Cunitius nodded, as a thoughtful look appeared on his face.
“So, you think both incidents are connected,” the investigator said smoothly. “You think the same man who threatened you, is also responsible for the sabotage. Did you get a look at him when he came to your house? Could you recognise him if you had to?”
Marcus shook his head. “He was cloaked and hooded and riding a horse. I didn’t get a proper look at him. It all happened too fast.”
“I heard about the sabotage at the water mills,” Cunitius said, as he leaned back in his chair and turned to gaze at the stacks of documents on his desk. “It’s unusual. Who would want to hurt the production of bread, especially now that the whole city is living on grain rations. Who would want to do that?”
“They don’t want to sabotage the production of bread,” Marcus replied as his face darkened. “They are out to get me. That’s what this is all about. Someone is seeking revenge on me. They are trying to ruin me. That’s why they mentioned the temple of Invidia.”
For a moment Cunitius looked lost in thought. “All right,” he said at last, as he looked up at Marcus. “I shall take the job. I am interested. Anyone who is out to ruin you Marcus, gets my attention.”
“I am willing to pay your market rate for this work,” Marcus said quickly. “Half now and half on the successful completion of the job. And I need you to start work on this right away.”
But behind his desk Cunitius had raised his hand.
“No,” the investigator said sharply. “No, I shall charge you for expenses only. This investigation will be free of charge but,” Cunitius said, his eyes gleaming with sudden delight. “Once I have delivered, you Marcus, will owe me a favour, a big favour. Agreed?”
Marcus was gazing at the man sitting behind his desk. “Agreed,” he replied.
“Good,” Cunitius said smoothly. For a moment he remained silent as he pondered what to do. “All right I will do some digging amongst my contacts and see if anyone knows about who could be behind this,” he said at last. “You will be amazed at how much the criminal classes of this city know about what’s going on. They are a veritable mine of information.”
Marcus nodded and turned to look around the small dingy office in silence.
“But first let’s go and have a look at the damage to the watermills,” Cunitius said suddenly, as abruptly he rose from his chair and reached for his cloak. “Always a good idea to see the handiwork of our fugitives. People always leave clues. They just can’t help it.”
***
It was getting late and the light was fading, as Marcus and Cunitius stood at the base of the Aqua Traiana on the Janiculum and gazed up at the ruined and burnt-out water mills. Indus stood a little to the side, stoical and silent as ever. Apart from him, there was no one about. On the Tiber the river barges were slowly moving to and from Rome’s river harbour, below the slopes of the Aventine. For a long while Cunitius was silent as he studied the damage. Then slowly he shifted his gaze and walked over to the stone arches of the aqueduct.
“You should have gone to the temple of Invidia, Marcus,” he exclaimed, reading out loud the red graffiti that was scrawled onto the stonework. “Whoever wrote this knows how to spell words and they sure did make it look personal,” Cunitius added, as he took a step back and gazed up the length of the stone arch.
“It’s all over the arches,” Marcus growled. “Now can you see why I think this is connected to the man whom came to my house. No-one else knew about the temple of Invidia.”
Cunitius suddenly frowned and took a step towards the stone arch. Reaching out to touch the graffiti, he carefully ran his fingers over the message.
“The paint,” Cunitius exclaimed, as his frown deepened. “Red paint. Whoever did this, wrote their messages in red paint. Nothing unusual about that but I know a man, an expert on making paints. Maybe if he could examine a sample of the paint, he could tell us more about its composition and origin. It may give us a lead.”
“Do what you have to do,” Marcus snapped. “I want this bastard or bastards found and caught as soon as possible.”
Chapter Twelve – Suspects
The clatter of wood striking a shield was followed by a harsh cry. Down in the small sandy playground of the school, two young men were fighting, both armed with large legionary shields and wooden training swords. Sweat was pouring from Ahern’s face and an angry bruise already adorned his left eye. Wildly he lunged at Aledus with his wooden sword, which Aledus effortlessly blocked with his shield, and before Ahern could react he’d slammed his sword into the youth’s side in a painful blow that made Ahern cry out.
“Keep your shield up,” Aledus roared. “You think it hurts now. If that had been a real sword made of steel, you would have been dead. Now try again.”
With a miserable groan, Ahern forced himself to square up to his opponent. From the open window of the second floor, half hidden from view by the curtains, Marcus and Claudia were watching the training session. Marcus looked glum. This was Ahern’s first training session and it was embarrassing to watch. The boy was clearly not a fighter, not a soldier, but he was still determined that the boy should learn. The army turned youths into men, and discipline was exactly what Ahern needed right now. The boy needed to show some character.
“He fights like a girl,” Marcus said contemptuously, as he studied Ahern from the window.
“Give him time,” Claudia replied in a soothing voice. “Ahern is a thinker. Swords and shields are an unfamiliar world for him. He’s still trying to figure it out.”
Marcus grunted and his face soured. A few days had passed since he’d hired Cunitius and, despite a busy schedule, he’d cleared time to come to Claudia’s school for there was something else that concerned him. A nagging worry that had been growing on him for several days now.
“I am concerned by what you told Kyna,” he blurted out, without taking his eyes off Ahern. “You told Kyna that you’d heard Ahern muttering something about taking revenge for the beating I gave him?”
At his side Claudia sighed. “He was angry Marcus. Angry people say stupid things. I am sure he didn’t mean it.”
“Well someone is out to take revenge on me,” Marcus snapped. “That’s what this is all about. Someone wants to embarrass me, ruin me.”
Claudia turned to look at Marcus and frowned.
“Surely you don’t still suspect Ahern of having anything to do with that man who threatened you at your house, do you?”
“No,” Marcus growled, looking unhappy. “I don’t think he has the balls for that or for setting fire to my water mills. But he is a member of my family and he will know things, privileged information. When we last spoke about this, you mentioned your fear that someone may be manipulating these boys. That does concern me. Ahern talks about the Republic as if it were a sacred place. Where the hell does he get these ideas from? And then he gets arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour. He never got into trouble before. No. Someone, is leading him astray. He may be a brilliant scientist, but he is also impressionable and gullible. So, I want to know everything there is to know about this group of friends he likes to hang around with. What can you tell me about them?”
Claudia turned to gaze out of the window at the two sweating, young men. In the sandy courtyard Ahern, sporting another bruise to his shoulder, had thrown down his shield and sword and was stomping away in disgust. Claudia sighed again.
“They like to go to a tavern, called the Black Lady, in the Caelian district,” she said in a weary voice, “It’s their favourite place.” Claudia frowned. “There is also a name that they keep mentioning. The blond one. I think they mean a seer, one of these street preachers. Apparently, this seer gives speeches predicting the future, that kind of stuff. That’s why they go there, to listen. That’s all I have heard.”
***
It was late in the afternoon as Marcus, trailed by Indus, made his way down the narrow city street towards the Subura neighbourhood. Marcus, clad in his
senatorial toga, looked lost in thought, as he pushed his way through the crowd. Pressure had been growing on him to find a way in which to fund the repairs to the watermills and provide security for the industrial complex. He would have to speak to Similis regarding the security situation but Paulinus would not be happy with the additional spending. So, in the end Marcus had decided that he would personally pay to have the damage repaired, using his own money. The plan would have to be kept secret from Kyna. If she found out what he was doing she would be beyond furious. Women, he’d learned, were incredibly territorial when it came to money. And now Cunitius had sent him a message, saying that he wished to speak to him right away. The investigator seemed to have some news for him.
As he approached a busy and noisy intersection, he came to an abrupt halt and took a deep breath. Across the street from him a crowd of people had gathered around a lewd puppet show. The people were laughing. But as he stared at the puppet show Marcus’s expression changed. The puppeteers, hiding behind a curtain at the back of their small cart, were poking crude fun at the War Party and the crowd was loving it. And as he stared at the show, Marcus suddenly blushed as he recognised his own puppet character. His character was being shown in a compromising and humiliating position and the hidden voices of puppeteers were happily cutting his reputation to shreds. Marcus’s face darkened. The public attacks on the War Party had increased in the last few days. They had begun shortly after Attianus had arrived in Rome. Throughout the city he’d heard reports from his colleagues that suggested that a concerted effort was underway to paint the War Party into a dark place. He had noticed too that the urban guards at the city gates no longer acknowledged him like they used to. It was all Attianus’s work. There could be little doubt that he was the brain behind this propaganda war, this battle for the affection and loyalty of the mob. Attianus was skilfully using the grain rationing and current food emergency, to turn the population against the War Party. Angrily Marcus turned away, ignoring the raucous laughter of the spectators, and started to move on down the street. Politics was a truly shitty and unrewarding profession, he was beginning to realise.
***
Cunitius was sitting in his small office as Marcus came through the doorway. The letters and documents that had once been piled up on his desk had been cleared away and replaced by three little pots of reddish paint. Cunitius was gazing down at the pots with a perplexed frown. Then, as he caught sight of Marcus his expression changed. Quickly he raised a hand in greeting. As he entered, Marcus noticed another man standing in the far corner. The man was old and foreign looking with short grey hair and his fingers were stained with dried paint.
“Marcus, meet my friend Philip,” Cunitius called out in a cheerful voice. “Philip is Greek and the finest paint-maker in Rome.”
Marcus nodded a quick, silent greeting which Philip returned.
“I have some news for you,” Cunitius exclaimed, as he gestured to the pots of paint standing on his desk. “I took a sample of the paint that was used to draw that graffiti on the aqueduct walls and asked Philip here to examine and test it. He has some interesting conclusions that you need to hear.” Cunitius glanced at Philip. “Do you want to explain?”
In his corner, Philip cleared his throat and dipped his head respectfully as he glanced at Marcus. “Senator, I heard about the damage done to the watermills,” the man said, in a heavy foreign accent, “and I am more than pleased to be able to assist you in this inquiry. Cunitius is right. I am the finest paint-maker in Rome. My clients include most of the great families that rule this city. If you…”
“There is no need for a sales pitch,” Cunitius interrupted sharply. “Just get to the point.”
Philip hesitated. “I tested the sample taken from the aqueduct wall,” he said slowly. “The pigment in the sample of red paint was made from the Cinnabar mineral. Cinnabar is toxic because of its mercury content but if ground down it makes for a fine red pigment. When finely ground you get Vermillion. Many of my clients use ground Cinnabar in their frescoes and wall paintings. Women and actors also use it as a lipstick. It is a popular colour.”
“How is this useful in catching the people who damaged my watermills?” Marcus demanded as he stared at the paint maker.
In reply, Philip held up his hand, indicating that he was not finished.
“There is only one commercially viable place from which we mine Cinnabar,” Philip said quickly. “That’s the Almaden mine in Hispania. It produces around ten thousand pounds of Cinnabar a year. The mineral is shipped directly to Rome where it is sold to us paint makers.” Philip paused. “The point I am trying to make Sir, is that Cinnabar is not cheap. The price is fixed in law at seventy sesterces or seventeen and a half denarii a pound.”
“So, whoever scrawled that graffiti onto the aqueduct was using expensive paint,” Marcus snapped. “Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes, they used expensive paint,” Philip nodded. “But that’s not all.” Philip sighed and frowned as if he was struggling on how best to make a complicated matter look simple. “People who do not appreciate fine paintings and art Sir; they think that paint is all about colour,” he began. “But it isn’t. There is another important aspect to paint besides its colour and that is its texture. Proper, professional painters understand this. They understand that if you want to make a statement or send a message to the viewer, you can use colour or the texture of paint or both. The paint used on the aqueduct was Vermillion, but the colour red is also a sacred colour used to colour the faces of gods on paintings.” Philip fixed his eyes on Marcus. “The person who wrote that graffiti was sending you two messages Sir. The obvious one, which anyone who can read, could see. And then there was the second subtler message. By using this specific paint and colour, they were telling you that this whole conflict with you is sacred, personal to them and that they don’t care about the dangers or how much it is going to cost.”
The room fell silent and as it did, Marcus gazed at the paint maker. Then at last he nodded his gratitude and turned to look down at the floor.
“How many paint shops in Rome sell this Vermillion?” Marcus asked at last.
“About a dozen, including my own business,” Philip replied confidently.
“I am going to make some inquiries with the owners of these businesses,” Cunitius said smoothly. “Ask them a few questions about their clients, that sort of thing. Shake the tree. Our graffiti artist is most likely one of their clients. Maybe, if I can draw up a list of recent buyers we can narrow down the list of suspects, but it will take some time.”
“Do it,” Marcus growled. “Let me know as soon as you have compiled that list,” he said, as he turned for the doorway.
***
It was dark by the time Marcus reached the Forum on his way home to the Janiculum hill. The night sky was filled with a multitude of twinkling stars and in the Forum a few remaining traders were packing up their market stalls. There were few people about apart from the small army of street cleaners, who were busy cleaning up the mess left by the market traders and the public. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking. Resisting the urge to drop in on the temple of Saturn to see if Paulinus was willing to go for a drink, Marcus continued in the direction of the old cattle market and the bridges across the Tiber beyond. In the great temples and state buildings around him, torches and oil lamps glowed in the darkness, illuminating the Forum in an eerie, dim and reddish light.
Marcus had just entered the street leading to the city gates, when a troop of twenty or thirty Vigiles from Rome’s fire brigade nearly crashed into him in their haste. Marcus cursed as he sprang aside. The men came rushing past, carrying their water-pumps and wooden-buckets. “What’s going on?” Marcus cried out, as he caught sight of the buckets that the fire fighters were carrying.
“There a fire’s down near the river harbour,” one of the Vigiles called out, as he rushed past. “One of the grain warehouses is on fire.”
“Shit,” Marcus hissed to himsel
f, as his eyes widened in alarm. Stepping back out onto the street he stared in the direction down which the firefighters were disappearing. “Oh fuck,” he suddenly swore in a louder voice. Then, crying out to Indus, he started to run down the street in pursuit of the firefighters.
As he drew closer to Rome’s river harbour that lay just below the city walls at the base of the Aventine hill, Marcus could see that the night sky was lit by a reddish glow. Up ahead he could hear confused yelling and shouting. Panting and gasping for breath, he finally came to halt beside a warehouse and reached out to steady himself against a wall. Then he groaned in dismay. Ahead, close to the banks of the Tiber, one of Rome’s largest grain warehouses was on fire. He could clearly smell and taste the smoke. The roar and crackle of the flames was a horrible sight. Around the huge warehouse, hundreds of Vigiles had formed a disciplined human chain, along which a continuous line of buckets of water were being passed up from the river bank. With a frustrated cry, Marcus slammed his fist into the wall as he stared at the unfolding scene. The firefighters closest to the blaze were doing their best to quench the inferno with the steady supply of buckets that was being passed up to them. But would it be enough to save the warehouse and its precious cargo of grain?
“There is nothing that you can do Sir,” Indus cried out in alarm, as with a determined grunt Marcus pushed himself away from the wall and headed straight towards the blaze. The Batavian caught up with Marcus, just as the heat and ferocity of the fire forced him to a halt.
“This is not a good idea Sir,” Indus roared and before Marcus could react, his bodyguard was pulling him back from the flames.
“The Vigiles know what they are doing,” Indus yelled. “Let them do their job Sir. There is nothing that we can do.”
Marcus allowed himself to be dragged backwards. Then at a safe distance, he shook himself free from Indus’s grip and turned to stare at the fire, barely able to contain his rage.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 11
