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

by Mike Ashley

  “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” Spiro said quickly.

  “Good lad! Thought you would.” Draccus showed his teeth in the snarl that was the closest he got to a smile. “But you’ll have to work fast. You’ve only got a few days. As soon as the ships are loaded, we’ll sail with the next favourable wind. Come with me.” He strode off to the Principia, which was next door to the CO’s quarters. “You can start with a look at the aedis.”

  There were the usual two guards outside the Principia but two more were posted just inside. All were armed with sword, dagger and javelin. They saluted as Draccus tramped through the archway and across the courtyard, where legionaries stood in little clusters, talking. They saluted and fell silent as the Centurion passed. In the colonnaded basilica the sentries were doubled again, the two in front of the aedis looking particularly alert. Draccus snapped, “Nobody’s been inside this morning?”

  “No, Centurion,” one said. “Apart from the burial party.”

  “Blood and brains cleaned up, I hope? Floor polished?”

  “Aye, Centurion.”

  “Brains?” Spiro asked.

  “Head bashed in.”

  They went up four steps into the aedis. The statue of Honorius Flavius, Emperor of the West, eyed them knowingly, as if to say, “Oh, yes, I saw who did it but I’m not saying a word.” Behind him in their racks were the cohort’s eagle standards, one for each of the six centuriae. Ten pedes long, they bore the badges of the unit’s success in battle. At the top of each was a plaque embossed with Legio XV Britannia Felix, the number of the centuria and a bronze lourel wreath surmounted by an eagle, its wings spread. At the Emperor’s feet the stone slab stood open, revealing the empty treasure-chest. The tasselled bell-rope hung in a corner.

  Spiro said, “Who found him?”

  “The relief guards. They also found the street gate open.”

  “Ah!” Spiro nodded. It was always barred by the guards from sunset to dawn.

  “One of them reported to me immediately. Had the sense not to sound the alarm.”

  “How much was taken?”

  “All the bags of gold coin. The copper and silver were left behind.”

  “Not worth carrying away, I suppose.” Spiro looked around. “Aha!” He pointed at the rack. “Look there, sir!”

  Wedged behind the hafts of the standards and hardly visible was a small jute sack encrusted with dried blood. “The weapon the murderer used!” Spiro said.

  “Mehercule, I believe you’re right” Draccus said. He strode across to the rack, picked up the heavy bag and clinked it. “You’ve got good eyes, Silanus Gaius Escobinius. One of the bags of copper denarii. You could certainly smash a man’s skull with this. But a strange choice of weapon, eh?”

  “I was just going to say that, Centurion. You’d think the murderer would have used his sword.”

  “You would indeed.” Draccus fingered the short sword on his left hip. “Quick thrust and that would be it.”

  “Unless,” Spiro said excitedly, “he had no sword!”

  “Wasn’t a soldier, you mean?” The Centurion stared at him “That’s brilliant! I believe you do have magic powers! Someone from the village, eh?”

  “Of course! Let’s say he and the signifer were in league. They found the guards asleep, came in here and opened the slab. But then the accomplice decided to have all the gold for himself so he grabbed the bag of copper coin, killed the signifer and made off.”

  “That’s very good, Spiro,” Draccus said. “You’re halfway there already. I knew you’d do it. Go into the village and see what you can find out.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Spiro watched him stride away, noting that he was now using his nickname. But his excitement was cooling off. No, that won’t work – it’s too easy. Marcus Sextus Curtius, the signifer, was well known to be an honest man – wouldn’t have been trusted with the money, otherwise. And how could they count on the guards being asleep? No, too many holes in that theory.

  He went out into the basilica and round to the cells. A guard said, “And where do you think you’re going, mate?”

  “To talk to the prisoners.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not. Piss off before I report you!” Silently, Spiro dangled his authority under the guard’s nose. “What’s this, then?”

  “Can’t you read?”

  “Not much. Well, not at all, in fact.”

  “This is a written order from the Prefect saying that anybody who gets in my way will be down for javelin practice tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s all right, then. I don’t mind javelin practice.”

  “You would if you were the target.”

  “Ah! Right!” He stood aside and drew the bolt on the door.

  The smell was horrible. No latrine for prisoners – just a hole in the floor. Spiro peered at the two legionaries, who were huddled in a corner. They stared at him in terror, relaxing somewhat when they saw he was unarmed. He went inside and the guard slammed and bolted the door behind him. “What happened?” he asked. “And remember, your only chance is to tell the truth.”

  “We tried to tell the Centurion,” one of them said. “But he wouldn’t listen. It was all down to this redhead, see? She –.”

  “What redhead?”

  “Dunno, but she was a real looker and no error,” said the first guard. “Wearing a short tunic. Lovely legs, she had, all the way to the ground. Hair down her back the colour of copper. Had this amphora of wine, see? And a cup. Just appeared from nowhere.”

  “Nobody about at that hour, o’course,” the other said. “She said we looked bored. Needed cheering up. Poured wine for us both.”

  “Bloody fools we were. Next thing we knew, the Centurion was kicking the shit out of us and there was the signifer’s corpse lying beside the hole.” He looked beseechingly at Spiro. “Can’t you put in a word for us, sir? I got a clean sheet up to now –.”

  “Me, too, sir,” the other said eagerly. “Do what you can for us, eh?”

  “Don’t call me sir. I’m just a ranker like you, mates.” Poor devils! “I’ll speak to the Centurion but I wouldn’t put money on it. Would you be able to identify the girl?”

  “Would I ever!” said the first one. “Hair like that? You wouldn’t forget her in a hurry.”

  “Just gimme a look at her legs,” the other said.

  “I’ll do what I can.” If they can identify the woman, they may get off with a whipping. Because, once we’ve got her, Draccus will make her give us the name of her accomplice. Torture her, if necessary. Perhaps this won’t be too difficult, after all! He turned left towards the south gate, the one that led to the vicus, singing to himself, “Oh, the girls of Londinium are beautiful to see/ But if you don’t watch it you’ll tum-tum-diddly-dee . . .”

  The vicus, the camp-followers’ settlement, consisted of a paved street lined with wooden buildings with shingled roofs. Most were shops with an open end that could be closed at night with wooden slats. A stone counter stood in front. They provided almost anything the legionaries could want, from honey cakes and helmets to salted fish and sandals. The street was a bedlam of noise, crowded with rowdy soldiers, bellowing cattle being driven to the wharf, porters yelling for the right of way and laden carts with cursing drivers. Spiro made for the caupona, the largest building in the village.

  It had six bedchambers, baths with hot and cold rooms, and a big dining room serving excellent meals. Magus, the innkeeper, did a roaring trade with the camp, the inn being the only place to go when a legionary was off duty. He could drink there with his comrades, eat, roll dice or hire a slave girl for a small charge and have a bath. The girls assisted the customers by cleaning their bodies with perfumed oil and a strigil, a wooden scraper. Or, for an extra payment, they could assist in other ways . . .

  Magus the Caupo, a short, paunchy but powerfully built Briton, stood behind the bar stroking his curly grizzled beard while a couple of pretty slave girls, one dark-haired, the other fair, served his midday clientele.
He looked worried, and didn’t greet Spiro with his usual crafty grin. “What d’you want, Spiro?” His tone was surly. “If it’s credit, you can bugger off. Cash only from now on, it is.”

  “It’s information I’m after. Where were you last night?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “The Prefect.” He took out his wax tablet.

  The Caupo glanced at it. “On his staff, then, are you? He can’t be very choosy, you in that mucky tunic.”

  “Just answer the question, Magus.”

  “All right, all right. Well, if you must know, I was in my own bed.” He pointed to the dark-haired slave girl. “With Florentina there. Ask her.”

  “What use is that? She’ll say anything you want.”

  “Suit yourself. I can’t provide witnesses – don’t go in for bloody orgies.” Magus scratched his balding head. “Anyway, I got problems of my own.”

  “There was a murder up at the camp last night. I’ve been ordered to find out who did it.”

  “Signifer of the 2nd centuria, eh?”

  “How d’you know?”

  “I run an inn, mate. Everybody talks in an inn. Like how your tubicen had a row with the signifer over a girl.”

  “The trumpeter, eh? What girl?”

  “How should I know? As far as I’m concerned, girls are all alike. All with the same equipment. All I know is that somebody told me the standard bearer and the trumpeter of the 2nd were in a fist fight in the bath house the other night.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You want to know about the centurions’ gambling school?”

  “Which centurions?”

  “Ha! It’s pretty ignorant you are. Nearly all of ’em. They roll dice in the quarters of Marcus Annaeus Valerius, your ordo princeps, the Chief Centurion. You might also be interested in the fact that I looked out of my window in the small hours and saw three legionaries digging a hole in the meadow behind my inn.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Shouted. They cleared off.”

  “Did you see what was in the hole?”

  “I looked this morning. Just air. Right size for a grave, though.”

  “A grave, eh?” The fair-haired girl gave him a smile as she went past to the kitchen. He watched the way her hips moved in the brief tunic.

  “Looks good, eh?” Magus said. “Looked even better before she cut her golden curls off. But don’t even think about it. Cold as a carp, she is. I’ve tried.”

  “Depends how you warm her up, Magus. You got a redhead working here?”

  “It’s redheads you fancy, is it? And you a married man? Well, you’re out of luck. I haven’t got one.” As Spiro turned to leave, Magus grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute, mate. Have a cup of wine. No charge.” He nodded to the dark-haired girl.

  “With you, there’s always a charge, Magus, one way or the other. What is it you want?”

  “If you’re so well in with the Prefect, can you put in a word for me?”

  “Me?” Spiro laughed. “You must be joking.” The girl brought the amphora and poured wine for him.

  “You’re working for him, aren’t you? I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Spiro took a drink. “What’s it about, then?”

  “I told you I got a problem, didn’t I?” He put his elbows on the bar. “It’s this. When the 15th leaves, what happens to me? No more ships. No wine and food coming in. No customers. I’ll be finished.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “I want you to ask the Prefect if I can buy a passage on one of the ships.”

  “Go to Rome, you mean?”

  “That’s right,” the Caupo said eagerly. “I could start again, buy a tavern –.”

  “It’s no good me asking the Prefect anything, Magus. I don’t have his ear.” Spiro finished his wine. “In any case, Alaric and his Visigoths’ll be in Rome within a year or two, slitting all the innkeepers’ throats. You’ll be better off here, believe me, with the Angli and the Saxones. You may even be able to flog them your watered ale. Thanks for the drink, though.” He went out into the noise of the crowded street.

  Plenty to work on there. The trumpeter fighting with the signifer, eh? Centurions’ gambling school – somebody getting into debt, perhaps? And the men digging a grave? For the signifer? How would they get the corpse out of the camp? And let’s not forget Magus himself. “I could start again in Rome,” he’d said. You’d need money for that. A lot of money.

  In front of a baker’s, he saw the blonde girl in the crowd waiting to be served. He stood behind her. No harm in being civil, eh? “Well, hello, pretty one,” he said. “We meet again, it seems.”

  She turned, smiled at him. “You were in the caupona.” Oh, definitely no harm in being civil! Blonde hair cut short like a boy, green eyes and white teeth, her long and very shapely legs tanned and nicely displayed by the short tunic.

  He said, chatting her up, joking, “Buying bread, eh? Doesn’t Magus feed you?”

  “He feed me, ja. I buy the bread, but for the inn, not me.” She had a husky voice and an appealing accent.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gerda. I am Saxone.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “My man was chief. We came with others to find land. But there was fighting. My man killed, I captured. Sold.”

  “Next!” shouted the baker. She bought a dozen loaves then tried to tuck them under her arms.

  But she hadn’t enough arms. “You should have brought a sack. Here, give me a few,” Spiro said.

  “Ne, you are kind but I can –”

  “Oh, come on.” He took half a dozen loaves. “We’re only going round the corner.” They set off. Outside the inn he said, “I’d like to spend some time with you. In the baths.”

  “That would be good, ja. But you pay Magus. I belong to him.” She went inside, dumped her load then came out to take his. “I thank you for help me.” She gave him a warm smile and touched his arm briefly. “Until we meet again.”

  Cold as a carp, is she? Well, we’ll see about that. I’ll melt her down . . . He turned to find his wife facing him, her arms folded, her dark blue eyes flashing. “Well! Well!” Gwynedd snapped. “Baker’s errand boy now, are we, Silanus Gaius?”

  Oh, Jesus and Jupiter! She only calls me that when she’s really pissed off! The foolish grin on his face vanished. “Gwynedd, my dearest!” he said, his voice a squeak. “This is a surprise!”

  “It is indeed! Isn’t it loading carts you’re supposed to be, up at the camp?”

  “Yes, well, I was –.”

  “But here you are, dodging into the inn with a slave girl stroking your arm. And then straight into the baths, is it?”

  “No, no, I wasn’t –.”

  She came closer and sniffed. “And you’ve been drinking!”

  “Only one, my dear,” he said feebly. “Magus gave me –.”

  “It’s no use blaming that wretch of an innkeeper! Just tell me why you are in the village in the middle of the day. Apart from drinking and chasing girls, that is.”

  “I’m on special duty for the Prefect.”

  “Ha! Ha!” She snorted derisively. “Special duty for that trollop, more like. Is that the best you can do?”

  He produced his written authority. She studied it, frowned and stared at him. “You’d better come home and tell me about it.” She turned with a swirl of her blue gown and began pushing through the crowd.

  She lived with her mother in a small wooden house in a side street, adding to Spiro’s pay by making up and selling herbal remedies from the old woman’s vast collection. It was one of these that had saved the cohort’s horses. She lifted the latch and he followed her inside. Her mother was pounding some concoction in a mortar, her hair dishevelled and her wrinkled face red with effort. She gave Spiro a basilisk glare – he wasn’t her ideal son-in-law, by any means – and shrieked, “What are you doing here in the middle of the day, you idler?” She was stone deaf, which was just as
well considering the ululation and bed-rattling that went on when her daughter was in bed with Spiro in the only other room.

  Spiro smiled sourly at her and said with heavy irony, “I’m delighted to see you, too, Ma.”

  “To see me? Who’s coming to see me?”

  “A large Pict with an axe, I hope.”

  Gwynedd said severely, “That’s quite enough of that, husband. What’s this special duty you’ve been given?”

  “There’s been a murder in the Principia.” He told her what had happened. “I have to find out who did it.”

  “What idiot gave you that job?”

  “The Prefect. Centurion Draccus suggested it. They think I possess magic powers.”

  “They must be moonstruck, both of them. You’ll never do it.” She put bread and cheese on the table and poured homebrewed ale for him from a jug.

  “I thought so too, at first.” He munched cheese from one hand, bread from the other. “But I’ve got a few ideas.” He told her about the red-haired girl who had drugged the guards; about the tubicen’s quarrel with the signifer, about the legionaries digging a grave and about Magus wanting to go to Rome. “Have you sold any sleeping potions lately?”

  “No –.”

  The old lady shouted suddenly, “I want to know who’s coming to see me! I might need a new shawl!”

  “Now see what you’ve done?” Gwynedd said. She shook her head at her mother and mouthed, “No one is coming.” To Spiro: “Wait! Yes, I did. To Magus. I sold him powdered poppy seeds. He said he’d been unable to sleep.”

  “To Magus?”

  She nodded. “But it was a while ago. What are you going to do next?”

  “Find the red-haired girl.” He drank his ale.

  “Yes, I thought you might start there.” Her voice sharpened. “Pretty, I suppose she is?”

  He shrugged, feigning indifference. “The soldiers said so.”

  “I haven’t seen any red-haired girls in the vicus.”

  He said, his mouth full, “She may be from up the coast. Londinium, even.”

  “What will you do if you find her? After you’ve got her on her back, that is?”

  “Gwynedd, how can you be so unkind? You know you’re the only girl for me. If I find her I plan to parade her in front of the soldiers. See if they can identify her. Then get the name of her accomplice. It’s Magus, I know it.”