Mummius moved closer to her and took her hand. ‘Strength,’ he whispered to her. Gelina nodded and caught her breath. She gripped his hand tightly, then released him.
‘If I am to help you,’ I said quietly, ‘I must know everything.’
For a long moment Gelina studied the view. When she looked back at me, her face had recomposed itself, as if she were able to absorb the serene detachment of the panorama by gazing upon it. Her voice was steady and calm as she continued.,
‘He was discovered, as I said, early the next morning.’ ‘Discovered where? By whom?’
‘In the front atrium, not far from where his body lies at this moment. It was one of the slaves who found him ��� Meto, the little boy who carries messages and wakes the other slaves to begin their morning duties. It was still dark; not a cock had crowed, the boy said, and the whole world seemed as still as death.’
‘What was the exact disposition of the body? Perhaps we should summon this Meto���’
‘No, I can tell you myself. Meto came to fetch me right away, and nothing was touched before I arrived. Lucius lay on his back, his eyes still open.’
‘Flat on his back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And his arms and legs, were they crumpled about his body? Was he clutching his head?’
‘No. His legs were straight, and his arms were above his head.’
‘Like Atlas, holding up the world?’
‘I suppose.’
‘And the weapon that was used to kill him, was it nearby?’ ‘It was never found.’
‘No? Surely there was a stone with blood on it, or a piece of metal. If not in the house, then perhaps in the courtyard.’
‘No. But there was a piece of cloth.’ She shuddered. Mummius sat up in his chair; this was apparently a detail that was new to him.
‘Cloth?’ I said.
‘A man’s cloak, soaked with blood. It was found only yesterday, not in the courtyard, but about half a mile up the road that heads northwards, toward Cumae and Puteoli. One of the slaves going to market happened to see it among the brush and brought it to me.’
‘Was it your husband’s cloak?’
Gelina frowned. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what it must have looked like; you would hardly know it was a cloak at all without examining it - all rumpled and stiff with blood, you understand?’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s simple wool, dyed a dark brown, almost black. It might have belonged to Lucius; he owned many cloaks. It could be anyone’s.’
‘Surely not. Was it the cloak of a rich man, or a slave? Was it new or old, well made or tawdry?’
Gelina shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’
‘I’ll need to see it.’
‘Of course. Ask Meto, later; I couldn’t bear to look at it now.’
‘I understand. But tell me this: was there much blood on the floor, beneath the wound? Or was there little blood?’
‘I think - only a little. Yes, I remember wondering how such a terrible wound could have bled so little.’
‘Then perhaps we can assume that the blood on this cloak came from Lucius Licinius. What else can you tell me?’
Gelina paused for a long moment. I could see she was faced with a disagreeable but unavoidable declaration. ‘On the morning that Lucius was found dead, there were two slaves missing from the household. They’ve been missing ever since. But I cannot believe that either of them could possibly have murdered Lucius.’
‘Who are these slaves?’
‘Their names are Zeno and Alexandros. Zeno is ��� was ��� my husband’s accountant and secretary. He wrote letters, balanced accounts, managed this and that. He had been with Lucius for almost six years, ever since Crassus began to favour us and our fortunes changed. An educated Greek slave, quiet and soft-spoken, very gende, with a white beard and a frail body. I had always hoped, if we ever had a son, that Zeno could be his first tutor. It is simply not conceivable that he could have murdered Lucius. The idea that he could murder anyone is preposterous.’
‘And the other slave?’
‘A young Thracian called Alexandros. We bought him four months ago at the market in Puteoli, to work in the stables. He has a marvellous way with horses. He could read and do simple sums, as well. Zeno used him sometimes in my husband’s library, to add figures or copy letters. Alexandros is very quick to learn, very clever. He never showed any signs of discontent. On the contrary, it seemed to me that he was one of the happiest slaves in the household. I can’t believe that he murdered Lucius.’
‘And yet both these slaves disappeared on the night your husband was murdered?’
‘Yes. I can’t explain it.’
Mummius, who until then had been silent, cleared his throat. ‘There is more to the story. The most damning evidence of all.’ Gelina looked away, then nodded in resignation. She gestured for him to continue. ‘On the floor at Lucius’s feet, someone used a knife to carve out six letters. They’re crude and shallow, hastily done, but you can read them clearly enough.’
‘What do they spell?’ I asked.
‘The name of a famous village in Greece,’ said Mummius grimly. ‘Although someone as clever as you might presume that whoever did the scrawling simply didn’t have the time to finish the job.’
‘What village? I don’t understand.’
Mummius dipped his finger into his goblet and wrote the letters in blood-red wine on the marble table, all straight lines and sharp points:
SPARTA
‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘A village in Greece.’ Either that, or a hurried, interrupted homage to the king of runaway slaves, the murderer of Roman slave owners, the escaped Thracian gladiator: Spartacus.
VI
‘That night no one heard anything, saw anything?’ ‘No,’ said Gelina.
‘And yet, if the name Spartacus was left incomplete, that would seem to indicate that whoever carved it was disturbed and fled; very odd.’
‘Perhaps they simply panicked,’ said Mummius.
‘Perhaps. The next morning, what else was discovered missing from the household, besides the two slaves?’
Gelina thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? No coins? No weapons? Knives from the kitchen? I should think that escaping slaves would loot the house for silver and weapons.’
‘Unless, as you say, they were disturbed,’ said Mummius. ‘What about horses?’
‘Yes,’ said Gelina, ‘two horses were gone the next morning, but in the confusion no one even noticed until they both came wandering back that afternoon.’
‘Without horses they couldn’t have gone far,’ I muttered.
Gelina shook her head. ‘You’re already assuming what everyone else assumes ��� that Zeno and Alexandros murdered Lucius and set out to join Spartacus.’
‘What else can I assume? The head of the household is found murdered in the atrium of his home; two slaves are missing, having evidendy escaped on horseback. And one of the slaves is a young Thracian, like Spartacus ��� so proud of his infamous countryman he’s insolently carved the name at his dead master’s feet. You hardly need my skills to figure it out for yourself. It’s a story that’s been repeated all over Italy with many variations in the past months. What do you need me for? As I told Faustus Fabius earlier today, I don’t track down escaped slaves. I regret the absurd efforts that were squandered on my coming here, but I cannot imagine what you want from me.’
‘The truth!’ said Gelina desperately. ‘Cicero said you have a nose for it, like a boar for truffles.’
‘Ah, now I understand why Cicero has treated me so shabbily over the years. I’m a menagerie, not a man!’
Gelina’s eyes flashed. Mummius scowled darkly, and from the corner of my eye I saw Eco give a twitch. Unseen beneath the table I gave his foot a tap with mine to let him know that all was under control; he glanced at me and gave a conspiratorial sigh of relief. I have been through many interviews with wealthy clients, under ma
ny circumstances. Even those who most need and sincerely want my help are often maddeningly slow to come to the point. I much prefer conferring with common merchants or simple shopkeepers, men who will say right out what they want from you. The rich seem to think I should surmise their needs without being told. Sometimes abruptness or a feigned bit of rudeness will speed them along.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Gelina hopelessly.
‘No, I do not. What is it you want from me? Why did you have me brought here so mysteriously, and in such an extravagant manner? What is this strange game, Gelina?’
The animation left her face. Like a pliable mask, her serenity changed to simple resignation, dulled by a bit too much red wine. ‘I’ve said all I can say. I don’t have the strength to explain it all to you. But unless someone can uncover the truth���’ She stopped short and bit her lip. ‘They will all die, every one of them,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘The suffering, the waste - I cannot bear it …’
‘What do you mean? Who will die?’
‘The slaves,’ said Mummius. ‘Every slave in the household.’
I felt a sudden chill. Eco shuddered, and I saw that he felt it as well, even though the air was mild and calm. ‘Explain, Marcus Mummius.’
He drew himself up stiffly, like a commander briefing his lieutenant. ‘You know that Marcus Licinius Crassus is the actual owner of this household?’
‘So I gathered.’
‘Very well. It so happens that on the night of the murder, Crassus and his retinue, including Fabius and myself, had just come down from Rome. We were busy setting up camp on the plain beside Lake Lucrinus, only a few miles up the road, along with our recruits.’
‘Recruits?’
‘Soldiers, many of them veterans who served under Crassus in the civil wars.’
‘How many soldiers?’ ‘Six hundred.’ ‘A whole cohort?’
Mummius looked at me dubiously. ‘You might as well know. Certain events are transpiring in Rome; Marcus Crassus has begun to lobby for a special commission from the Senate that will allow him to raise his own army and march against Spartacus.’
‘But that’s the job of praetors and consuls, elected officials���’
‘The elected officials have failed, disgracefully. Crassus has the military skill and the financial means to dispose of the rebels once and for all. He came down from Rome to muster recruits and to consolidate his political and financial support here on the Cup. When he’s ready, he’ll prod the Senate in Rome to vote him the special commission.’
‘Just what the Republic needs,’ I said, ‘another warlord with his own private army.’
‘Exactly what Rome needs!’ said Mummius. ‘Or would you rather have slaves marauding across the countryside?’
‘And what does this have to do with the murder of Crassus’s cousin, or with my being here?’
‘I’ll tell you. On the night that Lucius Licinius was killed, we were camped at Lake Lucrinus. The next morning Crassus assembled his staff and we headed for Baiae. We arrived here at the villa only hours after Lucius had been found dead. Crassus was outraged, naturally. I myself organized teams of men to search for the missing slaves; in my absence the hunt has continued, but the escaped slaves are still missing.’ He sighed. ‘And now we come to the crux of the problem. The funeral of Lucius Licinius will take place on the seventh day of mourning - that’s the day after tomorrow. On the day after that, Crassus has decreed there will be funeral games with gladiators, in keeping with ancient tradition. That will be the Ides of September, the date of the full moon; a propitious date for sacred games.’
‘And after the gladiators have fought their matches?’ I said, suspecting what the answer would be.
‘Every slave in this household will be publicly executed.’
‘Can you imagine?’ murmured Gelina. ‘Even the old and the innocent; all of them will be killed. Have you ever heard of such a law?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘a very ancient and venerated law, handed down by our forefathers: if a slave kills his master, all the slaves in the household must die. Such harsh measures keep slaves in their place, and there are those who would argue that having seen another slave murder their master, even the meekest slave is contaminated by the knowledge and can never be trusted again. These days the application of the law is a matter of discretion. The slaying of a master by a slave is a rare atrocity, or was, before Spartacus. Faced with a choice of killing every slave in a household or punishing only the miscreants, most heirs would choose to preserve their property. Crassus has a great reputation for greed; why would he choose to sacrifice every slave on the estate?’
‘He wants to make a point,’ said Mummius.
‘But it means the death of children and old women,’ protested Gelina.
‘Let me explain it so that you will understand, Gordianus.’ Mummius looked like a glum commander addressing his troops before a dubious battle. ‘Crassus has come to Campania and the Cup gathering support for his bid to be awarded the military command against Spartacus. The Senate’s campaign has been one long disaster - Roman armies defeated, generals humiliated and sent home in disgrace, consuls forced out of office by public outrage, the state left leaderless. So much havoc, wrought by a ragtag army of escaped criminals and slaves! All of Italy quakes with fear and outrage.
‘Crassus is a fine commander; he proved that under Sulla. With his wealth - and the defeat of Spartacus to his credit - he’s well on his way to the consulship. While lesser men are fleeing from the job, Crassus sees the command as an opportunity. The Roman who stops Spartacus will be a hero. Crassus intends to be that man.’
‘Because otherwise that man will be Pompey.’
Mummius made a face. ‘Probably. Half the Senators in Rome have run off to their villas to try to save their own property, while the other half bite their nails and wait for Pompey to return from Spain, praying the state can survive that long. As if Pompey were another Alexander! A qualified commander is all that’s needed to put an end to Spartacus. Crassus can do it in a matter of months if the Senate will only give him the nod. He can gather up the remnants of the surviving legions here in Italy, add to them his own private army raised largely from his clients here in the south, and make himself the Saviour of the Republic overnight.’
I looked out at the bay and Vesuvius beyond. ‘I see. That’s why the murder of Lucius Licinius is more than just a tragedy.’
‘It’s an incredible embarrassment, that’s what it is!’ said Mummius. ‘To have slaves murdering and running free from one of his own households, even as he’s asking the Senate to hand him a sword to punish Spartacus ��� in the Forum, they’ll laugh until they weep. That’s why he feels compelled to exact the sternest judgment possible, to fell back on tradition and ancient law, the harsher the better.’
‘To turn an embarrassment into a political boon, you mean.’
‘Exactly. What might have been a disaster could turn into just the sort of propaganda victory he needs. “Crassus, soft on runaway slaves? Hardly! The man slew a whole household of them down in Baiae, men, women, and children, showed no mercy at all, made a public spectacle of it, a feast day - just the sort of man we can trust to take on Spartacus and his murderous rabble!” That’s what people will say.’
‘Yes. I see.’
‘But Zeno and Alexandros are innocent,’ said Gelina wearily.
‘I know they are. Someone else must have murdered Lucius. None of the slaves should be punished, yet Crassus refuses to listen. Thank the gods for Marcus Mummius, who understands. Together we convinced Crassus to at least let me summon you from Rome. There was no other way to get you here in time, except to send the Fury; Crassus made a great show of his generosity in allowing me to use it. He offered to pay for your services as well, just to humour me. I can ask no more favours of him, no postponements. We have so little time. Only three days until the funeral games, and then���’
‘How many slaves are there in all, not counting Ze
no and Alexandros?’ I asked.
‘I lay awake last night counting them: ninety-nine. There were a hundred and one, counting Zeno and Alexandros.’
‘So many, for a villa?’
‘There are vineyards to the north and south,’ she said vaguely, ‘and of course the olive orchards, the stables, the boathouse …’
‘Do the slaves know?’ I asked.
Mummius looked at Gelina, who looked at me with her eyebrows raised high. ‘Most of the slaves are being kept under guard in the annexe on the far side of the stables,’ she said quietly. ‘Crassus won’t allow the field slaves to go out, and he’s let me have only the essential slaves here in the house. They’re in custody, they know that, but no one has told them the whole truth. Certainly you must not tell them. Who knows what might transpire if the slaves suspected
I nodded, but I saw no point in secrecy. Except for young Apollonius in the baths, I had hardly glimpsed the face of a single slave in the household, only a succession of bowed heads and averted eyes. Even if they had not been told, somehow they knew.
We took our leave of Gelina. The interview had exhausted her. As we left the semicircular room, I glanced back to see her silhouette reaching for the ewer to replenish her cup with wine.
Mummius led us back to the atrium and showed me where the letters SPARTA had been scrawled into the flagstones. Each letter was as tall as my finger. As Mummius had said, they appeared to have been hastily made, crudely scraped rather than chiselled. I had stepped right over them without noticing when Faustus Fabius had first shown us into the house. In the dim light of the hallway they were easily overlooked. How strange the hallway and atrium suddenly seemed, with the death masks of the ancestors staring from their niches, the piping faun prancing in his fountain, the dead man on his ivory bier, and the name of the most dreaded and despised man in all of Italy half-scrawled on the floor.
The light in the atrium was beginning to grow soft and hazy; it would soon be time to light the lamps, but there was still enough sunlight before dinner to ride out and see where the bloodied cloak had been found. Mummius summoned the boy Meto, who fetched the cloak and the slave who had found it, and we rode out past the pylons onto the northern road.
Arms of Nemesis - Roman Sub Rosa 02 Page 7
