The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 2 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  She met my eyes, and coloured. “Citizen, I do.”

  Marcus was looking at me as if I had taken leave of my senses, but I signalled to him with my eyes. “Then I will accompany Lividius to the temple,” he said, judging my message rightly. And I will deal with you later, his tone added.

  Even then it took ten minutes for Lividius to collect his 100 denarii and get himself into the carriage. I waited until the wheels had faded from our hearing before I went back into the triclinium and confronted Monnia.

  “Why did you do it, Monnia?”

  She seemed about to protest, but changed her mind. She looked at me plaintively. “How did you know?”

  “When something is impossible,” I said. “That may be because it is not true. We had a cradle – still warm – we had a baby in the house. It seemed to me there was only one solution. That was the baby from the cradle. The missing child could not be found because no child was missing. I presume that Sylvia’s child is a boy?”

  She nodded. “We agreed from the beginning. All the omens, you see – they’d said it was a boy. And I began to think, suppose that it is not? And then Sylvia had a son – a healthy boy. And her husband was dead – Claudia had used her before as a wet-nurse, and it seemed . . . well, fated almost. If my child was a boy – no harm was done. It was Claudia’s plan. If it were a girl – then – I would take Sylvia’s child and she mine. She would come to live in the villa, and bring the girl-child with her as her own. It was so simple. But, when it came to it, I could not bear to part with my child. I kept putting it off. And then, Lividius returned. Much sooner than we expected. The servant suddenly came and said he would be there within the hour. I sent for Sylvia. She was to take my child in her basket and come back with her own.”

  “And then,” I suggested, “Lividius came too soon?”

  “Sylvia had hardly reached us when he came. When I heard the carriage come I could not think. Claudia saw to it. She took my child from its cradle and gave it to Sylvia. They could hunt the boy now, she said, and never find him. And then, next morning, there the child would be. At the temple, perhaps, or in a cradle by the nymphaeum. Lividius is a superstitious man – he would think it marvellous. That was the plan, the best we could contrive between us at the time.”

  “Who knew of it?”

  “Only we three. Claudia attended me at the birth – only she knew the sex of the child. And it was a lusty baby – Lividius’s brother took it for a boy.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It took some time for me to realize that it would have been swaddled when he saw it. But why did you not bring Sylvia to the house at once?”

  “I dared not do so. Quite apart from my husband’s displeasure, the servants would have got to know the child, if it lived in the servant’s quarters, and noticed any substitution at once. As it was, the little maidservant was showing an unhealthy interest in him. I could only allow my own child to be glimpsed by the servants when it was swaddled and asleep. Fortunately, babies change very fast. Claudia had to keep the maids away and tend to me herself, claiming that I was ill. Though today I was glad enough of her subterfuge – I was half-fainting with alarm.”

  “And the note?”

  Monnia flushed. “That was my idea. I thought that it would draw attention away from us. Lividius knows I cannot write, and Claudia has a distinctive hand. I made Sylvia do it – she taught herself her letters by reading the inscriptions on the graves by the road. I never thought of suggesting where to pay the money.”

  “And you were not afraid, ever, that Sylvia would betray you?”

  Monnia looked at me. “Claudia is my cousin,” she said simply, “And Sylvia is her niece – but now all our other family is dead of the plague. Sylvia would starve without Claudia. As she would starve without me.” She sighed. “So what will you do now? Tell Lividius? He will divorce me. I suppose you think he had reason, since I deceived him. There will be disgrace. I know what the magistrates will say. What kind of wife would sacrifice her child for ever, just to satisfy her husband’s desire for a son?”

  “But,” I said softly, “that is not what you did, is it?”

  “So you do understand?”

  “I think so. You wanted to give your husband a son, in order NOT to sacrifice your child for ever.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, I know. It was a mention of the temple that made me see the truth. What did Lividius ever do with girls? He gave them to the temple at birth, and their mothers never saw them again.”

  Monnia nodded again. “But if Sylvia was to be my wet-nurse, I should keep the child near me. I should have asked Lividius to buy her as my pet when she was old enough. I know my husband. He would be so pleased to have his son, he would have done anything for me. But – I suppose you must tell him, if you must.”

  I shook my head. “I am here to design a pavement. For his son, supposing he can be found. Although I imagine, don’t you, that when Lividius returns, the boy will be miraculously back in his cradle? A simple mosaic, I think – don’t you agree – with perhaps a swaddled child as a central motif?”

  _________

  1 see The Germanicus Mosaic, A Pattern of Blood, and Murder in the Forum for accounts of these inquiries.

  The Last Legion

  Richard Butler

  Born and educated in England, Richard Butler’s move to Australia in 1963 to take up a teaching appointment was replete with incident. The ship caught fire and soon after his arrival he was involved in a light aircraft crash in Tasmania’s rugged south-west. He moved to Victoria where, following the publication of his fourth novel, The Buffalo Hook (1974), he gave up teaching for a dual career as a writer and actor. So far he has published a play for television, two radio plays, nineteen novels, and four stories in the Mammoth series. He lives near Melbourne, working as a writer and script consultant, and presenting a weekly local radio programme.

  In the following story he takes us to the final days of the Romans in Britain and perhaps the last crime they had to solve! Richard also remarked that the language of soldiers has been much the same throughout history, so he has used colloquial English to represent the speech of the Roman legionaries.

  “So you’re not coming with us, Spiro?”

  “No, I’m not. We were given a choice, weren’t we? Go or stay. I’m a Briton. I was born here; I joined up here when they wanted local recruits and I’ve done five of my twenty-five here. What’s Rome to me, that I should go poncing off to defend it? It’s not even as if there were games and chariot races, like in the old days. Half empty, from what they say. It’s different for you, Marcellus. You’re a Roman. Parents in Ostia, aren’t they?”

  “And my sisters. If that barbarian bastard Alaric and his Visigoths are coming down from the north, I want to be there to protect them.”

  “Course you do, mate, course you do. Mind you, I doubt if our lot will exactly put the frighteners on the Visigoths, unless they die laughing. The rearguard, left behind to pack up, that’s all we are. The odds and sods from the 2nd, 19th and 40th who’ve already left. Blokes who’d gone sick or AWOL.”

  The two legionaries of the 2nd centuria of the 3rd cohort of the 15th Legion* – Legio XV Britannia Felix – were sitting with their bracae, their woollen calf-length trousers, round their ankles in the latrine of the fortified camp at Rutupiae on the south-east coast of Britain. On this warm June morning, it was a cool and comfortable place. Beneath wooden benches, arranged in a U-shape and with holes two pedes apart, was a deep stone channel through which water, piped from a nearby stream, flowed in, round the U and out again, taking the waste with it. Another smaller channel at the soldier’s feet carried clean running water to wash the sponge on a stick with which he cleaned himself. A tiled roof above the benches kept off the rain and sun but in the middle the building was open to the sky. There was no foul odour, no flies.

  “All the same, I have to go,” Marcellus said. “Just as you’ve got to stay with your woman. Or,” he added with a grin, “women”. Spir
o’s full name was Silanus Gaius Escobinius but his nickname was short for suspirium puellarum – “the one the girls sigh for” – because of his incredible success with them.

  “Just the one at present.” Spiro, twenty-six, good-looking, black-bearded and, at 70 unciae, just over the minimum height for the Legion, grinned back. “My Gwynedd.”

  “I suppose you realize it’s not exactly going to be a public holiday here once Britannia Felix leaves and the Painted Men come roaring over the Wall looking for blood and plunder and women?”

  “Aw, the Picts are a long way off. It’s the Angli and Saxones we’ll have to contend with here in the south. And the Alemanni and Marcomanni and anybody else who feels like a nice sea voyage with a spot of rape and pillage thrown in.” For a moment they were silent, thinking of the unknown future, while the water in the channel below gurgled soothingly. “Mind you, I don’t know why the barbarians bother to come here. Poor crops, wine like piss and prices going up like sparks in a fire. God only knows how Rome let it get like this.”

  Marcellus sighed. “The fact is, we’ve been going downhill for a long time and the barbarians have got stronger and more organized. As for the Saxones and Angli, they’re down to your people, Spiro. Once the townsfolk heard we were leaving, they decided to invite them in as mercenaries to fight the Picts.” Marcellus grunted cynically. “It was pretty stupid – like asking a wolf to guard your larder. Once they’d got their foot in the door that was it.”

  “I suppose so, but they didn’t have much –.”

  He was interrupted by a shout. “Silanus Gaius Escobinius!”

  “Oh God protect us! It’s Roscius the Rat. Whatever he wants, it means trouble.”

  Marcellus said, “Shut up! If we lie low he might go away.” Roscius Marius Commodus was a librarius cohortis, an orderly room clerk. Toadying, treacherous and corrupt, he was one to be avoided at all costs.

  No dodging him on this occasion, however. He came into the latrine at the double, panting, his pimply face blotched with the unaccustomed exertion. Spiro said, “Hallo, if it isn’t me old mate Ratty! What’s the hurry, darlin’? Been at the prunes again, have we, then? Tucking into the beans at breakfast? I heard that the pigs threw up when they smelt those beans –.”

  “I’ll report you, Silanus Gaius Escobinius! You should be helping to load the carts!”

  “Ah, but I got this call of nature, see, Ratty? Prunes, it must have been. Or the beans.” He picked up his sponge-stick and waggled it at the spindly clerk.

  Roscius glowered at Spiro. “You insolent British barbarian! I’ll teach you a lesson before I leave this horrible hole! Meanwhile you are to report to the Commanding Officer immediately! In the Praesidium!”

  “The Prefect’s quarters?” Spiro’s heart ceased to function briefly, then picked up at twice its normal speed. “Not at HQ?”

  “Are you deaf? The Praesidium! And be quick about it!” The Rat turned and left.

  “Medius fidius, Spiro! You’ve gone as white as the Emperor’s toga! What have you been up to? Sneaking off to the shrine of Mithras again? You know it’s forbidden for a Christian to worship any other gods –.”

  “Worse than that.” Spiro was using his sponge, wincing as usual at the cold water. “I had it off with the Prefect’s wife, see –.”

  “What? The Lady Serenilla? Jesus Christ and Jupiter, Spiro! You must be mad!”

  “Had no choice, did I? I was replacing some tiles in their bathroom. The CO was away at a meeting with the Prefect of the 6th Cohort. She comes in, whips her togs off and orders me to hop in with her. When I hesitated –.”

  “And who wouldn’t? Why didn’t you refuse, idiot?”

  “Do me a favour! How could I? She said if I disobeyed, she’d scream the place down and accuse me of attempted rape. Talk about Scylla and bloody Charybdis! Said she wanted a child and her husband couldn’t give her one.” He washed his sponge. “Funny if I had a son in the Roman upper crust, eh?”

  “If the Prefect’s found out, he’ll have you torn apart by horses!”

  “D’you think I don’t know that?” He pulled up his bracae. “Ah well. We who are about to die salute you!” He gave a forlorn wave. “If you see Gwynedd, tell her I might not be home for supper.” He went out.

  * * *

  Along the ruler-straight Via Praetoria, dodging the rumbling carts that were carrying everything from paintings to pots and pans down to the ships. Along the Via Principalis to the luxurious Praetorium that took up one tenth of the camp. He stood at the side door set in the painted red and white wall. A legionary could not expect to enter the CO’s quarters through the front. He straightened his grubby tunic, combed his beard with his fingers. He had calmed down somewhat. Surely if they’d wanted to arrest me, they’d have sent a squad, not Roscius the Rat? He drew a deep breath and knocked.

  The door flew open instantly – the slave must have been watching though the peephole. “Legionarius –.” He cleared his throat. “Legionarius Silanus Gaius Escobinius, reporting to the Prefect,” he said, keeping his voice steady. The slave beckoned and led the way.

  Across the stable yard. Into the waiting area, its floor a mosaic of flowers and birds. Down marble steps and along a tiled corridor that ran beside the columned atrium, filled with sunlight. Three steps up. The bathroom was round to the right, he recalled with a shudder. The slave tapped on a door at his left, went in and bowed. “Legionarius Silanus Gaius Escobinius!” Spiro went into the tablinum – the Prefect’s study, with its table and stool, its shelves with cylindrical leather boxes holding scrolls. He raised his right arm in salute.

  Quinctilius Fabius Cornelius Silvanus, the elderly, aristocratic Prefect of the 3rd Cohort, sat behind his table dressed in an immaculately folded toga, his clean-shaven, olive-skinned face set in a frown. No fighting man, he had been sent out from Rome to administer the dismantling of the fortress at Rutupiae and see the cohort safely home.

  Beside the table stood Julius Gregorius Draccus, centurion of the 2nd centuria, a colossus in plated body armour, standing 8 pedes from the soles of his hobnailed boots to the crimson crest on his gleaming helmet. Born in the slums of Rome, he was a grey-bearded veteran who, like all centurions, had risen from the ranks and now had thirty years’ service to his credit. Tough as teak, with a craggy, beetle-browed face that looked as if it had been cast in bronze, his boast was that he could out-march, out-drink and out-fight any man in the centuria. He’d done it, too, competing with men half his age. He glared at Spiro. “Escobinius!” he rasped. “You’re out of uniform! How dare you report improperly dressed?”

  “Aw, Centurion, I was told to report immediately –.”

  “Never mind that!” The Prefect rapped the table. “Silanus Gaius Escobinius, you are called here because of a murder that took place last night in the Principia.”

  Murder? “Wasn’t me, sir.” MURDER? “Never went near HQ last night –.”

  “Be silent!” snarled the Centurion.

  “You are not accused,” the Prefect said. “Someone broke into the aedis, robbed the treasure-chest and murdered Marcus Sextus Curtius, the signifer.”

  Jesus and Jupiter! The aedis, the chapel, was the most important room in the HQ building. There were stored, under double guard, the Emperor’s statue, the cohort’s standards and its battle flags. Beneath a stone slab was kept the great iron-bound wooden chest that contained the unit’s funds – pay for the troops, cash to buy horses, fodder, food and any other running expenses. It also held the legionaries’ savings deducted from their pay, out of which they bought their clothing and weapons. It was all managed by the standard-bearer, the signifer, who was also the cohort’s banker. But what’s this got to do with me?

  The Prefect pointed a finger at Spiro. “The Centurion has recommended that you should be given the task of finding the murderer –.”

  “What? Me?”

  “– And thus recovering the money.”

  They were both looking at him. There was a silence.
He said, his brain in a daze, “Sir, I’m right chuffed – pleased, that is – to be given this task. And honoured, of course. But, well, I dunno as I deserve it.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped the Prefect. “The Centurion has told me how you cured our horses of the disease that threatened to kill them all. He’s told me about you and my wife –.”

  “Aagh!”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, sir. Touch of wind, sir.”

  “Were you not heard to predict one night in the inn that she, who had been barren, would conceive? Which indeed has come to pass. It’s well known that you Britons possess magic powers. I command you to use them.”

  “Sir, what about the guards in the aedis?” Spiro asked. “Why didn’t they sound the alarm?” In case of an emergency they couldn’t handle, the guards could pull a rope and ring a bell on the roof.

  “They were snoring like hogs,” the CO said contemptuously.

  Draccus growled. “I have yet to decide how they will die.”

  “Here.” The Prefect pushed across the table a wooden tablet with a message written in wax. “This is my authority for you to question anyone and go anywhere. That is all.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  The Centurion and Spiro saluted. Outside, Spiro said, “Sir, I’m not up to this.”

  Draccus growled, “You’d better be, laddie.”

  “I cured the horses with an ordinary draught. As for the Prefect’s wife –.” He stopped.

  “Well?”

  “A lucky guess,” he said quickly. “How am I going to –?”

  “That’s enough!” The Centurion turned to face him. “Now you listen to me, Silanus Gaius Escobinius. The Prefect’s given you an order and you’re bloody well going to obey it. If you refuse, it’s mutiny and field punishment. Like being tied to a tree in the forest and left for the wolves. Or buried alive –.”