Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  “I will pay you two denarii for the blonde one,” Marcus snapped, as he dug his hand into his pocket and showed the men the coins. “Now stand aside.”

  “She is busy with another client,” one of the men growled as he refused to budge, “And the correct price is twelve asses.”

  Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Well that’s a welcome surprise,” he said in a sarcastic voice. “You must be the only man in Rome who cannot be bribed. But tell me has your establishment procured all the necessary licences for it to operate legally. Have all your prostitutes registered themselves with the Aediles and are your tax affairs all in order? For if they aren’t, then a shed-load of shit is about to come your way. The city authorities do not look kindly on whorehouses that bend the law.”

  “Two denarii and be quick about it,” the second man said suddenly holding out his hand. “But you will still have to wait. Blondie has another client.”

  Marcus dropped the coins into the man’s outstretched hand, and without another word he started to climb up the ladder. As he clambered up onto the second floor he saw that he was on a dimly-lit landing with doors leading off it. Against the wall a fat and bored looking woman was sitting in a chair drinking from a cup of wine. She burped as she caught sight of Marcus.

  “The blonde one,” he said, as he got to his feet, and in reply she pointed with her cup at one of the doors.

  “You will have to wait, she is seeing a young master,” the woman said sourly, as she turned to look away.

  Marcus didn’t hesitate. Calmly he strode towards the door and flung it open. In the dim light he caught sight of a young woman wearing a long flowing blond wig. She was on her knees, naked except for a bra and she was kissing Ahern’s bare chest. As he turned at the intrusion and saw Marcus standing in the doorway, Ahern’s face went beech red and he yelped in sheer horror, stumbling backwards against the wall.

  Marcus advanced into the group, ignored the outraged squeals of the prostitute and turned to face Ahern.

  “So, this is what you and your friends have been up to,” he hissed. “Shagging whores and using my money to do so. Pray boy that I don’t tell your mother about this. You know how she feels about whores. Now get out of here.”

  Ahern didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching up his clothes, he practically ran from the room and nearly tumbled down the ladder in his haste to get away. Slowly Marcus turned to look at the girl. She was still on her knees and was slowly shaking her head in bewilderment and disbelief.

  “I am not here for sex,” he said, lowering his voice as she looked up at him. “Although I have paid double the rate you charge. Now listen. I need some information. A few days ago, a priest of Ceres by the name of Evander was murdered in his apartment on the Aventine. We found your name and the amount you charge for your services, scratched into the wall. Did you know Evander? He seemed to know you, but I don’t think he would be a client of yours.”

  On the floor the prostitute was gazing up at Marcus. Then slowly a blush spread across her cheeks and she struggled to maintain her composure.

  “Evander was murdered, he’s dead,” the girl stammered, as a sudden tear appeared in her eye. “He was my friend.” Quickly the girl looked away and took a deep breath as she dabbed at her eye with her hand. “How did he die?”

  “Someone strangled him and then hanged him naked from the ceiling, cut off his penis and stuffed it into his mouth,” Marcus replied. “I am trying to find out who murdered him. I need your help.”

  “What can I do?” the girl muttered as she looked down at the floor.

  “I need to know which male prostitutes he liked to hire,” Marcus said quickly. “You are in the business. You said he was your friend. Who would Evander go to for sex? I was told he only used male prostitutes.”

  On the floor the girl was fighting back the tears. Then sharply she looked up at him and shook her head.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” she cried out. “Evander didn’t pay for sex. He was the prostitute. He was one of us, but he was independent. Clients paid him for sex. He worked part time. He told me that it helped him top up the salary that the temple paid him.”

  Marcus stared at the girl in surprise. “What do you mean; he was independent,” he said at last.

  “No one controlled him. No one took a cut of his earnings,” the girl replied, wiping the tears from her face. “He worked for himself.”

  “So how did he find clients?” Marcus shot back.

  “I don’t know,” the girl sniffed as she dabbed at her eyes again. “But he always did.” Then she froze, before slowly turning to look up at Marcus with wide-open and staring eyes.

  “No, wait,” she said quickly, “I remember now. He told me once that he kept a record of his clients and how well they performed. Yes, that’s right. He liked to grade his clients. He would record their names. They must still be there.”

  “We went over his apartment,” Marcus snapped. “We checked everything. We found no further markings on the walls. I can assure you. There was nothing there.”

  “Not the walls,” the girl exclaimed, as she stared up at Marcus. “In the floor. He kept a small, wooden writing tablet hidden under the floor near his bed. Did you check the floor boards?”

  ***

  “Cunitius,” Marcus bellowed as he banged his fist on the door to the tall apartment block. “Cunitius get your arse out of bed right now and bring a torch. It’s me. Marcus.”

  Outside in the dark alley, it was cold. Impatiently Marcus turned to look down the alley, but in the darkness of the night, he could not see far. In his hand he was holding a small oil lamp, which cast a fragile flickering light onto the door. Down the stinking alley and hidden in the shadows, a drunk was snoring loudly. From inside the building there was no immediate reply. Then, as Marcus banged his fist against the door again and cried out, someone poked their head out of a window in one of the higher floors and screamed at him to be quiet.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Cunitius exclaimed irritably, as he hastily pulled a cloak over his body. “It’s the fucking middle of the night.” The investigator stood in the doorway clutching a lit torch. He looked like he had just woken up.

  “I need your help,” Marcus demanded as he started out down the alley. “There is a new lead in our investigation, but we must hurry.”

  “Does this mean that we are friends now,” Cunitius exclaimed sarcastically, as he hurried on after Marcus.

  “Not friends,” Marcus retorted as he kept walking. “Let’s just say that I want to get my money’s worth out of you.”

  “What’s the new lead?” Cunitius replied as he caught up with Marcus. The two of them emerged from the alley and stormed down the main street. “What’s so damned important that it can’t wait until the morning? For the god’s sake Marcus, the streets are not safe to walk during the night, especially in this neighbourhood. You are crazy; you know that.”

  “Are you scared?” Marcus replied.

  “Shut up,” Cunitius snapped irritably, as he quickly glanced around at the silent and dark doorways, alleys and vestibules.

  “A few days ago, a bronze statue of Ceres was stolen from her temple,” Marcus said, as he marched along the street holding up his lamp. “You can imagine the panic amongst the priests. They believe the sky is going to fall on their heads,” he added in a contemptuous voice. “But at the same time as the statue was stolen, someone left a message for me on the walls inside the temple. The message was scrawled in red paint. Sound familiar?” Marcus took a deep breath as he continued walking. “Whoever stole the statue; they are the same people who attacked the watermills and set fire to the grain warehouse. This is their work. A priest of Ceres, by the name of Evander, stole the statue but I think he was doing it for someone else. Evander didn’t show up to work the next day and we have just found his body. Someone murdered him; cut off his dick too.”

  “Shit,” Cunitius exclaimed, “That must have hurt.”

  “It’s likely
that Evander stole the statue because he was asked to by his killers,” Marcus said quickly. “Initially I thought he may have been paid to steal the statue and leave the message for me, but now I am not so sure. There could have been another motive. Anyway, tonight I discovered a new lead. We’re going back to Evander’s apartment. There is something there that may lead us to the people who are behind these attacks and these messages.”

  “I don’t understand. What are we looking for?” Cunitius frowned as he strode on along beside Marcus.

  “Evander was a part time prostitute,” Marcus snapped. “He kept a record of who his clients were. He hid a wooden tablet under the floor-boards of his apartment. We missed it on our first search. The tablet may contain the name of his killer.”

  “You said that this priest could have had another motive for stealing the statue, other than money,” Cunitius said hastily. “What do you mean? What other motive could he have?”

  “Love,” Marcus snapped grimly.

  ***

  Someone had fixed two ropes across the open doorway into Evander’s apartment and had hung up a no-entry sign. Marcus paused on the landing and, holding up his lamp he turned to look around, but in the darkness, all was quiet and peaceful. The whole apartment block seemed to be asleep. Carefully he ducked under the sign and entered the dark room. Evander’s body had been removed but, as he held up his lamp again, he could see that all the furniture was still there. Behind him Cunitius was muttering quietly to himself, as he turned to examine the apartment.

  Crouching beside the bed, Marcus placed his lamp on the floor and then carefully began to feel around the floorboards with his fingers. The blond whore had said that the hiding place was near to the bed. As his fingers moved across the floor, Marcus suddenly grunted as he felt one of the boards move. Reaching out to his lamp, he brought it closer. The floorboard was loose. Hastily Cunitius came over to him and held up his own lamp and as he did, Marcus pried away the floorboard and reached down into the small cavity below. For a moment he silently rummaged around in the small space beneath the floor.

  “Shit,” Marcus hissed as he straightened up. “It’s empty. There is nothing here.”

  “A dead end,” Cunitius groaned. “So much for that whore’s word. She lied to you Marcus.”

  “Maybe there is another hiding place,” Marcus growled, refusing to give up.

  “What are you doing?” a voice suddenly exclaimed from the doorway into the room.

  Marcus and Cunitius whirled round, caught completely by surprise and, as he did, Marcus’s hand grasped hold of the pommel of his sword.

  In the darkness around the doorway, he could make out the dim outline of a figure. Snatching up his lamp Marcus raised it and pulled his sword free from its sheath and advanced across the room towards the door. And as he did, in the flickering reddish light he caught sight of a face. It was Evander’s neighbour, the man whom he’d questioned a few days ago. The white tufts of hair sticking out from the side of his bald head were unmistakable.

  “Ah it’s you,” the man said, as he stood his ground. “You were here before with the priests. I recognise you. Are you a friend of Evander?”

  Marcus hesitated as he glared at the man. “We are looking for the person who killed him,” Marcus said at last. “That’s why we are here.”

  “You were looking for something,” the man said gesturing in the direction of the bed. “Did you find it?”

  “What’s it to you if we did,” Marcus said sharply.

  The man standing in the doorway sighed. “Evander was all right,” he said quietly. “He was a kind man although I did not approve of the company he kept. He knocked on my door a few days before he was killed and asked me to look after this for him. He said it was valuable and, that if anything happened to him, I should give it to the proper authorities.”

  And in the faint light, Marcus saw that the man was holding a small wooden writing tablet in his hand.

  “I hope this helps you catch his killer,” the man exclaimed. “Evander didn’t deserve to die. He was a good man.”

  Swearing softly to himself, Marcus handed his torch to Cunitius and hastily took the tablet from the man’s outstretched hand. Then carefully he opened it. In the hissing and flickering light from the oil lamps, he peered down at the long list of names, addresses, dates and numbers that had been beautifully etched into the thin plywood.

  “These must be the details of his clients,” Marcus exclaimed, as his eyes went down the list of names. Abruptly he stopped talking and frowned.

  “Blaikisa,” Marcus blurted out, shaking his head in confusion. “The last name on the list is called Blaikisa. That’s odd. That’s the name of Cassius’s freedman, but how can this be? Cassius told me that he was dead.”

  “Could it be another man with the same name” Cunitius said quickly.

  “There is only one way to find out,” Marcus growled, as he stared down at the tablet, his cheeks colouring with sudden foreboding. “It’s not a common name. Blaikisa is a Dacian name. Come on, there’s an address here, it’s not far. Let’s go and pay this Blaikisa a visit.”

  Slamming the tablet shut, Marcus turned to the man in the doorway.

  “You are a good citizen Sir,” he said and with that he pushed past the man, and started down the dark, deserted stairs.

  ***

  The address was hard to find in the dark, but eventually Marcus located the building. It was another tall insulae apartment block down a narrow, twisting street. Trying the front door to the building, he found it locked. Swearing softly, Marcus turned to look up at the building, but again, in the night sky, he could see no lights in the windows.

  “It’s locked,” he hissed in frustration.

  Beside him Cunitius did not reply and he seemed to be fumbling with something in his pocket. Then with a little grin, he produced an iron latch-lifter, a simple metal rod with a hook at the end. Pressing himself up against the door, he quickly worked the latch lifter into a crack between the door and the wall and after a few moments Marcus heard the latch slide upwards. With a triumphant look, Cunitius grasped hold of the door knob and opened the door.

  “They always have cheap locks in places like this,” he whispered. “I never leave home without a latch lifter.”

  “I knew I would need the services of a thief,” Marcus muttered, as drawing his pugio army knife, he hastily slipped into the dark entry hall of the building.

  As he slowly ascended the stairs Marcus strained to listen, but all was quiet and peaceful. There were still a couple of hours before dawn. Reaching the fourth-floor landing, he paused and glanced at the closed doors leading to the different apartments. Behind him on the stairs, Cunitius slowly pulled a knife from his belt. The cold steel gleamed in the torch light. Silently Marcus turned and pointed at the door with a number six above it. Then quietly he crossed the landing and pressed himself up against the wall beside the doorway, clutching his knife. Cunitius followed him onto the landing and did the same on the other side of the door. For a moment Marcus waited for his breathing to calm down. Then slowly he tried the door handle, but the door would not budge. Suddenly from inside the room he thought he heard a noise. Straining every muscle, he listened and as he did, he heard the noise again. Someone was home and moving about in the room. Marcus closed his eyes as he tried to decide what to do. It was either a knock on the door, get Cunitius to use his latch lifter or suffer another bruised shoulder. Inside the room he heard a little noise again. It sounded like someone stuffing something into a bag.

  With a splintering crash and a sharp cry of pain, Marcus came crashing through the door ripping the flimsy lock from the wall and sending splinters of wood and pieces of metal flying through the room. As Marcus tumbled to the floor, he was greeted by a startled cry. A man was standing beside the open window frozen in horror and staring at him. A half-packed travelling bag lay on the unmade bed and, leaning against the far wall a bronze statue of Ceres gleamed in the torch light.

 
“Blaikisa,” Marcus shouted, as he started to scramble to his feet. But as Cunitius came charging into the room, clutching his torch and his knife the man, without saying a word, turned and leapt out of the window.

  “Fuck,” Marcus roared as he stumbled over towards the window and thrust his head out.

  Looking down at the street below he could just make out a motionless figure lying on the stone cobbles.

  “He could never survive that jump,” Cunitius gasped, as he too poked his head out of the window and looked down at the street.

  Marcus didn’t reply, as snatching Cunitius’s oil lamp, he stormed out of the room and thundered down the stairs. Bursting out into the dark street he slowed down as he approached the body. A large pool of blood was slowly spreading out onto the cobbles and, as Marcus reached out and turned the body over, he could see that the man had broken his neck and was dead.

  “Shit,” Marcus swore softly. “Oh, you fool.”

  He had just managed to drag the corpse into the hallway of the building, when Cunitius came down the stairs holding a small earthenware jar.

  “Looks like our friend was packing up to leave town,” Cunitius exclaimed, as he looked down at the body. “He had the statue and I found this under his bed,” he added, as he showed Marcus the small pot of red paint. “There is plenty more from where this came from. Enough to paint the whole of Rome. I think we have caught our man, Marcus.”

  Marcus nodded and gazed down at the blood-soaked corpse. Then, as a startled-looking tenant appeared on the staircase, he turned.

  “Government business, go back to your apartment and stay there,” he yelled, brandishing his knife.

  As the tenant swiftly fled back up the stairs, Cunitius burst out laughing and slapped Marcus across his back.

  “Government business. I haven’t had this much fun in ages,” Cunitius blurted out. “We should do this more often Marcus. You and I make a good team.”