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

by Mike Ashley

  “Who let her into the Principia?”

  “What?” He took another piece of bread. “Let her in? How should I know?”

  “You’d better find out, husband. The gate’s barred at night, isn’t it?”

  “The relief guard found the gate open –.”

  “But the guards would have closed it at sunset. So she couldn’t have found it open, could she? Somebody must have let her in. Unless she climbed the wall balancing a jug of wine on her head.”

  “Aye, somebody must,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “Curse it! That lets Magus out. It must have been a soldier after all. One of the guards. They were the only ones in there.”

  “Whatever would the guards let her in for? Just for a drink, knowing they’d be sentenced to death if they were caught?”

  “Well, if you put it like that – perhaps they didn’t.” He drank his ale and stood up. “I’d better go and have another word with them. Thanks for the grub, my love. See you at supper.”

  She glanced at her mother, who was carrying on a pitiful conversation with herself about poor old women who’d slaved all their lives for their daughters not being allowed to receive visitors. “I want to talk to you tonight, Spiro. I’ve something important to tell you. And we must decide what we’re going to do.”

  “Do?”

  “After the Legion’s gone and the barbarians arrive.”

  “Simple. We’ll just prop your Ma up outside the door. They’ll take one look and run a mile.”

  She tried to look severe and grinned instead. “Be off with you, you creature.” She gave him a push. He kissed her and she responded with enthusiasm. All’s well, he thought as he went up the street.

  He went into the HQ building and round to the cells. The same guard was there but the door of the soldiers’ cell was unbarred. He said, already knowing the answer, “Where are they?”

  The guard smirked and drew a finger across his throat. “On parade in the Infernal Regions, I should think. Centurion Draccus sent two legionaries soon after you left. Nothing fancy – throats cut. Reckon they got off light.”

  Draccus was in the basilica, studying a roster-board. “Well? How far have you got, Spiro?”

  “I’d been hoping to get the prisoners to identify the red-haired girl who drugged them. But they’re dead and she’s disappeared.”

  “I don’t think you’d have got far with that.” Draccus’s plate armour clinked as he shrugged. “How do we know there was a girl? Only their word for it. No, you’ll have to do better than that, my lad, and be quick about it. The Prefect’s been advised by the ships’ captains that there’s bad weather coming. We have to sail in two days’ time at the latest or be stuck here for weeks. So two days is all you’ve got.” He strode into the Orderly Room.

  Two days? Well, that’s that, Spiro thought. What can I do in two days? But did it really matter? In two days the 15th would be heading for Gaul. He stood looking at the orders on the board. Minutes later the centuria’s trumpeter came out into the basilica in full parade dress.

  “Lucius Menenius Lanatus!” Spiro said. “Can I have a word?” He was clutching at straws but what else was there?

  “What about?” The tubicen was small and stout, with puffed-out cheeks as if he was forever blowing an invisible trumpet. Normally garrulous and friendly, he seemed strangely unwilling to stop and chat. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Won’t take a minute. I believe you had a fight with the signifer, Marcus Sextus Curtius, the other night?”

  “Ah!” He looked sheepish. “Magus has been talking, eh? Well, I did, but there was nothing in it. We were both pretty far gone and each of us wanted the same girl to scrape his back.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  He fiddled with his belt, looking even more embarrassed. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was on one of the ships down at the wharf.”

  “Doing what?” Why doesn’t he query my right to ask questions, as the others have done?

  “I’d become – er, friendly with one of the sailors. We had a few drinks on board. I ended up spending the night.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Soon after the sun was up.” He shrugged. “You can find out easily enough. They keep a watch” He hesitated, refusing to meet Spiro’s eye. “You’re investigating the murder and the theft of the unit’s funds, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  “I’ve been in the Orderly Room. I overheard Roscius the Rat talking to Centurion Draccus. They thought they were alone but I was in the store room at the back.” He hesitated again and looked around furtively. “I’m afraid you’re in trouble, Spiro.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Come over here.” He led the way to the platform at the far end of the basilica from which the Prefect addressed his centurions at morning report. “Do you know anything about politics?”

  “Politics? No. Why should I?” Spiro was apprehensive and bewildered. “What are you getting at?”

  He dropped his voice. “The Silvanus family is out of favour in Rome – suspected of conspiracy. That’s why the Prefect was sent out here – to get him out of the way. So can you imagine what will happen if he goes back and says he’s lost the cohort’s treasure-chest? There’ll be a Senate inquiry and he’ll be told to take poison.”

  “Well, that’s hard luck for the old boy but what’s it got to do with me?”

  “Quite a lot, I’m afraid.” He paused as a soldier went past. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, Spiro. But it seems Roscius suggested that the CO should find what he called a sacrificial goat. He put your name forward.”

  “Me? The bastard! I know the Rat hates me but he can’t do that! I didn’t do it –”

  “I know that and you know that. But you know how the Army works. Whatever’s in the record is the truth. And Roscius said that the record will show that, after due investigation, the murderer was found to be one Silanus Gaius Escobinius, who unfortunately died under torture before he could reveal where he’d hidden the gold. He boasted that the CO commended him. Thought it was a good idea.”

  “Jesus and Jupiter!” Spiro stared at him in horror. “What did Draccus say?”

  “He just grunted. But you know him. If he was ordered to jump off a cliff he’d do it.”

  “But why me?”

  “Roscius said you’d be a good choice because you’re a Briton with no family in Rome. Nobody to ask questions.” He looked round again. “So my advice is – make a run for it. Go north until we’ve gone.”

  “I can’t.” Spiro tugged at his beard in frustration. “It’d be just what they want – a confession of guilt. And you know what the Army does to discourage deserters. It punishes their families. They’d take Gwynedd back to Rome as a slave.”

  “Take her with you, then.”

  “There’s her mother. The old girl can’t travel and Gwynedd wouldn’t leave her.”

  “Then I’d say you’re down to the power of prayer, mate. And don’t forget – we never had this conversation.”

  Two days! Spiro thought, trying not to panic. A curse on Roscius Marius Commodus, on the Prefect and on that double-dealing Centurion as well. How can they do this? Quite easily, if it’s a matter of the Prefect’s neck or mine. But what in God’s name am I going to do?

  Filled with bitter foreboding, he went towards the barracks and his contubernium, the quarters he shared with seven other men when he spent a night in camp. Each centuria had its own barrack block, consisting of ten contubernia, with a large, well equipped annexe at the end for the centurion. Each contubernium had two rooms, one fitted with bunks, the other used for cooking and the storage of shields, weapons and clothing.

  His friend Marcellus was frying a fish on the stove. “Spiro returns!” he said. “So they didn’t execute you after all!”

  “Don’t tempt fate,” Spiro said gloomily. He was rummaging in his locker for a clean tunic. “I was put on special duty instead – finding who murdered the signifer
. The old man thinks I possess magic powers.”

  “Magic powers for dodging the heavy work tomorrow, more like.” The oil sizzled as Marcellus flipped his fish over. “You’ve wangled a really cushy job, I’d say.”

  “If you want it, it’s yours. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. Because, if I don’t have any answers for the CO by the time the Legion sails, I’m in dead trouble – literally.”

  “You mean, if you fail, they’ll –?” When Spiro nodded: “Mehercule! That’s bad. It means you’ve only got today – what’s left of it – and tomorrow. Anything I can do?”

  “Wish there was.”

  “Made any progress?”

  “Not much, apart from three soldiers Magus saw digging a grave behind his inn early this morning.”

  Marcellus shook his head. “Then you’ve got nothing, mate. They’ve been caught and locked up. Three legionaries who’d opted to stay behind. They’d been at the stores. They were planning to bury the loot and dig it up after we’d had left.”

  “Well, thanks very much,” Spiro said bitterly. “Now Magus is all I’ve got left.”

  “Well, he’s a likely suspect. Want a bit of fish?”

  “No, thanks. I’m having supper with Gwynedd.”

  “And her charming Mum, eh?” Marcellus gave him a sly look as he dumped his fish on a wooden platter and broke a piece off a loaf. “Somebody once said that girls always turn out to be like their mothers in the end.”

  “You’re a real ray of sunshine, Marcellus.”

  But when he arrived there was only Gwynedd at home, her eyes sparkling, her raven hair brushed until it gleamed. “Mother’s gone to supper with the wheelwright’s family.” There was a delicious aroma of roast pork. “Sit down. I’ve something to tell you, my husband.” She gave him a kiss and poured a mug of wine for him.

  “Ah, yes?” he said. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about the only suspect he had left. Magus. How could he have got into the Principia at night?

  She sat beside him and put a hand on his arm. “What would you say if I told you that you are about to become a father?”

  “Gwynedd! That’s wonderful news!” he said flatly. But will I ever see the baby?

  She frowned at his tone. “You’re pleased, my husband?”

  “Of course I am!” He pulled her to him and kissed her. I can’t spoil the moment by telling her what’s in store for me. “Overjoyed!”

  “I hope I don’t lose my looks. Some women grow fat. There was a girl in the village who lost all her hair. She had to wear a wig.”

  “A wig? Where on earth would she have got it from?”

  “Old Mother Martha makes them. She buys hair from the families of dead women.”

  Spiro nodded. “Wigs are all the rage in Rome, I believe. They all want to have fair hair like the barbarians so they won’t be singled out. They say even the Emperor wears one –.” He broke off. Something had flashed in his mind like a lamp being lit in a dark room.

  Magus had said, “Looked even better before she cut her golden curls off.”

  “You see I’ve bought a jug of wine to have with the roast pork?” she said happily. “We’re celebrating!”

  “That’s nice. A jug of wig,” he said abstractedly. “Wine, I mean.”

  She looked at him questioningly. “You don’t sound as if you’re listening to me.”

  “Oh, but I am! I’m just overwhelmed,” he said. Lovely legs, the guards had said. Hair down her back the colour of copper. It all fits!

  He put it out of his mind for Gwynedd’s sake while they ate their pork and drank the wine and talked about the child, which was sure to be a boy, she knew. “But how can we keep him safe when the barbarians arrive?”

  “We’ll move into the fortress,” he said. If I’m still alive. “They’ll be too busy plundering the village to bother about the camp – they know there’ll be nothing left for them there.”

  They left the lamp lit for the old lady and went to bed. After their lovemaking, he lay awake thinking about fatherhood and wigs and time slipping past like sand through the hour-glass. Then came the door-banging entrance of Gwynedd’s mother, followed by a series of grunts and crashes as she prepared for bed in her customary corner near the fireplace. When that had settled down to a steady drum-roll of snores, he slid out of bed without disturbing his wife. He put on his bracae and tunic then, boots in hand, padded to the front door. In the street, he put his boots on and headed for the inn. Magus would keep it open, he knew, as long as there were customers with money to spend.

  It was a calm night with a half moon drifting lazily through thin wisps of cloud. The scent of the sea mingled with the sharper smells of horse dung and wood-smoke. The streets were empty now and silent apart from shouts and raucous singing from the inn that he could hear as he turned the corner.

  And saw the figure slinking from shadow to shadow.

  A figure that moved in a way he recognised. A female, hipswinging walk. Gerda! He pressed himself against a shuttered shop front and let her pass. He turned and followed.

  Straight up the street to the camp’s southern gatehouse, which was always open and guarded only if there was danger of attack. Straight into the camp, past the darkened Praetorium and the barred Principia and left towards . . .

  His barrack block!

  He caught up with her outside it. She gasped as he grabbed her shoulder and spun her round. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

  The moon came from behind a cloud and gleamed on her sleek golden hair. She said, “I look for you.”

  “And I suppose you were going to search all the barrack blocks until you found me? Ha! You expect me to believe that?”

  “I would find you somehow.” She came close to him. “I want you to love me.” She put her arms round his neck and he felt the warm firmness of her body against him.

  “No,” he said, but without much conviction. “I have to –.” Her mouth silenced him. He put his arms round her, enjoyed it for a minute then tore himself away. It wasn’t easy.

  “And what the hell d’you think you’re doing, Spiro?” growled a familiar voice behind him.

  “Centurion!” he said. “I think I have the murderer.”

  “You have? Good!” Draccus looked enormous in the moonlight, even out of uniform and in his tunic and sandals. “Get rid of her. We’ll go into my quarters. You can tell me about it.”

  “Sir, she’ll have to come. She’s part of it, I know.”

  “Bring her, then.”

  The Centurion’s quarters were smaller than the Prefect’s but almost as luxurious. Oil lamps cast a soft light on walls that were painted pale blue; one was intricately pattered with suns, moons and stars. The white ceiling was decorated with a frieze of war chariots driven by Nubians beneath a sky in which flimsily clad females floated, casting down flower petals. Through an open door Spiro could see crimson couches arranged in a dining room with a kitchen opening off it. The floor was covered with soft woven matting; as he went inside, he felt boards beneath it at one point. “Now” Draccus sat down on a stool and pointed at another. “What have you discovered?”

  Gwynedd woke to her mother’s voice. “Who’s that?” the old lady quavered.

  “What is it, Ma?” Gwynedd, naked, put on her robe. She went into the other room.

  “Somebody’s in here.”

  The room was lit by the half moon. “There’s nobody,” Gwynedd said. But where’s my husband? She opened the door in time to see him disappearing up the street. “Go to sleep, Ma.” Before the old lady could start asking questions, she followed, silent on her bare feet.

  And saw him turn at the corner to follow a girl. By heaven! It’s the blonde, long-legged harlot from the inn! And on the very evening I tell him about the child! This is disgusting! I’ll kill the villain! She opened her mouth to shout abuse at him. Then paused, curious. Where’s he off to, the lecher? She set off in pursuit.

  Past the darkened Praetorium and the barred Principia to the barracks.
She stood in the shadow, clenching her fists with fury as she saw them embrace. Then the tall figure of the Centurion appeared. She heard his harsh voice: “We’ll go to my quarters. You can tell me about it . . . Bring her, then.”

  A door opened and closed.

  Tell him about what? And why go to his quarters with the slave? Intrigued, she flitted across to the barrack block and along it to the partly shuttered window of the Centurion’s quarters. She heard her husband’s voice . . .

  “The guards told the truth, Centurion. There was a red-haired girl. And here she is!”

  “Are you drunk?” Draccus asked. “She’s blonde.”

  “A wig,” Spiro said. “She wore a wig.”

  “No!” Gerda said.

  “I can easily prove it by asking Old Mother Martha. You turned up at the Principia in a red wig, carrying an amphora of wine containing a drug you’d stolen from the inn.”

  “Interesting,” Draccus said. “Who let her in?”

  “I don’t know.” Spiro shook his head. “But we can get it out of her by torture. Hot irons. Thumbscrews –.” He hoped she’d confess. The thought of torture made him feel sick.

  “Oh, no.” She didn’t look in the least afraid. “You will not do that.” She turned to Draccus. “Will you?”

  “Why not?” Spiro asked with assumed callousness. “You took part in a murder. What do you say, Centurion?”

  He paused, staring at her. “You can leave her to me, Spiro.” He stood up, went into his bedchamber and came back holding his dagger. “I’ll get the truth out of her.”

  “No!” Gerda looked at him, then at the dagger. The colour drained out of her face. She seized Spiro’s arm. “Don’t leave me with him!”

  Draccus gestured to Spiro. “You’ve done very well, Spiro. Now, dismiss!”

  “Don’t go! I beg you!” Gerda clung to him. “Don’t you see? He’s going to kill me! He’ll silence me as he silenced those –.”

  “Enough!” Draccus thundered.