianus:

  We are pleased, our Aelius, that your arrival in Egypt was without incident. It did not escape our attention that you did not make use of the imperial post to send your letter, but we assume you have done so for good reasons. In our continuing concern for the well-being of the army, we are particularly anxious to receive detailed information, preferably in the form of court transcripts, of the legal actions brought against members of the Roman armed forces who persist in the Christian superstition, risking their honor and their lives. Likewise, it is our wish that you keep us abreast, in the Heptanomia and elsewhere, of any instances of unconscionable greed and avarice (the vices that prompted us to intervene three years past with our edict on maximum prices, followed at Antinoopolis by our imperial order of the Ides of April in our sixteenth year), by keeping accurate reckoning during your travels of the quality and price of bread, wine, and the items of general consumption listed below. Whenever you see gross disregard of the remedies we put forth, it must be your care to inform the local authorities, and to send a copy in triplicate to our attention.

  You do well, Aelius, in pursuing the details of the life of our ancient predecessor, the deified Hadrian Caesar, in the locations he visited, founded, restored, or built up during his permanence in Egypt. We expect the life of this capable prince to be recounted succinctly but with attention to the details of his private as well as public character, omitting nothing from publication unless decency commands.

  Within the confines of legality, but with full empowerment on our part, you may also seek the truth concerning any documents concealed within the grave of the Bithynian, even to the extent of requiring opening of the burial chamber. This should be done in utmost privacy to avoid scandal and unrest in that volatile province, but in the presence of selected members of the appropriate religious body to ensure that ceremonies of reparation be performed forthwith. Should you not be satisfied with the results of your research in the Heptanomia, you are to take the investigation wherever it leads you. As for your political endeavors to date, you must have ruffled feathers already, for we received, with speedy delivery, requests that you be recalled to Salonae or Nicomedia. These, we have denied.

  We also noticed the impassioned nature of your narrative around the death of the army supplier Serenus Dio, and of his freedman; we advise that you follow your impulse and pursue both cases with all the prudence and zeal that have recommended you to us since your first serving under our command. Lastly, we desire that you address us simply with the title of Domine, which in the days of our predecessor, the deified Trajan Caesar, sufficed that excellent prince in his correspondence.

  Written at Aspalatum, the seventeenth day of June, fifteenth day of the Kalendae of July, in the twenty-first year of our imperial acclamation, the seventh year of the consulship of Maximianus Augustus, and the eighth year of the consulship of M. Aurelius Valerius Maximianus Augustus.

  Items, to be checked against our edict’s maximum prices include: wheat, rice, wine (Picene, Tiburtine, Sabine), pork, pork mincemeat, army boots (without hobnails), and notary fees for writing a petition.

  T H I R D C H A P T E R

  18 Payni (13 June, Ides, Tuesday)

  Aelius had learned to recognize the gawky attempts to conceal evidence by soldiers who had turned Christian in the past, and who had brashly gotten religious symbols tattooed on their forearms or biceps. Certain units of the army (he knew of those stationed in Armenia and at Thebes—the II Diocletiana Thebaea in particular), were more fractious than others, but generally these days one saw the oddest combinations of tattoo adaptations. Fish pictographs of Christ multiplied until there was a whole submarine scene complete with clams and squid; anchors and doves became catapults and eagles, crosses turned into radiant suns. The pictograph on the hairy forearm of the squad leader was just such a dubious one, but there was no law against odd-looking tattoos. Aelius found himself irked, though, at the idea that a noncommissioned officer might have betrayed his duty as an escort in order to avert suspicion from himself.

  On the day after Pudens’s trial he walked out of the confrontation with the soldier in a cold rage, and meeting Tralles in the next room of the command post did nothing to soothe his temper. “He and his men have contravened their orders, and a woman—not Christian, mind you: a citizen of the metropolis—was killed as a result. Punishment must be exacted, unless we’re ready to accept chaos in the streets.”

  Tralles, who had willy-nilly summoned the squad leader at Aelius’s request, attempted to brazen his way out. “Rabirius Saxa has asked for no such punishment, and what he says, goes.”

  “I will speak to Rabirius Saxa if I must. You understand this has nothing to do with antisuperstition laws; the squad was ordered to protect the defendant’s family, and failed to do so. Worse, it deserted under attack. If the first charge doesn’t stick with Saxa, you may be sure the second will.”

  “You are being difficult, Aelius. The crowd cheered the men as they marched back to the barracks. You don’t see civilians applauding soldiers too often these days.”

  “In the old times they’d have been beaten to death, the lot of them.”

  “The old times are gone.” But already Tralles was relenting. Not out of any deeply felt loyalty to the squad, as far as Aelius could tell; simply to avoid trouble for himself. “If you ask for the squad leader’s transfer, I won’t stand in the way.”

  “I’ll ask for what I see fit, Gavius.”

  Tralles groaned, throwing up his hands. “As long as you don’t embarrass the troops.”

  “They have embarrassed themselves.”

  “Oh, what the hell? You never were this way in the old times.”

  “Yes, and the old times don’t exist anymore.”

  Consulted by both officers, Rabirius Saxa was pragmatic. “We can’t execute the man, and we can’t ignore that he stood back.”

 
“Fled,” Aelius corrected.

  “Well, maybe. But it wasn’t in battle, Spartianus. I will agree to have the squad leader transferred downriver to Doron Theou, but not to demotion nor permanent reprimand on his record.”

  “Doron Theou is a better assignment than this, epistrategos.”

  “It was during the Rebellion. Now it’s rife with water thieves and other marauders. Our man will have his hands full over there.”

  Neither Tralles nor Aelius was happy with the decision, as Tralles had hoped to keep the squad leader within the territory of the metropolis (he’d thought about transferring him to the Philadelphia suburb), and Aelius had wanted demotion at least. Meanwhile, though, this was what they had to settle for, and two days later, when Pudens’s trial resumed, the result was a foregone conclusion. The locus solitus for execution at Antinoopolis lay on a side road by the horse track, and Aelius went to witness it. Owing to confiscation of the defendant’s goods, and the death of their mother, the engineer’s children were left destitute. Through Culcianus’s referee, Aelius was able to secure their removal to Karanis, and a promise that some assistance would be provided for them.

  Harpocratio meanwhile, as he found out, had managed to grab a few of the dead man’s books still stored in the metropolis’ jail in anticipation of a second public burning. On the fifteenth day of June, he and Aelius met to go through them in a small flat Serenus’s lover used occasionally downtown. Most were religious books—Tertullian’s works, Irenaeus’s Against the Heretics, a tract by a man called Lactantius—but there were occasional essays, anthologies, and a few history books. Aelius was thrilled to find Books 68-70 of Cassius Dio’s Roman History, covering the rule of Trajan through Antoninus Pius, including the biography of the deified Hadrian.

  “You can have them,” Harpocratio said. “There are scribbled comments all over the margins, and I couldn’t sell them if I wanted to. I’m sure I don’t know why folks have to deface books with their bigoted drivel.”

  Eagerly Aelius skipped to the chapter on Antinous’s death, and found the comment, presumably in Pudens’s hand, And no man putteth new wine into old wineskins; else the new wine will burst the wineskins, and be spilled, and the wineskins shall perish. But new wine must be put into new wineskins; and both are preserved. No man also having drunk old wine straightway desireth new; for he saith, The old is better.

  “What is this?” He showed the passage to Harpocratio.

  “I don’t know, it’s Christian talk. I say, it depends on the wine.”

  “But why would he write this as a reference to the Boy’s death?”

  Harpocratio lifted his nose from the copy of Seneca’s dramas he was perusing. “I have no idea, but I know someone in the metropolis who knows everything about the blessed Antinous. I daresay he might like to meet you.”

  21 Payni (16 June, Friday)

  Whether it was to be forgiven for his hesitation about punishing the squad, or merely to prove a point, Tralles came to visit Aelius that morning. He found him writing, with history books spread on the floor around his chair, and a “to do” list by his inkwell, on which he’d jotted down Pammychios’s address.

  “Well, I found your murderer,” Tralles told him, picking up the list from his colleague’s desk. “You see that results are achieved even without the need of special envoys.”

  Aelius put down his pen. “Well, who is it?”

  “A local cobbler by the name of Crispinus Crispinianus. Confessed everything, and the freedman’s case is closed.”

  “Has he given a motive?”

  “Said he will only give it to the judge when he’s brought to court, and not until then.”

  “We’ll just have to bring him to court, then.” Quickly Aelius gathered and put his things away.

  “Where is the man held?”

  “At the command post. My men brought him in.”

  It would turn out that the cobbler had actually come knocking on the command’s door, accusing himself. Aelius summoned his minutes-taker from the room outside his studio, where the young man was copying his shorthand from Pudens’s trial. “Go to the courthouse, check if the accused has a record, and bring it to me at the command post.” Turning to Tralles, “Could I ask your cobbler a few questions?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m about to interrogate him. Come along.”

  If ever a name was rightly applied, this was the case. The cobbler had wild, curly black hair forming a crisp, wiry ball around his head. Rubbing his hands, he stood under that gorgonlike namesake tangle with what seemed to Aelius mindless glee at having been found out. Hearing that a man from the court would question him, he seemed positively thrilled, and said that in that case he was ready to explain himself at once.

  They met in Tralles’s office, where Aelius was handed what written information had been gathered thus far. “He goes to the judge as soon as we say so,” Tralles told him in Latin, to keep the prisoner out of the conversation. “You were the first authority on the scene of the crime, so feel free to cut in any time.” With his eyes on the document before him, he then asked, “Are you Crispinus Crispinianus of Antinoopolis, cobbler and resident in the grammaton or district of Philadelphia, on the plintheion of Hercules the Victorious’s Street?”

  “I was.”

  “What does that mean, you were?”

  “My name is now Kopros.”

  “True?” Tralles looked over to the soldier who had taken the man into custody.

  “True, sir. He goes by that name though he never legally changed it. The rest of the information is still the same.”

  “Very well. Whatever your name is, did you kill Pammychios, also known as Loretus, of Hermopolis Magna, freedman of the late army supplier Serenus Dio—”

  “Sure, I did.”

  “—who on 8 Payni was found dead by the esteemed Commander Aelius Spartianus, here present, in the victim’s own house on Dovecotes Alley, off the road to Cusae—”

  “I did, I did. I tell you, I killed him.”

  “—and whose property was ransacked during the assault?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you,” Tralles whispered to his colleague. “Take it from here if you want to.”

  Aelius had been sitting back from the desk, overtly minding the circles of flies in the middle of the room. Now he looked over to the cobbler, who responded to the attention with an expectant grin.

  “And how did you kill him?”

  “I stabbed him, sir.”

  “The victim was not stabbed.”

  The cobbler held his stare. “Well, I was going to stab him, but he managed to take the knife from me, so I strangled him.”

  “His head was bashed in from behind.”

  “Precisely. I had to make sure he was dead, after strangling him.”

  One of the flies had alighted on Tralles’s desk, and appeared busy sucking in some remnant of food or drink from the surface. It took off again when Aelius stretched to retrieve the docket and read from it. “You say you were at the victim’s house, but no one saw you on the road or at Dovecotes Alley on that day. On the other hand witnesses—including your own neighbors—maintain you were in your shop across the river at the time the murder was committed. Which one is it?”

  “I was on Dovecotes Alley, Commander.”

  “Which means the witnesses lied, and perjury is a grave offense. Surely the judge will have the constable draw a list of the witnesses, and bring them in for questioning.”

  “I never said they lied—they mistook me for someone else, that’s all. I am a common-looking man: you see one, you’ve seen us all.”

  “Well, why did it take you two weeks to turn yourself in?”

  “Because my conscience didn’t trouble me until today, sir.”

  “And now it does. It seems to me that you’re smiling.”

  “Why, does it make a difference what face I confess with? I killed the man, and that’s that.” Because Aelius did not encourage him, and neither did Tralles, “I a
m a murderer,” the cobbler added, somewhat perturbed. “I confessed to the crime. The penalty is execution, so let us have the trial and be quick about it.”

  Aelius had been watching the progress of the fly along the edge of the desk, and concentrating on the insect placed the rest of the room out of focus, so that Kopros’s voice came from that haze, as the background to the progress of a fly. He said, frankly annoyed, “Let us be quick about it? What have you to say about judgment? You haven’t even given the reason for your actions.”

  “Theft.”

  The fly began rubbing its forelegs. “Of what?”

  “Gold.”

  “Not silver?”

  “Also. Gold and silver.”

  Tralles leaned back, to be able to exchange a few words in Latin with his colleague. “So, what do you say?”

  Aelius shook his head. “I think he’s as crazy as a loon. There are six or seven people who swear he was nowhere near Dovecotes Alley. He’ll say anything that might help convict him. What is a court of law to do with him?”

  “I say, let the judge give him what he wants. Cobblers are a dime a dozen, and fools even cheaper. He confessed: As far as I’m concerned, that settles it. Besides, what else is there to do with one who’s cracked enough to change his name to Dung?”

  Aelius looked past his colleagues, at the cobbler. “Since you’ve been there,” he took up in Greek, “give us a general description of the victim’s house.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember it. I was scared and angry, it was all a fog.”

  “Is his property on the right or the left side of the road?”

  “The left.”

  “The right side.” Aelius had heard all he was going to hear. He stood and headed for the door, where his minutes-taker stood with a ledger under his arm. “I say this man never was even near the place of the murder—whatever his reasons for accusing himself, he did not kill Pammychios. Either he’s covering up for someone else or he hasn’t the sense of a gnat. I’m no lawyer, but in either case the evidence of his misguided attempts is such that I doubt he’ll ever get to trial at all.”