The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  Augustus stared off a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Quickly enough he was misty-eyed, which was not unusual for him. He cried more easily than most men, often for no apparent reason.

  ‘You and I seem to have grown old together, my friend,’ he began somewhat suddenly. ‘I mean, I’m facing imminent decrepitude, I know that. But I called you “my boy” a minute ago, and it suddenly dawns on me that you’re no spring chicken yourself anymore, and that it’s been a very long time indeed that we’ve been friends. Which is why I chose you for this nasty little job. Because I know you, know I can trust you. Know you’ll handle it . . . properly.’

  Augustus put his hand on Ovid’s not-so-young shoulder and stared into his eyes – and as always the poet found himself enveloped within the magical folds of his mentor’s overpowering charisma. Small comfort though it was, he knew he was hardly alone in his inability to overcome it. For throughout his long life, Augustus had been virtually irresistible to nearly everyone he’d met.

  ‘I’ll take care of everything, My Lord,’ Ovid heard himself saying. He looked back at Augustus, struggling to meet his gaze on equal terms. But it was no use.

  ‘I know,’ the king of the world replied in his sweetest voice. And when Ovid finally left him he was both amazed and angry to find his own eyes wet with tears.

  ‘Tiberius Drusus, I have been empowered as Delator of Rome to search your quarters, and I inform you in the presence of these men’ – he gestured at the five Praetorian guardsmen beside and behind him – ‘that I will do so now and that, in accordance with Roman law, I will carry out the search wearing only a loincloth and carrying only a simple wooden platter.’

  Tiberius, a not-widely-liked, frequently grimacing man, often joked about as Rome’s ‘town grouch,’ scowled in his usual sourpuss way. ‘What? You can’t! By what right . . .?!’

  Ovid displayed the scroll with Augustus’ seal, and Tiberius shut up at once – didn’t even bother to open it, let alone read it.

  His apartments were large and lavish, with their own entrance and atrium, seven bedrooms, a moderate-sized banquet hall and a small private kitchen. Ovid suddenly felt exhausted at just the thought of the hours of work ahead. But, having stripped to the required minimum, he plunged right in, starting logically enough, he thought, with Tiberius’ private rooms – a study and connecting bedroom. They were sizeable and well-furnished, and after nearly two hours of going through several large desks, cabinets and closets, he was about to give up when he noticed a few loose tiles in the bedroom floor.

  The tiles formed a mosaic of some idyllic country scene, and the loose fit was in the foot of a sheep farmer guiding his flock. Ovid bent down, and picked at it till it came out. With a little pressure, several more fell away, then several dozen, exposing a hole about a foot in diameter. He called for the guards to come up and to bring Tiberius. When they arrived, he pushed aside the jumble of tiles and pulled out what lay beneath: a tunic, a purple sash and a pair of sandals. Blood, now dried and flaking in some places, covered large parts of all the garments.

  ‘Step forward please,’ Ovid told Tiberius, who did so at once, his mouth and eyes wide open with surprise.

  ‘Do these articles of clothing belong to you?’ Ovid inquired, though of course he knew they did. The sash in particular was unmistakably his.

  Tiberius looked at them closely, held them in his hands and nodded slowly. ‘But . . . what does this mean?’

  ‘And this?’ Ovid demanded, holding out his hand to the nearby sergeant of the guard, who in turn pulled out the ornate dagger which Ovid had found beside Marcellus’ body. His energetic inquiries around the palace had already given him the answer to that question as well.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Tiberius said. ‘But that was stolen . . .’

  ‘Oh, that’s bloody likely,’ Ovid said, though his tone lacked the sarcastic bite to make his point convincingly.

  ‘But it was, I tell you. Stolen over a week ago. Look here, this is outrageous. I know Marcellus and I were hardly the best of friends. Everyone knew that. But if anyone thinks I murdered him . . . Well, that’s nonsense. As for these clothes, I don’t know how they got here. And as for that argument we had, well it was nothing, I can assure you.’

  ‘What argument?’ Ovid blurted out. Or almost did. Luckily, he kept his head and instead said, ‘Nothing, eh. That’s not the way I heard it.’ And, recalling Novo and Lollianus, thought, Those drunken fools! ‘I heard you almost came to blows,’ Ovid plunged on. ‘And that you had damn good motive for killing him!’

  Tiberius paced a small, nervous circle. ‘All right! So we almost did. So I told him to stay the hell away from my wife or I’d . . .’

  Ovid struggled to keep too much astonishment from showing on his face. Astonishment that his ploy had worked so well. Astonishment that Tiberius would blather out so much that was so incriminating. (Even though he’d trailed off at the end it was probably enough.) Most of all, astonishment that he thought it was Marcellus that his wife was seeing – Tiberius was known for being remarkably out of touch!

  And now came the oddest moment yet in this case. Ovid, though managing to look determined, nonetheless just stood there. The guards were waiting. Tiberius was waiting. His next words were supposed to be: ‘Tiberius Drusus, in the name of the Emperor and on behalf of the people of Rome I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Marcellus Gaius.’

  But for whatever reason the words did not come. Instead, he said: ‘I don’t have to tell you, Tiberius Drusus, that you appear to be incriminated in a serious crime. The investigation is continuing, and I strongly advise you not to leave the palace and to remain available for later questioning.’

  With that he scooped up the clothing and motioned for the guards to follow. A twit indeed is what you are, Tiberius, he thought, as he dressed and left those apartments with all possible speed.

  Dark nights. Darker days.

  Ovid drunk and in hiding. Ovid confused. Giddy with laughter one minute. Weeping miserably the next. Alternately outraged and acquiescent. Determined and defeated. Contumacious and cowardly.

  He stayed in the home – the hovel, really – of a prostitute named Livilla whom he’d known for about ten years and who was madly in love with him.

  ‘Why leave? Stay as long as you like. They’ll never look here.’

  Each night, as he cradled her face softly in his hands, she would tell him such things. He never argued the point; it was no use. But he knew how untrue it was, knew they were looking for him even now. Knew that eventually they would dig enough, question enough to learn his whereabouts. And all that would do would add her death to the carnage that was so surely on its way.

  Each morning he would try to summon his courage and leave, but instead would reach for the wine and by noon be too drunk to go anywhere. Eventually he would pass out, then awaken at dusk in her arms.

  ‘You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?’ he said one evening in a wide-eyed, wistful tone.

  ‘You know that’s true,’ she said, and he replied with a solemn nod. ‘Then why ask?’ she asked him.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m . . . sorry. A stupid question. A . . . man’s question.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s true enough,’ she said, but even then couldn’t help adding: ‘But please . . . there’s no need to apologize.’

  On the evening of the third day, after darkness had fallen, when she had stepped out for a few minutes to fetch water, he simply got up and left. Without a word. Without even a note left behind. In his favor, it was an act that was entirely out of character for him, but in this case he simply lacked the energy for the inevitable goodbye scene; he was even afraid if she saw a note that she might chase after him. And he knew that by now he had already stayed too long and that every extra minute she spent in his company increased her danger exponentially.

  He made his way through the streets to the palace and bribed a porter at a side gate to let him slip in unseen. He reached his apartments and went
straight to bed. He slept the restless, shallow sleep of the doomed.

  It came much more softly than he’d supposed it would, and not even all that early. Just a lone secretary knocking gently around breakfast time, wondering if he might join the Emperor for a few minutes.

  Ovid shambled the thousand feet or so of hallways that separated his own quarters from Augustus’ lavish domain, still not sure what to expect.

  ‘Where’ve you been!’ the Emperor growled the instant Ovid walked in, and he knew his trouble was every bit as serious as he’d figured in the first place.

  ‘Investigating, My Lord,’ he said. His tone was unflinching, even a bit needling, as was his manner. He helped himself to eggs and oysters and stretched out on a sofa.

  The Emperor looked up slowly at his favorite poet, his eyes fiery with the ancient anger. With a quick, violent motion he sent his plate crashing across the room in Ovid’s general direction. A guard rushed in but Augustus waved him off.

  ‘You being smart with me! Hmm, Ooovid.’ He stretched out the first syllable of his name as if he’d just as soon be stretching him out instead. The poet’s jaunty demeanor deserted him outright, and it was all he could do to keep from trembling.

  ‘Investigating what, may I ask? You have all the evidence. Hell, I hear you practically have his goddamn confession. Enough to boil the son of a bitch in broccoli. And that was three days ago! So what’s going on! Why haven’t you arrested him? Would you mind too terribly explaining that to your decrepit old Emperor. Eh, Ooovid?’

  Ovid gulped. ‘My investigation is . . . continuing, Your Majesty. There are certain . . . questions I feel remain unresolved. And frankly, sir, I would have thought you might have appreciated my caution when it came to arresting one so highly-placed and so closely connected to the Imperial house.’

  Augustus slowly swung his legs over the side of his own sofa. Then he stood and casually walked – ambled, really – to the food table and made himself a new plate. The one he’d thrown to the floor had long since been cleaned up. Then he eased his way back to the couch, stretched out and resumed eating. All the while Ovid watched him as one might watch a wild cat – a jaguar, say – that seemed ready to spring, either in direct assault or to set some deadly trap.

  ‘Like what?’ Augustus said over a mouthful of food.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Like what? What questions? What questions, um, “remain unresolved”?’

  Though he tried hard not to, Ovid gulped again. ‘Well . . . uh, for one thing I felt Tiberius’ surprise at the discovery of the bloody clothes in his bedroom might be sincere. And notice, please, I said might. For another, I was able to check in a roundabout way, admittedly not a hundred per cent reliable – but it appears his claim that the dagger was stolen several days before the murder might be valid.’

  Augustus, still eating, nodded with seeming interest at these disclosures. ‘Anything else?’

  Ovid shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, what did you . . .?’

  Augustus pointed at his mouth and shook his head apologetically. Then he swallowed, cleared his throat and said, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Uh, no. No, My Lord. That’s all for now.’

  The Emperor smiled, put his plate aside, stood, walked over to where Ovid was stretched out and sat down beside him. The poet who had just spooned a heaping bite of eggs into his mouth swallowed as best he could and stared at Augustus in rapt attention.

  ‘Listen, I understand now. You’re intimidated by my family, afraid of being caught in the middle of some Imperial row. But don’t worry about that. I’m the only one in my family that counts. The only one that matters. It’s been that way nearly forty years now, and will be a good while longer, I suspect. So I want you to grab a few of those guards outside, go over to Tiberius’ apartments and arrest him.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, gently pulling Ovid’s plate away as he tried to spoon another nervous bite. ‘Eat later. Arrest him now.’

  Ovid smiled obligingly as he always did when Augustus asked him for something, then got to his feet and made his way to the door. He was halfway through it and almost out when, as if literally stuck, he could go no farther. In a way he wanted to. Very much. And he made another halfhearted try. But it was no use. It was the same trouble he’d had the other day with Tiberius when the words of arrest just wouldn’t come.

  Slowly, poor Ovid turned around and walked a few reluctant steps back into the private quarters of the king of the world.

  ‘My Lord –’ He wanted to say so many things now, wanted to pay tribute, really. Tell him what a great friend he’d been and what a great man he was. The greatest in all history. He wanted to say this because he believed it – he’d feared him, yes, but loved him too. And understood the debt he owed him. It was the reason he’d pursued the charade, gone on with his ‘investigation’ as if it were real, despite everything that had happened. Despite everything else he had to tell him; the words that even now were stuck in his throat. And in his heart.

  ‘My Lord, I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ Ovid said. ‘I can’t arrest Tiberius. Because I know he didn’t do it. Because I know who did.’

  Augustus stood and walked toward him and their eyes met. And for once Ovid felt on equal terms. Or even as if he might have a slight advantage. Should he tell the truth, or bluff? Ovid did not avert his eyes as he spoke:

  ‘My Lord, I was . . . in the next room. I heard everything. And saw . . . enough. More than enough. You’re . . . not used to not getting your own way, Your Majesty. You wanted Marcellus as a lover, but he wouldn’t have it. And after a long, terrible argument, your rage –’

  Ovid stopped and shook his head. He was crying now at the thought of what had happened.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone so . . . angry. You . . . were like a mad dog, sir, and I think your rage overcame you. And you pulled out a knife and started slashing with it. And then you stabbed him. And then you killed him.’

  For one brief moment, Augustus’ kingly mask deserted him and his old friend could glimpse the confused and tormented man who had committed a senseless murder. And then just like that it was over, the mask was back and Ovid once again was facing the man who ruled the world.

  ‘I’ll have to send you away, of course,’ Augustus said with stunning matter-of-factness.

  Ovid flinched. He hadn’t expected that. To be executed, yes. Or even murdered on the spot. But exile? He wasn’t sure that was better. In fact, after a minute or so he was certain it wasn’t.

  Augustus ordered him placed in house arrest pending his departure. As the guards escorted him back to his rooms he had a realization that nearly knocked him down:

  He’d been ready to overlook that Augustus was the murderer! And why not? He’d known of his murders in the past. But only now did he understand what had finally turned him against his mentor – what had really horrified him at last: that Augustus would actually plant the evidence – the dagger, the bloody clothes – to convict an innocent man. Had Ovid been willing to go along with the ruse? Or had he expected some miracle to come along and save Tiberius from the executioner – and himself from a looming fate of doom and dishonor? A lightheadedness almost overcame him as the guards helped him to his rooms. He had no answers. He never would, save in the end he had done the right thing. For the sake of justice – and himself.

  The homicide investigation was quietly dropped, and the murder of Marcellus Gaius remained unsolved. Ovid left Rome ten days later for his assigned destination, a desolate place called Tomis at the mouth of the River Danube on the Black Sea, where he would spend the final eleven years of his life. The official reason for his banishment was the supposed pornographic nature of his poems.

  Though his subject matter changed, he never stopped writing poetry, never stopped bombarding official Rome with anguished pleadings to come home. When Augustus died seven years later, he briefly had hopes. But his successor, Tiberius, also refused to bring him back. Evidently, he’d found out who his wife had reall
y been romancing in those long-ago glory days: when a sophisticate named Publius Ovidius Naso ruled Roman society with a gentle wit and his beautiful way with words.

  If it’s seemly to say so, my talent was distinguished, and among all that competition I was fit to be read. So, Malice, sheathe your bloody claws, spare this poor exile, don’t scatter my ashes after death!

  I have lost all: only bare life remains to quicken the awareness and substance of my pain.

  What pleasure do you get from stabbing this dead body?

  There is no space in me now for another wound.

  [Author’s Note: This story was inspired by Augustus’ true-life exile of Ovid in AD 8. The real reason for the banishment has been lost to history.]

  * 31 BC by our calendar, 719 according to the old Romans (counting from the founding of ancient Rome).

  A POMEGRANATE FOR PLUTO

  Claire Griffen

  Claire Griffen is an Australian writer, secretary and actress, who has also won prizes for her stage plays, including the pre-Trojan War comedy Hawk Among the Doves. She has only recently turned to ‘straight writing’, as she calls it, and apart from the short story ‘Catalyst’ in the experimental science-fiction magazine, Boggle, this is her first professional appearance. It is set during the horrific reign of the Emperor Caligula.

  Hengist, the ex-gladiator and proprietor of the best wineshop in Pompeii had a simple philosophy. Life was made up of sensations, some to be indulged in, others to be avoided.

  He had escaped death in the arena not only by his strength and his skill as a retiarius (net-and-trident fighter), but by a shrewd ability to read human nature. Pain was a sensation that could be avoided by accurately reading the fighting stance of an antagonist.

  Hengist knew men. And some women. Of all ranks, from slave to patrician. After capture as an infant in Cisalpine Gaul, Hengist had been raised in the home of a Senator, taught to read and write Latin and Greek and how to calculate. When the unfortunate Senator had incurred Imperial wrath and found himself flung down the Weeping Stairs with a hook through his noble neck, it might have been thought that the Imperial favourite who inherited his estate would have recognized Hengist’s skills as a scribe or lictor. Instead, Marcus Valerius saw only a tall, muscular young man with the corn-coloured hair of his race, the type to draw a Circus crowd. So Hengist had been despatched to the Ludus Magnus, the gladiators’ barracks, to begin his training for the arena.