The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  As a free man, and a Roman citizen, Libertus was not likely to be executed or whipped – at least, not very much – without due legal cause, but with Sergius it was always hard to be certain. Libertus had thought of leaving – he was supposedly free to do so, and if he got off the estate Sergius could hardly have him fetched back – but the roads were dangerous with wolves and brigands, and the pittance which Sergius paid him would not have lasted long.

  And there was Lavinia. That ‘wife’ Sergius had spoken of. Or, she would be his wife, tomorrow.

  She had stood out against it for a long time. That was why Libertus admired her so. It took courage to stand out against Sergius, when he had set his mind on something. And he had set his mind on her.

  She was not really Lavinia, of course. She was Caerlyn, the daughter of the man who had owned the estate, but Sergius preferred a Roman name. He had wanted her, almost as much as the estate, the first time he saw her, but she could not be taken at sword-point, the same way he took everything else.

  For one thing she had a ‘husband’ according to local custom. Sergius didn’t mind this, but her father had protested at first. Sergius had to reason with him (privately, in a small black cell at the back of the villa) before he came round. And her two brothers were much the same. But even when the whole family was convinced that this was a wonderful match, Lavinia declined.

  Libertus winced for her when he heard it, but she was resolute. She refused to swear a nuptial oath, or put her seal to anything. Rather to everyone’s surprise, Sergius did not have her put to death. She did not even have a terrible accident. It proved how much he genuinely liked the girl, and besides, Marcus Septimus had recently arrived. News of a spiteful vendetta would not sound well if it reached the ears of the regional governor.

  Sergius tried everything to persuade Lavinia. Flattery, presents, cajolery: nothing worked. Until the young man she called ‘husband’ was taken into custody and Sergius, very persuasively, offered her the option of marrying at once, ‘Or by Mercury, I’ll have that young man tied to my chariot wheels and driven to Londinium’.

  It had done the trick. Lavinia had consented. And here was the prospective groom – apparently in high good humour and interested in the pavement. Libertus allowed himself to breathe out.

  ‘The border here, you see?’ He pointed to the mosaic he had been laying, the patterns traced carefully on the thick bricklike mud beneath, showing him where to place the tiny tessella fragments which would make up the final picture. ‘And in each corner a picture – the seasons. Spring, see? And here – summer. And autumn.’

  Sergius let out a bellow of laughter. ‘And winter, look. That scrawny creature in the hooded cloak. ‘British cloaks’ they call them, Marcus – need them in this benighted province – or half the populace would freeze to death.’ He looked at the figure again. ‘It reminds me of that crone who comes here, selling berries and fungus. Witch, she’s supposed to be. But the fungus is good. There is an orange one –’ he kissed his fingers. ‘Food for the gods. And the ignorant peasants will not eat it. Pah –’ he spat. ‘By Mithras, what clods.’

  Marcus smiled.

  Sergius bellowed with laughter. ‘You know what they say about British fungus? Aphrodisiac! Make a man a real man! Well – we shall see tomorrow. You shall try some, Marcus.’

  Marcus smiled feebly. ‘I don’t care for mushrooms. I thought it was red meat that was supposed to warm the blood.’

  Sergius slapped his back. ‘We shall have that, too. Venison. Suckling pig. Guinea fowl. And snails – good for the juices. I had a cask of edible snails brought down last winter, and that idiot Gerwyn has been tending them, though no Briton believes that they are safe to eat. And then there’s fruit and sweet pastry. What a feast it will be, eh, Libertus?’

  Libertus knew what that meant. Sergius lying on the couch beside the low table and stuffing himself until his fat frame would hold no more, then sticking a feather in his throat till he vomited himself enough space to eat some more. ‘Yes, excellence.’

  ‘There will be wine, Marcus, for you and me,’ Sergius said. ‘That sickly mead sticks to my gullet, and as for that drink they make with rotting apples . . . The peasants shall drink it. It is all it is fit for – or they either. Libertus, see my wishes are known! And now, come Marcus. I must show you the bath-house. A hypocaust – under-floor heating. The calidarium so hot it makes a man feel young again – and the frigidarium . . . though one hardly needs a cold pool in this climate . . .’

  He led the way out, still boasting about his villa.

  Libertus sighed and went back to his work. He did not bother to go to the kitchens. There was not a man or woman on the whole estate who did not know in detail what Sergius intended for the wedding feast. More than that – every peasant on the estate was expected to bring something – berries, apples, mushrooms, as a contribution to the occasion.

  Gifts were coming already. He had been watching them through the open arches. A fat labourer brought a bunch of pink roots – boiled they were good to eat. A toothless woman with a basket of eggs, ‘for the bride’s fertility’. Poor Lavinia. She would be resting now – steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, lying alone in the women’s quarters with the shutters drawn, playing the lute, perhaps, or more likely spinning wool on a hand spindle as all well-educated ladies did. Later, when the men had finished, she would go to the bath-house with a slave sent to rub her skin with scented oils and creams. And for what? For that great drunken oaf to paw at.

  Libertus sighed, and bent back over his mosaic, considering before he moved a single piece. It was an art, laying mosaics – it took a careful, observant eye to see how each part lay against the next, how each detail fitted together to make the whole. He took one small piece of tile and fitted it expertly into place – and presto, there was a man’s arm as certainly as if he had painted it with pigment.

  More movement in the courtyard. That crone again, much as he had depicted her, with her basket of forest fungus. How could Sergius eat that stuff! It was decadent, decaying – like the man himself. He watched the bent woman limping in with her offering – the white wispy hair and filthy face half-hidden under the heavy hood, the grubby hands clutching the cloak across the chest, the drab sacking tunic and the clumsy feet bound in rough leather. A kitchen slave came to the door and the woman whispered something. Libertus heard her high cracked laugh, and then she shuffled off again – almost exactly like the picture he had created with his mosaic. Almost.

  Sergius came out of the bath-house and Libertus stooped to his work again.

  The feast was everything Sergius had promised, and more. Libertus attended, like all the other servants on the estate, just long enough to drink the health of the bride and groom. Sergius drank a jug of wine and insisted that Marcus did the same. The delicacies were brought, one by one, but only Sergius seemed to have any appetite for them. Lavinia was there, looking pale and anguished. She did no more than pick at a mushroom. Marcus seemed to have lost his appetite – and the other guests, being mostly Britons, preferred the more robust fare of venison, beef and pork.

  Sergius got up, staggering and went out to vomit. Everyone had been expecting it, and it was quite some time before anyone realized that he was dead.

  Marcus took control and called the wise women. Something he had eaten, everyone said. Possibly the snails which he had insisted on. Marcus had Gerwyn flogged, just in case – but his heart wasn’t in it. He had eaten one or two of the snails himself and thought they were delicious.

  It could have been the fungus, Marcus said, although Lavinia had tasted that too. They would ask the fungus woman. She was sent for, but – suddenly the whole villa was in an uproar – she could not be found. Marcus summoned Libertus, who appeared before him, nervously, in the audience chamber.

  Marcus was pacing the room with anxiety, but he got straight to the point. ‘Pavement-maker, I have need of your skills. You see how it is. The woman was obviously guilty and has run away. My guards fo
und her hovel empty and her fire cold. I have posted sentries on the roads, but no one has seen her since yesterday. Or so they say.’ He spat, expertly, into a pottery bowl placed for the purpose. ‘I must find her, Libertus. The people are talking of witchcraft – and we cannot have it said that the Romans are cursed by local magic.’

  Libertus looked at the floor. ‘You do not believe in sorcery, excellence?’

  ‘Not this time,’ Marcus said. ‘Do you? There are fifty people on this estate alone who would have poisoned Sergius and been glad to do it. The man was a boor – but he was a Roman citizen, and the law must be observed. Besides, the disappearance proves the guilt. If the crone did not do it for herself, she was paid to do it. By the man who helped her to escape, no doubt. No, Libertus, you shall find her for me. Five denarii to find the murderer and uphold the law of Rome.’

  Libertus nodded slowly. ‘The money would be welcome, excellence, but there is more than that. I am curious myself. Let me start in the kitchens.’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘There is nothing to be gained. The hag came with her basket, and gave it to Gerwyn for the feast. After that the fungus was in full view in the kitchen – and there were a dozen eyes to see. They all swear that it was not touched, except to cook and serve it. And why would the crone have disappeared if she were not guilty? Find her, Libertus. She is to be captured, brought before the governor and put to the sword. I will go back to Glevum, tomorrow. You can send to me when she is found.’

  There was, indeed, little point in questioning anyone further, but Libertus went through the charade. Marcus was right. People were already talking of witchcraft. The woman seemed to have disappeared. Every building had been searched. Guards had been posted on all the roads for miles but nothing was found. People on the estate knew what to make of that, whatever the Roman said. But no one had any information to give.

  He went to see Lavinia – who had gone back to being Caerlyn again. Her husband had been released and she was clearly unwilling to spend time away from him even to speak to Libertus, but when she came she was charming. How she would have been wasted on that odious Sergius. But she had nothing new to tell. ‘I am sorry I cannot tell you more,’ she said with a helpless smile. ‘But I will give you any aid I can.’

  Libertus bowed, and took his leave, but at the door he turned back. ‘Sergius would have had the cooks flogged,’ he suggested. ‘To sharpen their memories. Or perhaps the serving-men. Should we, do you think . . .?’

  She came over to him, tugging at his arm. ‘No! No!’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Those poor slaves were questioned half to death by Marcus – there is nothing more they can tell you. Besides, I tasted a mushroom myself. I ask you, Libertus, which of the staff would willingly have poisoned me?’ That was true. Everyone in the villa was devoted to Lavinia.

  ‘Then I will search for the fungus-woman.’

  She nodded. ‘It was the fungus, I swear it. You know where she lives? She has a hovel in the forest, not far from the spring.’

  Libertus looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I know the place. Thank you, my lady. You have helped me greatly.’ He went out, taking his cloak, and set off into the forest.

  He found the place without difficulty – a filthy hovel. Libertus put his head inside and looked around, although the stench was terrible. The fire had died, and the hearthstone was cold. There was nothing in the place but a few rags, a hunk of mouldering bread and a few rotting berries lying on a rough wood platter.

  Libertus picked up the bread. It was rank and stinking. He put it down and went swiftly out into the fresh air. The forest seemed green and fresh in the daylight. There was fungus growing nearby – honey-fungus, wild mushrooms. He could see why the fungus-woman had chosen this place for her home – her wares grew all around her. He set off thoughtfully, following the track between the fungus clumps – into the trees and away from the main path.

  The track at first was trampled by heavy feet – Marcus’ men, no doubt – but a little further on it became a narrow pass slippery with mud and the footprints stopped. Libertus could see why. The track ahead was untrodden – not a single new footprint in the mud – and the last rains had been a week ago. The woman who brought the fungus to the wedding could not have fled this way. No one had been down this track in days. Libertus stopped and thought a moment, and then picked his way carefully onwards. There was another fungus patch ahead.

  He went over to it. Suddenly he stopped and bent low. A space of crumpled grass. There was a dark stain on some of the sheltered stalks, but it was dry and flaked at his touch. And beside them, a handful of shrivelled objects. He picked them up – they were mushrooms. Gathered, days ago, now wizened from the sun.

  He straightened up and looked around him carefully. There was a small river at the bottom of the rise, and leading down to it, a dried-out ditch. He went over to it, and followed it down its length. There, half-buried under a pile of leaves was what he sought. The fungus-woman – or what was left of her, for the sorry bundle told its own story. The woman had been savaged by a wild animal. No human being had left those bite marks in the neck, nor chewed the flesh from the bones in that dreadful fashion.

  Libertus stood for a long moment, considering, then lifted the remains and carried them to the clearing. He went back up the track, scuffling the mud-patch as he went, then into the hovel to scatter the wizened mushrooms onto the platter. Then he set off back to the villa at a run.

  Marcus was delighted by the news. It was obvious to everyone what had happened. The old fungus woman had eaten some of her own mushrooms, fallen sick outside the hovel and been set upon by a bear, or wolves. The old fool must have been losing her mind – confusing good fungus with bad. And she had paid the price. It was bad luck on Libertus though. Since Sergius’ death was a sort of accident, he could not expect a reward.

  Libertus went back to his pavement. Lavinia – or Caerlyn – was there. Her family had repossessed the estate.

  ‘Do you want it finished?’ he said.

  She smiled at him. She was a beautiful girl. ‘Why not? It is a lovely thing. And you have captured the people, so wonderfully.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was looking at her, very steadily. ‘The woman with the basket now. I am so glad to have done that portrait before she died. Before anyone else took her place.’

  Silence. And then a sharp intake of breath. ‘You knew?’

  He shook his head. ‘I guessed. You knew she was dead, didn’t you? She must have died some time ago – from the state of the food in the hovel. And that is why there were no footprints on the track – the rain had washed them away – before we ever went looking for her. You must have known. See how you begged me to spare the kitchen staff, but positively enouraged me to hunt for her. I thought you would not bring punishment on a poor old woman, not even to save yourself. Was I right?’

  She nodded. ‘She died, a week back. Some wild animal had attacked her. We did not know she had been poisoned. My brother found the body.’

  Libertus smiled. ‘She was not poisoned. She was picking mushrooms. I found the place. And then your brother carried her away and buried her in a ditch? I realized, of course that no animal could have buried her like that.’

  She nodded again. ‘I told him to. If it was found – well, it could seem like justice. If not – it would seem like guilt. Or witchcraft. She would just have disappeared.’

  ‘And you took her place?’

  ‘With a basket of fungus, yes. There are some – deadly – that look so innocent. And Sergius ate others – inkcaps and puffballs – all sorts of things that local people feared. He swore they . . . made a man lusty.’

  Libertus nodded. ‘Yes, I heard him say so.’

  ‘I told the boy these were the strongest aphrodisiac. He believed me. No one ever doubted the old woman’s word. She knew more about the woods than any man living.’

  ‘You weren’t afraid someone else would eat them?’

  ‘It was Sergius’ special dish. No one would ha
ve dared – except perhaps Marcus and he hated mushrooms. I ate one myself, but I made sure it was a real honey fungus. It was a risk worth taking.’

  ‘You killed Sergius. Deliberately?’

  ‘Yes. I slipped out of the women’s quarters and into the disguise. My brother had brought the things – even the mushrooms. The plan came to me as soon as I knew the old woman was dead.’ She looked at him. ‘So, what will you do?’

  He picked up a piece of the mosaic. ‘Me? Nothing. Finish this, and ask, perhaps, for a letter if you can find someone to write one. To recommend me as a layer of mosaic pavements. What else should I tell them? That there was a monster here, who deserved to die? And an old woman, known to be a witch, who came to the feast with a basket of magic mushrooms and then . . . died of her own potion. It was justice, of a kind.’

  She shook her head. ‘But she did not die of her own potion. You said so. The animals must have killed her, as we thought. You arranged it, didn’t you? Moved the mushrooms to her hovel to make it seem that she had eaten some? To make it safer for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She looked at him intently. ‘One thing, Libertus. How did you know? I thought my disguise was perfect – no one could see my face under the hood, and no one ever looks at a crooked old crone.’

  He picked up a piece of mosaic. ‘Oh, it was good – the smudged, shadowed face, the disguised hands, the clothes that covered you from view – and the white wisps of hair, that was brilliant. Wool, of course, from your spindle? And your eyebrows, too?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And you copied her walk, and her laugh brilliantly. But there was one thing you forgot. Your legs. You see, on the mosaic, how I have made her legs? Stumpy, swollen – even though the rest of the woman was thin and wasted. The woman who came into the courtyard that day had slim ankles – and between her leather-bound feet and tattered tunic I could glimpse the legs – the bronzed beautiful legs of a young woman.’