The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  His smile faded, but he still said, "What if there- are two sections? Both are empty. Anyone may look."

  "No doubt they are, at present. That knife is too precious to leave there, in case someone works out your trick. But I know . . ." I leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  It was a guess, but he confirmed it by the way that he turned pale.

  I pressed my advantage remorselessly. "I shall tell them about that, if you appear. It will be the gossip of the town and rumour spreads like fire before the wind. Before you have reached the next town your reputation will be ahead of you."

  His voice was almost a whisper. "And if I don't appear?"

  "Then I say nothing. Although, of course, some of the story's out. Calvus accused you of cheating him — that will have spread for miles by this time. If I were you, knife-vendor, I wouldn't try to sell my knives round here again. Now, it is getting dark. If you — for any reason — wish to leave, it would be wise to do it very soon."

  I am not good at threats, but that one worked. The next morning there was no Nicodemus at the court, and without him, of course, there was no case to bring. Calvus was released without a charge.

  I had turned up at the court to see, and Marcus came across. "Well done, Libertus. You did well. I confess I was surprised myself. I didn't think you'd prove him innocent. I was convinced he did it all the time."

  I looked at him. "Of course he did it, Excellence. I didn't prove him innocent at all. I simply persuaded the Ambassador of that, which isn't the same thing. Surely you realised the trick I played? The Ambassador has spent his life in Rome — he doesn't realise that in Britannia, when you divide the daylight into twelve, it varies so much with the time of year. You told me how surprised you were yourself. An hour three months ago, when the attack took place, was naturally far longer than an hour yesterday."

  Marcus stared. "That's why Nicodemus spent time in the baths after the trial in Corninium, before he set off for the oppidum? I wondered about that."

  I nodded. "There was obviously still a lot of daylight left. But Calvus was furious at the legal trick. He waited till Nicodemus left the town, and then crept up and jumped him from the rear — threatening him with that useless knife he'd bought. Ironic really. He wanted to find the other knife, but though he broke the cutler's box in two and discovered how it worked, there was no knife. He betrayed himself there, incidentally. He knew there was a secret. He might have deduced that, possibly. I did myself. But he also told me that the thief hadn't found the knife and that the soldiers laughed when they found Nicodemus by the tree. So he must have been nearby. How could he have known that otherwise? I'm quite sure Nicodemus didn't report it to the aediles."

  "So Calvus stole the money?"

  "He was really looking for the knife. I'm sure of it. That's why he stripped Nicodemus to the skin — why else would a robber strip his victim bare, but leave the clothes, and break up that lovely box as well? Much more sensible to steal it all. Anyway, most of the money in that purse was his — Nicodemus tricked him out of it."

  Marcus looked doubtful. "So what happened to the knife? Nicodemus had it yesterday."

  I smiled. "That was the interesting part. It was Calvus who gave me the clue. He pulled down Nicodemus's turban to blindfold him. 'The outer folds,' he said. So obviously, he left the turban on. I believe the knife was under it, wrapped in the inner folds. Probably Nicodemus always carried it that way when travelling. I imagine Calvus was not the first to waylay Nicodemus on the road and try to get the knife he'd bargained for — but Nicodemus would just show the box and demonstrate that it was empty. He virtually admitted that to me last night."

  Marcus said, "I see," again, and turned to go. Then all at once he turned back to me. "So — why did you save Calvus from his fate? I didn't think you even liked the man."

  I didn't rise to that. "You asked me to, Excellence," I said. "Besides, though he was legally at fault, I am not sure that he merited that fate. I had a certain sympathy with him."

  I didn't add, although I might have done, that I bought a knife from a pedlar once. A credulous fool in a tunic, eager to be parted from his coin. I think I may have mentioned it before.

  A knife that would scarcely cut a piece of cheese.

  Sunshine and Shadow by R. H. Stewart

  This story is also set in Britain just a decade or two after the previous story, but here we find a Britain which is far less enamoured by the Roman army. Britain was, at this time, going through a turbulent period of administration. Little is known about its Governors, and the weaker ones were always prey to any discontent amongst the native British. No matter how Romanized the British became, deep down they remained British, especially the rebellious Brigantes, in what is now Yorkshire, whom the Romans were frequently having to quash.

  Rain sheeted endlessly across heath and hill in drenching curtains, rendering visibility virtually nil. It brimmed potholes faster than anyone could fill them in and turned every gutter and conduit into miniature torrents. Well, that's what you got in northern Britain.

  Lucius Valerianus, known as Apricus — Etruscan born; army engineer by training and achievement — had no choice but to call a Stand-easy and allow his men back to their neat, palisaded camp to coax up sulky fires and try steaming themselves at least half dry. All the same, he set sentries. He was optio-in-charge on this job, on his own for the very first time. The northernmost territories of this Province subtly seething with disaffection — were not the place just now to be caught on your back foot.

  He was road-mending: himself and four craftsmen from Legio VI Victrix, and a draft of twenty troopers of the auxiliary Cohors II Nerviorum. He'd claimed use of the draft because he and the craftsmen had already seen to refurbishing doors, shutters, tiling and drains for the Nervians, who were the incoming garrison of a fort overseeing and guarding a lead mining enterprise in high Brigantian land well to the north and west of Eboracum. They were mending a back road which connected the fort to main routes either side: Stanegate, behind them, which serviced Hadrian's boundary, and the road somewhere south in front of them which ran obliquely south-east to north-west over desolate moorland from Cataractonium to Brocauum, and eventually down to Luguvalium. So far, in these parts, they had not set eyes on one single Brigantian — which wasn't to say there weren't any.

  They had already reinstated the back road on the fort's northern side from the Stanegate junction on. Now they faced the remaining two thirds of it, due south to where it met the cross-route at Bravoniacum.

  Apricus had decided early that this was the wildest, loneliest terrain he had ever experienced. Now even the weather had gone against him. He sat astride his standard-issue folding stool staring out from under his spattering tent-flap, contemplating a problem.

  This problem was one very large, very deep rectangular pit which had been cut across rather more than the entire width of the road, then cleverly obscured with light branches and heaps of leafage from what purported to be a naturally fallen tree. Wrong. Roman roads — even relatively neglected back roads — did not have trees next to them. Trees and scrub were routinely cut back in broad corridors on either side at the time of making, and in general people were responsible for keeping them that way.

  Once the tree's bole had been cleared of dirt, it was found to possess no root structure, and had been artfully positioned. While the whole thing wasn't that new — it shouted ambush. As such, it required reporting. Plus: to fill in the trap and make it good meant: i) extra materials; ii) trouble in securing same; iii) considerable delay to the work schedule. Messages would have to be sent to Bravoniacum for relay to Supplies (Catarac.), and to Centurion Ursus — overseer of Works — wherever he might be.

  Apricus sighed, sorting out his stylus case and wax tablets from inside a leather bag. Better sooner than later.

  To the optio's amazed relief — one day on and with the rain at last thinning to drizzle — Ursus came riding up from the south like a gale of wind.

  "Jup
iter! You've been quick!" he exclaimed, catching his centurion's bridle.

  "You struck lucky!" Ursus grinned down. "I was going out of Bravo just as your man came lolloping in . . . on your mare, I noticed, so I've fetched her back. I sent him on to Supplies, post, and with priority requisitions. What's to do?"

  Apricus gestured, "Well . . . as you see . . ."

  He had had protective barriers set out along the pit's sides, lowered ladders into it, seen to rigging a hoist and removed some debris from the bottom.

  Ursus peered in.

  "Anything interesting?" he grunted.

  "Not really. No nasty stakes. Animal bones — we've piled them for you to see. Otherwise just a mess of leaves, twigs and little earth slips. I've located the spoil, which who-ever-they-were dumped out of sight. Most of it'll fill. Gutters'll need recutting and we want hardcore and gravel for the new topping, as I wrote. Whoever this was meant for never seems to have got to use it, thank the gods!"

  "Right. Good. Well done, Sunshine!"

  Ursus looked at his most junior, least experienced optio and decided to stay on a day. He'd organized a Quintana wagon with extra rations including a beer allowance — which drew him a cheer.

  By dusk time the road squad had doggedly replaced about half the pit spoil. Once the rations cart came bundling in, they knocked off for the night, leaving lanterns on the barrier. They shut themselves inside their tidy camp behind berm and sharpened fence.

  Mist came in place of the rain. White and eery, it altered sounds and blotted out the surrounding wastes.

  Everyone was relishing fresh bread and the best hot supper in days when a sentry shouted he could hear some-

  thing. Ursus and Apricus were with him at the double. "What kind of something?" Ursus wanted to know. "Hoofbeats, Cent. Very fast. Then I lost them."

  Which made sense because the road behind them switch-backed.

  Apricus ordered them to arm; then yelled for silence. They waited — straining ears into the night. The mist drifted, muffling them in, increasing unease.

  Ursus selected ten troopers with more lanterns, told the rest to keep alert and marched out to the road in front of the pit. He dropped on the nearest grass, his ear to the ground.

  "One horse, galloping," he called, "Use the barrier. Five either side in line. Raise your lights."

  "From the fort?" Apricus queried.

  "Maybe. We'll soon see."

  Someone set up flamed torches at the camp entrance. The remaining soldiers closed together. Ursus and Apricus stood aloof, one each side of the road, in the limited, milky pool of light.

  A now perceptible distant drumming changed to the staccato clatter of hooves, nearer and nearer, until at last a horse and rider emerged abruptly through shrouds of whiteness.

  "Whoa . . .1" bellowed Ursus.

  As the rider reined up sharply, Apricus grabbed at his bit ring and hauled the horse to a slithering halt.

  If the traveller looked British — long-haired, moustached, swathed in chequer-patterned wool clothing — he certainly didn't sound it. Summing up both legionaries at a glance, he announced in impeccable Latin with a bleak patrician drawl: "What in Hades d'you think you are about? Paws off!"

  Ursus wasn't about to be fazed.

  "Setting speed records, are we?" he asked roughly and, pointing to the hazard, added, "You wouldn't want to go dropping into that, now, would you? Sir! May I enquire as to your travel warrant?"

  There was a hostile silence.

  The horse, lathered, began to snort and shake its head. Neither centurion nor optio budged an inch.

  "Don't have any . . . actually," the rider admitted; then, emphatically, "Don't need any!"

  Ursus raised sardonic eyebrows.

  "Look here," the traveller went on, "I must reach the Governor urgently. Intelligence, right? And I'm being followed in order to be stopped — permanently. Is that good enough? Now, damn you, let me through!"

  Ursus remained unimpressed. The two of them argued furiously until, swearing, the man pulled from inside his clothing a small seal on a strong chain.

  "See this?" He was exasperated. "Take a good look and leave off impeding me! Jupiter, man — have you no sense?"

  Apricus saw Ursus stare and blink. Then, ordering the troopers to the left of the pit aside and to light the way, he piloted the rider past.

  "Your nag's near blown," Ursus conceded. "We could swap it."

  "I do know! I've ridden all my life, you clod! No time. I'll nurse him to Bravo and change there. If I can reach Ebor, I'm safe. There are two of them out there . . . your genuine Britons. It would be singularly useful if they fell in the hole! Failing which: obstruct them even more officiously than you have me — or, Centurion, you may forget all idea of further promotion. Understood?"

  "Perfectly, sir. Dea Fortuna go with you."

  The traveller kicked his horse back into activity and vanished in the mist.

  "Phew!" uttered Apricus in the aftermath. "So what was the seal?"

  "Imperial. The kind only Consulars and the occasional personally appointed high-ups ever get. I've only seen one other."

  Already there was a faint approach of fresh hoofbeats.

  Just in time, Ursus got the men hidden, with lanterns shut, as two characters much like the first to look at arrived. These spotted the road trap only at the last moment, shouting to one another and milling their horses round hard.

  An armed circle materialized from nowhere, shining lights.

  At least these sounded like tribesmen ought — with accented, stilted Latin.

  One of them was dark; one had hair and moustaches which showed up bright ginger when catching the lamplight.

  Ursus made them dismount and had them thoroughly searched, confiscating their spears and daggers for the while. Grumbling, the newcomers brought out apparently valid travel permits. Ursus began nit-picking through them syllable by syllable. Apricus made a business of taking names and notes.

  The Britons' story hinged on them joining a cousin-chieftain's household and being in trouble with him, if delayed. But they varied as to where this cousin might be — one saying vaguely "near Eboracuin", the other suggesting in rasping tones some obscure Celtic placename. Significantly, neither of them mentioned anything about anyone up ahead of them.

  Though the army was at this time under strict orders not to risk provocation, Ursus dawdled, letting their horses chill and stiffen. When he could no longer reasonably hold them, he insisted they be escorted a full mile at walking pace "due to the dangerous state of the road", before finally letting them go.

  "Now then — here's a mystery!" he brooded, afterwards, sharing Apricus' tent for reheated stew, a welcome flask of wine, and the use of a camp bed.

  "What d'you reckon we ought to do, Cent?"

  "Report the whole shebang to HQ. You do it, Sunshine best writing, eh? Don't worry," he added easily, "I'll back you."

  They filled in the pit and finished the road without further incident.

  The draft from II Nerviorum piled tents and equipment into its big baggage cart, slapped backs all round in farewell, and turned for home.

  Optio Apricus sat his craftsmen in theirs, hopped on his mare and led them gladly down the main road to Eboracum.

  In fort he submitted a comprehensive set of tablets to Principia and hoped, fervently, he wasn't about to go making Legio VI Victrix, whose Headquarters the fortress at Eboracum was, had it on good authority a new Governor was in Londinium — bent, very shortly, on undertaking a full dress tour of inspection throughout Britannia.

  The buzz in the township which clung round the outside of the fortress walls was of sprucing the place to receive him: new build; new clothes; new trade. It was true the wine business direct from Gaul to the riverside quays — despite difficulties — was flourishing once more — and local merchants from among the Parisi were filling a demand for quality hides and leather goods in return.

  Even the weather, as Spring advanced, and now that Optio L Val
erianus Apricus was back in fort, showed signs of tardy optimism. He took advantage of a short interval between work schedules, to write home. He used an ink pen and some second quality Egyptian papyrus sheets, one of the advantages of being on the technical staff. After the usual preamble, addressing his father, he went on:

  . . . I'm sorry if I upset you, leaving home like that but I really couldn't stick the idea of being glued to a desk shuffling records all day long! It isn't as though I were your one and only, is it? But now I'm trained and posted, I thought you and Mother might not be too unhappy to see where I've got to and know I'm all right.

  Briefly, after Basic Training, I did well enough to be recommended for army engineering. They sent me to Castra Peregrina for a year — we only shared a bit of that place because it is huge! Some of the rest of it is given over to the Frumentarili — maybe you know this? whom one steers well clear of if one has any sense at all! Secret agents and all that stuff. Well, I ended the course second top and won the runner-up prize from the Commandant, so I haven't disgraced you or the family. The prize was a laugh — a very handsome travelling sundial in a case with the provincial latitudes marked out — which of course is necessary and extremely useful, if one has sunshine — but (typical army thinking) they then posted me to VI Victrix in Britain, where it rains nine days out of ten in my experience so far! When we read the posting lists, everyone fell about laughing, and because of the sundial I've acquired my cognomen "Sunshine". Some twerp who was going out to Egypt smirked could he buy the thing off me, then? I told him where to put himself! We had a big party to celebrate qualifying, and because we're technical were all promoted optio (acting) before leaving. Not having done anything dire, I'm now almost due confirmation in the status, which means the pay rise to match the "paint brush" on my helmet.