“You a Carthaginian?” a voice whined behind him.
Adonibaal said nothing.
Then Milo smiled again. “Of course he’s one of them Quintus. Who else would want to kill Fabius?” Milo laughed softly. “But don’t worry stranger, you are safe with us. When Hannibal enters Rome I am going to be the first man to greet him and show him the sights and you will be there with me as proof of my good intentions.”
Chapter Seventeen - The fugitive
The men in white togas who stood around the oak table in Fabius’ atrium were arguing angrily with each other. The house was filled with their voices. A gaggle of armed men lounged near to the entrance hall. They looked bored. The slaves hurried nervously in and out with plates of food and drink. The men, Fabius, Grachus, Torquatus and a few that Numerius didn’t know, were discussing the assassination attempt. The disagreement seemed to revolve around what measures to take in response. Torquatus, the government's attack dog was arguing for martial law but Grachus and a few others were against the idea. The dictator, Pera had been unable to attend.
Fabius at last raised his voice.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a sardonic smile, “I am touched by your concern for my welfare, but truly we have more important things to discuss. Let’s not be distracted by this vain attempt on my life. Hannibal and his army are the main threat. We must decide on how to confront him.”
The table fell silent. Torquatus shook his head whilst Grachus looked down at the floor.
“We can’t just leave a mad man to roam around the city,” one of the other senators said.
“I will find him,” a voice said.
The senators turned to look at Numerius. Fabius opened his mouth to speak but Numerius spoke first.
“I will lead the investigation. Fabius is right, Hannibal is the main threat. We must concentrate on him.”
“And why should the investigation be given to you?” a senator said, “What experience have you in such matters?”
“The assassin killed my son. That is why I will lead this investigation.”
Numerius didn’t care what they thought. His grief was hidden behind a mask of stoicism. That was the way he always dealt with grief. But he had watched Publius be murdered before his own eyes. There had been nothing he could have done to prevent it but still he felt responsible. He’d never asked the freedman if he had wanted to come with him on that fateful walk to the Senate house. He had just expected it, as if the man were still a slave, and Publius, loyal Publius had simply followed him and gone to his death. He was going to find the man who had killed him.
“Alright,” Fabius said, “The investigation is yours. Report your findings to me as soon as possible.”
Fabius glanced around the table but there were no dissenters.
***
After the meeting had broken up Numerius was preparing to leave when Fabius came to see him. The old man took him to one side and there was a warmth and grace in his manner that Numerius had never seen before.
“I never thanked you, old friend, for what you did this morning,” Fabius said gripping Numerius by the shoulder. “I grieve for your son. He was a good man, and he served a good father. He knew that; so don’t feel bitter at his loss, Numerius, it was still a noble, if unfortunate way in which to go and meet the gods.”
Numerius nodded.
“He said you were ill?” Fabius inquired.
“Yes, I suppose I should have told you earlier but I did not wish to be a burden at this time. It’s Malaria.”
Fabius nodded and his hand tightened its grip on Numerius’ shoulder.
“This is bad news indeed,” he muttered. Then he smiled sadly.
“It seems lightening does touch the same spot twice after all. I knew your father all his life and I see much of him in you. Don't let what happened between him and Caeso blind you. Your father was a hard man but he was so for a reason. You know what I am talking about. " Fabius nodded solemnly. "He would have approved of everthing you have done. He is proud of you."
Fabius paused and looked away.
"You have served me with great distinction, just like your father," he declared. “I have not forgotten. I will make sure that the people will know about the sacrifices you and your kinsmen have made for Rome. I shall pray for you and for your son.”
Fabius paused again searching for the right words.
“The vote was taken and passed in the Senate,” he said at last. “We have our agreement with the priests. It is good news for the Republic. The matter is now closed but I will try and delay Metellus and his desire for blood. With some good fortune we will manage to see off Hannibal and the city will come back to its senses. I will do everything I can to protect Pompeia.” He looked up. “Find this killer for me, Numerius.”
***
The funeral pyre roared and crackled casting dancing, devilish shadows across the garden terrace. It was night. Sparks shot upwards only to die as swiftly as they had appeared. Numerius stood a few paces from the fire, his body stiff and motionless, his head bowed and veiled. He was dressed in a white toga. The first stars had appeared and on the fire clothed in white linen, Publius’ body burned. Numerius was speaking to himself and as he spoke, in a clear steady voice his slaves shrank back from him in fright.
“Janus and Jupiter, and Mars our Sire, ye guardian spirits of Rome, and ye the spirits of the mighty dead, thou too Bellona, and thou Quirinus, and all ye gods, both young and old, I beseech you to give me vengeance and strike my enemy with terror, dread and death.”
Numerius raised his head and looked upon the burning corpse.
“Herewith I devote to the infernal powers, myself, my enemies and all who are on their side, for my son, Publius, may his name never be forgotten.”
When he was finished the only sound on the terrace of his house, high up on the Janiculum was the roar of the fire as the flames greedily consumed the corpse.
In his library he closed the door behind him and paused to gaze at the masks that sat in their alcoves along the wall. The silent polished and frozen faces gleamed in the torch light, staring back at him. They were the death masks of his ancestors. He had taken them with him from the old house when he had sold the property. The library was his room. No one, not even Pompeia was allowed to enter. The room was an exact replica of his father’s library and he had spent many long hours here preparing his cases and indulging his love of words. Along the three remaining walls there were shelves containing manuscripts, books and notes on his legal cases and in a corner a desk with a single chair. He stared at the masks as if challenging them to speak.
Numerius had not realised how much Publius had meant to him until the man was gone. Somehow he’d always expected his son to be there, to look after him, the house and his daughter and the family name. Such was the orderly way of life, the way it ought to have been, the way he had planned.
The loss had left him numb. They’d all gone now, his family, all apart from Pompeia. He was dying but death did not frighten him. Death made a life whole and meaningful. There was a part of him which yearned for it now. There was little left him in this world. He’d been faithful to his father, to his clients and to Rome. He had done his duty in war and in peace and now when it all seemed to be coming to an end, when he should have felt a sense of achievement; he only felt the sharpness of grief. The gods were punishing him. Fortune had turned against him and he didn’t know why.
He stared at the masks. The spirits of his forefathers beckoned to him. Sometimes he thought he could see them, amongst the shadows of the trees in his garden, waiting for him. Soon he knew his death mask would join the long line of his forefathers in their neat alcoves. It would not be long now. But before that day came he would avenge his son’s murder. He would hold death at arms length until justice was done. It would be his last case.
In his funeral oration he had offered his own spirit to the gods of the underworld together with that of the man who had killed Publius. The gods would hold him to
that promise. The greedy gods, in their fine, rich temples would not be able to refuse such a great offer; of that Numerius was sure.
***
The following day he set to work. There was much to do and he was conscious that he didn’t have much time. To help him in his investigation he was given a unit from the Triumviri Nocturni, the privately operated and funded fire brigade of Rome. In addition to their duty as fire watchers; fire being a constant danger in the city, the Triumviri Nocturni, as their name suggested, were also the night time police force and were tasked with maintaining public order and the capture of criminals. The unit’s HQ was in the Capena gate house, built into the Servian walls.
The twenty firemen were slaves but at least they were proud of their profession Numerius thought. He had them lined up in a row for an inspection. The men’s equipment, ladders, buckets, rope, saws and pick axes was stashed in a separate store room and apart from that their only weapons were sticks. None of them had ever been involved in a man hunt and some of them looked far too old and frail for the active duty that was demanded from them. But they would have to do he thought.
He sent them off into the city in pairs with orders to search all the hostels and guest houses. It was a routine precaution and he did not expect it to produce any results, yet it still needed to be done. The city gates which had already been closely watched had been closed immediately after the failed assassination. Only persons with special permission were being allowed to leave. Numerius sat alone at the table where the firemen usually ate their dinner, his head clasped in his hands, trying to think. He felt tired and weak. He should have been resting but yesterday’s events kept playing through his mind. He heard the bolt slamming into Publius. He remembered the look of shock on the freedman’s face. He saw the assassins head in the window. He’d been too far away to make out any specific features. How had the killer managed to escape?
The problem he knew was that he had hardly anything to go on. He’d been unable to give his firemen a description of whom they were looking for. He wasn’t even certain if the assassin was acting alone or whether the man was still in Rome. Nevertheless he would keep going; that much he did know. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He’d been quick to demand the job but now that he was in charge, he didn’t really know what to do. How did one find a fugitive in a city of two hundred thousand people?
The Scorpion had been the only clue left behind. He frowned. The Scorpion was a military weapon. It was a rare to find one. Such specialised weapons belonged to the army, they were not something you could just pick up at the local carpenter for a few coins and learn to use effectively within a few days. The assassin or assassins had carefully prepared the attack. They had chosen a good killing spot, with an escape route. That would have required some planning and experience. The more he thought about it the more convinced he became. This was not a random attack. The whole thing looked like the work of a professional.
“A hired man,” Numerius said suddenly looking up.
He stood up and began to pace around the room and as he did so his eyes suddenly widened.
“Carthaginians,” he whispered.
***
Numerius was pacing up and down when he became conscious of the man standing in the doorway to the fire station. He stopped. The man was tall with a receding hairline and looked to be in his mid thirties. He wore a grey tunic, carried a small leather case slung over his shoulder and wore a faded army focale, around his neck.
“Who are you?” Numerius said bluntly, annoyed at the intrusion.
“The name is Nicomedes of Syracuse,” the man replied. “Fabius thought you might need me. I am at your service, Sir.”
Numerius grunted. “How can you help me?”
Nicomedes stepped into the fire station and glanced around disapprovingly. He was carrying a walking stick which he prodded into the ground. Apart from that he was unarmed. “I am a doctor,” he replied.
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Fabius seems to think you do. He told me not to leave your side, Sir.”
Numerius stared at the visitor. It was just the sort of thing Fabius would do; saddle him with a baby sitter.
“Syracuse,” Numerius savoured the name. "Alright,” he snapped, “If you insist on staying, then stay. Maybe you can help me after all. What do you know about Punic spies in Rome?”
Nicomedes looked a little uncertain. “I thought they were all rounded up when the war began, two years ago?”
Numerius placed his hands firmly on the table.
“Yes maybe,” he said, “What about sympathisers? Who else would support the Punic cause?”
Nicomedes arched his eyebrows. “Well Sir, I am a Greek and we Greeks are the hereditary enemies of Carthage but some of my countrymen, especially in the Southern cities of Italy, may not share our loathing of the sea people. They may hate Rome even more.”
“Who else...?” Numerius asked.
“Gaul’s and Macedonians,” the doctor replied with a nod.
Numerius stared at the table deep in thought. When at last he looked up at the doctor there was a grim, determined look on his face.
“If you are really here to help me, doctor, then go back to Fabius and get him to give you a list from the Censor. I want to know the names of all registered Gauls and Macedonians living in the city and I want that list right away.”
Nicomedes looked perplexed. Then he sighed.
“And here was I thinking you were a dying man,” he muttered. He turned for the door. “What do you need it for anyway?”
“I’m going to round them all up,” Numerius said.
***
The arrests started before dawn the next morning. At the fire station which he had turned into his HQ, Numerius had assembled his motley crew of firemen and explained his plan. The slaves, excited by their new role, had taken to it with gusto. Doors had been kicked down, voices raised and suspects dragged from their beds. Most had come quietly, too shocked or surprised to offer any resistance and only twice the firemen had to resort to violence. With his list finally exhausted Numerius called the captain of the firemen to him.
“Take them to the Tullianum,” he ordered.
Nicomedes frowned and watched the prisoners being marched away.
“What are you going to do them?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Numerius grunted. “Perhaps it’s best if you don’t join me this afternoon.”
“You are going to torture them?”
“Perhaps, yes.”
Nicomedes sighed. “Well in that case you are going to need a doctor.”
The Tullianum, the oldest prison in Rome had been built into the north east side of the Capitoline hill facing the Senate house. The building had originally been intended as a cistern for a spring but now the lower hold served as the room to hold prisoners. The arrested men were flung into the dirty crowded lower chamber and the iron grates above their heads were closed.
Numerius insisted on personally interrogating each detainee. The interrogation room grew hot and sweaty. Afternoon turned into evening, evening into night. It was the threat of torture that finally provided the breakthrough. One of the prisoners, a Macedonian, seeing the torture instruments laid out broke down and confessed. He’d spied for Hannibal for over two years but he knew nothing about the attack on Fabius. He claimed he’d been forced into spying for Hannibal. The man had thrown himself upon Numerius’ mercy, pleading and crying for clemency. He had a wife and children. It was when the prisoner had started to talk about the spy who’d come to visit him, only a few days before, that Numerius’ ears pricked up. The Macedonian had been able to give him a description. A curious thought started to grow in Numerius’ mind as he listened. But the Macedonian’s story seemed to end in disappointment. The spy had only come to inspect the walls and had already left the city, days ago.
“You shall live,” Numerius said when the weeping prisoner had finally stopped talking. He beckoned to the captai
n of his firemen, “Cut off his hands instead and kick him out of the nearest gate.”
The prisoner screamed in a high pitched voice as the soldiers grabbed his arms and began to drag him from the room.
“I can be useful to you, mercy, please, don’t harm me!” the man squealed.
Numerius held up his hand for the guards to stop.
“How can you be useful to me?” he demanded.
“Please Sir, do not harm me,” the miserable man was sobbing now. Then with an effort he wiped his eyes with his hand and began to speak.
Once the man was gone Numerius raised his eyebrows and glanced at Nicomedes. The doctor shrugged. He had not said a word throughout all the interrogations.
“I think we are done for today,” Numerius said wearily. “Keep the prisoners in for tonight and then release the innocent ones at dawn.”
Numerius shivered suddenly. The room had turned cold. He gasped. He knew the sign. The malaria was about to take him. He tried to rise to his feet but the room seemed to be in a spin. He felt the shivers spasm through his whole body and then he was falling. He felt someone catch him and then a calm voice was speaking.
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