Beyond the circle of shadow, the boathouse and the pier were illuminated by full moonlight. The pier projected perhaps fifty feet into the water; it had no rail but was studded along either side with mooring posts. No boats were moored to it, and the pier was deserted. The boathouse was a simple, square building with a single door that opened onto the pier. The door stood open.
I stepped into the moonlight, towards the open door. I peered inside, listening intently, hearing nothing. A window high up in the wall admitted enough light to show me the coils of rope that lay on the floor, a few oars stacked beside the door, and the obscure implements that were hung on the opposite wall. Deep shadows filled the corners of the room. In the utter stillness I could hear my own breathing, but no one else's. I withdrew and stepped onto the pier.
I walked to the end, where the disk of the moon seemed to hover on the water just beyond the pier. The curving shore on either side was dotted with the lights of distant villas, and far away across the great flat water the lamps of Puteoli were like stars. I looked over the side of the pier, but there was nothing to see in the black water except the reflection of my own scowling face. I turned back.
The blow seemed to come from nowhere, like an invisible mallet swung from a black abyss. It struck my forehead and sent me staggering backwards. I felt no pain, only a sudden overwhelming dizziness. The invisible mallet swung out of the darkness again, but this time I saw it — a short, stout oar. I avoided the second blow by accident as much as by design — a staggering man makes an uncertain target. Flashes of colour swam before my eyes, but beyond the oar I glimpsed the dark, hooded figure who swung it.
Then I was in the water. Men who hire me sometimes ask if I can swim. I usually tell them I can, which is a lie. I shouted. I splashed. I somehow stayed afloat and desperately reached for the pier, even though the hooded figure waited there with the oar uplifted.
I reached for one of the mooring posts. My fingers slipped on the green moss. The oar swung down to strike my hand, but somehow I caught it in my grasp. I pulled hard, more to lift myself out of the water than to pull him into it, but the result was that my attacker lost his balance. An instant later, with a great splash, he joined me in the black water.
He came up beside me, struck me in the chest with his flailing elbow, and reached for the pier. I grabbed onto his cloak, frantically trying to climb over him onto the pier. Together we thrashed and struggled. Salt stung my eyes. I opened my mouth and sucked in a burning draught of saltwater. I lashed out at him blindly.
I think he knew that if he struggled with me I would only kill us both. He broke away and swam away from the pier, towards the overgrown shore beyond the boathouse. I clung to the slippery mooring post and watched him retreat like a ponderous sea monster, weighted down by his drenched clothing. His hooded head bobbed and retreated, bobbed and retreated. When he was safely far away I struggled onto the pier and lay gasping for breath. He disappeared into the shadows beyond the boathouse. I heard him climb out of the water, slipping and splashing, and then tearing through the underbrush.
The world was quiet again, except for the noise of my own laboured breathing. I stood up. I touched my forehead and hissed at the stinging pain, but I felt no blood. I staggered forward, my legs trembling but my head clear.
I should never have come to the boathouse by night, alone and weaponless; I should have brought Eco with me, and a lamp, and a good, sharp knife, but it was too late for that. I fished the oar from the water to use as a weapon-and hurried to the foot of the pathway. The way was hard and steep, but I ran all the way to the top, staring into every dark patch and swinging the oar at the invisible assassin who might be lurking there. The trail became stairs, the stairs became a ramp, the ramp opened onto the terrace, where at last I felt safe. I paused for a long moment to catch my breath. I began to feel the cold through my wet tunic. I hurried through the darkened house, shivering and still carrying the oar. I came at last to my room.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Eco was peacefully snoring. I reached down and touched the soft shock of hair across his forehead, feeling a sudden welling of tenderness for him and a longing to protect him — but from whom, and what? Most of all I felt cold and wet, and so weary I could hardly take another step or think another thought. I stripped off my sodden tunic and dried myself as best I could with a blanket, then pulled back the coverlet on my bed and fell onto my back, desperate for sleep.
Something hard and sharp stabbed my back. I jumped to my feet. The night's surprises were not over.
I stared down and could only see a dark shape on the cushion. I bolted naked from the room to fetch a lamp from the hall. By its lurid glow I studied the thing that someone had left in my bed. It was a figurine the size of my hand carved in porous black stone, a grotesque creature with a hideous face. Its eyes were set with tiny shards of red glass that glinted in the light. It was the sharp, beaked nose that had stabbed me.
'Have you ever seen anything uglier?' I muttered. Eco made a noise in his throat and rolled towards the wall, sound asleep. Like Gelina, he would have slept through a train of dancing girls with cymbals. I set the little monster on the windowsill, not knowing what else to do with it and too weary to think about it..
I set the lamp on a table and left it burning, not because I trusted the light's protection but because I was too tired to put it out. I fell into my bed and was almost instantly asleep. Just before Morpheus claimed me, I realized with a shiver why the thing in my bed had been put there. Friendly or not — gift, warning, or curse — it was an act of sorcery. We had come to the region of the Cup, where the earth breathes sulphur and steam, where the ancient inhabitants practised earth magic and the colonizing Greeks brought new gods and oracles. That knowledge unsettled my dreams and clouded my sleep, but nothing, not even dancing girls in the hallway, could have kept me awake an instant longer.
IX
I winced at a sharp pain in my head, as if someone were poking me with a nettle, and opened my eyes to see Eco peering down at me, pursing his Lips thoughtfully. He was reaching out to tap at a spot on my forehead just below the scalp. I grunted and pushed his hand away. He winced sympathetically and drew back, shaking his head.
'Is it that bad?' I said, swinging my feet onto the floor and leaning forward to look into the mirror. Even by the grey light of dawn the bump was quite evident, a raised red knob that looked more painful than it felt. Eco held up my still-damp tunic with one hand and the oar with the other. He looked at me disapprovingly, demanding an explanation.
I began with my interview with Crassus — the bloodstains on the statue of Hercules, the evidence that Lucius Licinius was killed in his library, our employer's determined disinterest. I told him about the moving lamp at the boat-house, the periodic splashing as of something being dropped into the water, the steep descent, the deserted pier and boathouse, the oar swung against my head, the struggle in the water.
Eco shook his head at me angrily and stamped his foot.
'Yes, Eco, I was a fool, and a lucky one at that. I should have fetched you out of bed to come with me instead of rushing down to investigate. Or better yet, I should have brought Belbo along to play bodyguard and left you in Rome to look after Bethesda.' That suggestion riled him even more.
'I have no idea who struck me. As for the boathouse and the pier, there was nothing to be seen, at least not by night. How I hate the water!' I remembered the burning draught of saltwater in my throat, the struggling and thrashing; my hands were suddenly shaky and I had to struggle for breath. Eco's anger vanished and his arm was around me, holding me right. I caught my breath and patted his hand.
'And if my adventure at the boathouse was not enough, I came back to find this in my bed.' I stepped to the window and picked up the figurine. The black, porous stone seemed clammy to the touch. I had kept waking up during the night to see it staring down at me from the windowsill, its ugly face weirdly illuminated by the lamplight, its red eyes shining. At one point
I actually thought I saw it moving, undulating in a kind of dance — but that was only a dream, of course.
'What does it remind you of?'
Eco shrugged.
'I've seen something like it before; it reminds me of an Egyptian household god of pleasure, Bes they call him, an ugly little fellow who brings bliss and frivolity into the house. So hideous, if you didn't know he was friendly you might be frightened of him — a huge, gaping mouth, staring eyes, a pointed nose. But this isn't Bes; it's an hermaphrodite, for one thing — see the tiny round breasts, and the little penis? Moreover, the workmanship is not Egyptian. It seems to have been made from local stone, that soft, porous black stuff one finds on the slopes of Vesuvius. Not an easy medium to work in, I imagine, too crumbly, so it's hard to say whether the workmanship is crude or simply rushed. Who could have fashioned such a thing, and why was it put in my bed?
'The practice of sorcery is very popular here on the Cup, much more so than in Rome. There's a great deal of indigenous magic among those whose families have always lived here, whose race predates the Romans in these parts. Then the Greeks settled here, bringing their oracles with them. Even so, this strikes me as a thing someone from the East might carve, and more likely a woman than a man. What do you think, Eco — is one of the household slaves trying to cast a spell on me? Or could it be-'
Eco clapped and gestured toward the door behind me, where the little slave boy Meto stood waiting expectantly, bearing a tray of bread and fruit. I saw his eyes dart nervously about the room. I hid the figurine from sight while I turned, so that when I faced him I held it behind my back. I smiled at him. He smiled back. Then I produced the figurine and thrust it onto the tray.
He let out a little gasp.
'You've seen this thing before?' I said accusingly.
'No!' he whispered. That might be literally true, given the frantic way he averted his eyes.
'But you know what it is, and where it comes from?'
He was silent, biting his hp. The tray trembled. An apple pitched onto its side and rolled into a bunch of figs. I took the tray from him and set it on the bed, picked up the statuette and thrust it against his nose. He peered at it, cross-eyed, and then shut his eyes tightly. 'Well?' I pressed.
'Please, if I tell you, it may not work…'
'What? Speak clearly.'
'If I explain it to you, the test may come to nothing.' 'Do you hear that, Eco? Someone is testing me. I wonder who, and why.' Meto quailed under my glare. 'Please, I don't really understand it all myself, it's just something I happened to overhear.' 'Overhear? When?' 'Last night.' 'Here in the house?' 'Yes.'
'I suppose you must overhear many things, coming and going as you do.'
'Sometimes, but never on purpose.' 'And whom did you overhear last night?' 'Please!'
I looked at him for a long moment, then stepped back and let the sternness fall from my face. 'You understand why I'm here, don't you, Meto?'
He nodded. 'I think so.'
'I'm here because you and many others are in very grave danger. I want to help you if I can.'
He looked at me sceptically. 'If I could be sure of that…' he whispered in a very small voice.
'Be sure of it, Meto. I think you know how great the danger is.' He was only a little boy, far too young to be facing the prospect Crassus had planned for him. Had he ever seen a man put to death? Was he old enough to really understand? 'Trust me, Meto. Tell me where this statue came from.'
He stared at me for a long moment, then looked uiinlnchingly at the grotesque in my hands. 'I can't tell you that,' he finally said. Eco moved toward him in exasperation; I blocked him with my arm. 'But I can tell you…'
'Yes, Meto?'
'That you must show the figurine to no one else. And you must tell no one about it. And…' 'Yes?'
He bit his lower Hp. 'When you leave this room, don't take it with you. Leave it here. But not on the table or the windowsill…'
'Where, then? Where I found it?'
He looked relieved, as if his honour were less compromised if I spoke the words instead of him. 'Yes, only…' 'Meto, speak up!'
'Only leave it opposite of how you found it!' 'Face-down, you mean?' 'Yes, and…'
'With its feet toward the wall?'
He nodded, then quickly looked at the statue. He clapped his hand over his mouth and cringed. 'Look how it stares at me! Oh, what have I done?'
'You've done the right thing,' I assured him, placing the statue out of his sight. 'Here, I have an errand for you: return this oar to the boathouse. Now go, and tell no one that we talked. No one! Stop trembling, people will notice. You've done the right thing,' I said again, closing the door behind him, and then added, 'I hope!'
After a hurried breakfast we made our way to the library. The slaves were up and about, sweeping and carrying and spreading baking smells from the kitchens, but no one else seemed to be stirring. A few lamps still burned in the hallways, and shadows lurked in the more remote corners, but most of the house was suffused with a soft blue light. We passed by a long window that faced eastwards; the sun, not yet risen behind Vesuvius, cast a halo of pale gold about the mountain's shoulders. It was the first hour of the day, when most Romans would be up and about. The denizens of the Cup keep a more leisurely schedule.
The library was unguarded and empty. I opened the shutters to let in as much light as possible. Eco stepped to the right of the table and studied the dried residue of blood on the Hercules statue to confirm what I had told him, then shivered at the early-morning chill that crept in through the windows from the gravelled courtyard outside. He picked up the chlamys that Crassus had draped over the other statue, which turned out to be a centaur, and wrapped it around his shoulders.
'I wouldn't borrow that particular cloak if I were you, Eco. I'm not sure how a man like Crassus would react to people of our ilk handling his personal things.'
Eco only shrugged and walked slowly around the room, gazing at the multitude of scrolls. Most of them were neatly rolled and inserted into long jackets of cloth or leather and identified by little tags. It appeared that the more literary works intended for pleasure or instruction — philosophical treatises, quaint Greek novels, plays, histories — had been given red or green tags, and were rather haphazardly catalogued, heaped atop one another in tall, narrow shelves. Documents relating to business transactions were more fastidiously arranged in individual pigeonholes and given blue or yellow tags. All in all, there were hundreds of scrolls, filling two walls from floor to ceiling.
Eco let out a low whistle. 'Yes, quite impressive,' I agreed. 'I don't think I've ever seen so many scrolls in one place, not even in Cicero's house. But for now I'd rather you directed your eyes downward, to the floor. If ever a carpet was designed to hide a bloodstain it must be this one, all dark red and black. Still, if Lucius bled on the floor and the assassin used only a cloak to wipe it up, there should be some sign of the stain.'
Eco joined me in peering down at the geometric pattern. The morning light grew stronger moment by moment, but the longer we studied it the more baffling the dark pattern seemed to become. Together we crossed the carpet step by step. Eco eventually dropped to his hands and knees like a hound, but to no avail. If there had ever been a drop of blood on the carpet, some god must have turned it to dust and blown it away.
The tile floor, where it showed beyond the carpet's edge, was no more revealing. I lifted the edge of the carpet and folded it back, thinking it might have been moved to cover a bit of bloodstain, but I found nothing.
'Perhaps Lucius wasn't killed in this room, after all.' I sighed. 'He must have bled somewhere, and there's nowhere to bleed except on the floor. Unless…' I stepped towards the table. 'Unless he was standing here, where he naturally would be standing in his library, in front of the table. The blow was to the front of his head, not the back, so he must have been facing his assailant. And the blow was on the right, not the left, so he must have been facing north, with his left side toward the table and
his right side exposed. To strike the right temple head-on, the assailant must have used his left hand; that could be very important, Eco — anyone who picked up a heavy statue to use as a bludgeon would use the arm he favoured. We assume the killer was left-handed, then. Lucius would have been knocked sidelong onto the table…'
Eco obligingly pitched himself onto the table amid the clutter of documents Crassus had been studying the night before. He fell face-down with one arm beneath him and the other outstretched.
'In which case the blood might well have been spattered above the table, onto the wall — where it might as easily have been wiped away. I see no blood there now. Unless it spattered even higher…' I climbed onto my knees on the table. Eco pushed himself up to join me in studying the painting of Gelina. 'Encaustic on canvas, set in a frame of black wood with mother-of-pearl inlay — easy to wipe clean — and encased in the wall. Had any blood landed on the painting itself, I doubt the murderer would have dared to scrub the wax too vigorously for fear of damaging it, if indeed he saw the blood among all these pigments. Amazing, isn't it, how many colours there are in a painting when you see it this close? At this distance Iaia's signature is certainly large enough, done in red, but more likely cinnabar than blood. The folds of Gelina's stola are a mottled red and black; no doubt she chose these carpets to match her gown in the painting. Red here, black there, and — Eco, do you see it?'
Eco anxiously nodded. Dribbled across a patch of green background, where no painter would have been so careless as to spill it, was a spray of red-black drops the colour of dried blood. Eco peered closer and then began pointing out more drops — on the background, on the stola, everywhere across the bottom of the painting, even a smear across the first letter of Iaia's signature. The more we looked, the more we saw. In the growing morning light the drops seemed to blossom before our eyes, as if the painting itself wept blood. Eco made a face, and I grimaced in agreement: What a grisly blow must have been struck across the head of Lucius Licinius to have scattered so much gore. I drew back from the painting, repulsed.
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