For a long moment Marcus said nothing as he stared at Attianus. Then slowly he shook his head.
“I have no love for Nigrinus but I won’t betray him,” he growled.
“That’s the wrong answer,” Attianus said as his face darkened. “Why not?”
“Because I gave Nigrinus my word,” Marcus hissed. “Because I swore an oath of loyalty. That still means something to me. I will not break it.”
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Attianus cried out raising his arms in the air. “I could have you killed. I could have you prosecuted for treason. There are a hundred ways in which I can ruin you and your family. I am not joking. This is serious. We’re getting fucking serious here.”
“Then what is stopping you,” Marcus bellowed.
“Your son Fergus,” Attianus roared back. “He is protecting you. Didn’t you know? He is pleading with Hadrian to save your miserable life. That’s what’s stopping me. If you don’t want to do this for yourself, then do this for him.”
“I will not betray Nigrinus nor will I abandon the War Party,” Marcus shouted, as he rose to his feet, his face white with anger. “What you are asking me to do is dishonourable and I will have nothing to do with it. I fear death like the next man, but I fear dishonour more. You will have to do your worst.”
“Fine,” Attianus roared as Marcus headed for the hallway. “Then I shall inform Nigrinus that you, his trusted colleague, warned us about the attempt on Hadrian’s life eighteen months ago in Athens. I shall tell Nigrinus that you were directly responsible for the failure of the assassination attempt and that you did it to protect your son Fergus, who just happens to be Hadrian’s head of security. I wonder how long you will last after that.”
Marcus had stopped in his tracks and slowly he turned to gaze at Attianus.
“That is a lie,” he hissed, as blood shot into his cheeks. “I don’t give a shit about your Hadrian.”
“I don’t care,” Attianus retorted. “But Nigrinus is going to believe me. He is going to believe me when he discovers that Fergus your son is on Hadrian’s staff. And then Marcus,” Attianus said in a sneering voice, “the shit is really going to start flying for you.”
Chapter Fourteen – The List
Cunitius’s office felt stuffy, airless and the faint pong of stale urine was seeping into the room from the squalid alley outside. In the open doorway, a dog was scratching itself against a wall, and in one of the apartments above the ground floor office a man and a woman were having a massive foul-mouthed row, but Marcus didn’t notice. It was morning and a week had passed since his tense meeting with Attianus. Marcus and Cunitius were hunched over a long scroll of papyrus that had been laid out across Cunitius’s desk. The neat, beautiful and stylish paragraphs seemed to have been written by a professional clerk. Marcus frowned as he studied the list.
“So, the good news,” Cunitius exclaimed, as he too studied the list. “Is that the paint makers have kept records of their clients. I have been to see them all. There are thirteen businesses that sell vermillion in the city of Rome. As the paint is expensive, I expect that most of their clients will be the city’s wealthier families.” Cunitius paused and grinned at Marcus. “I don’t think you will find many people in the Subura who are interesting in painting the walls of their homes. The most popular commodity in this neighbourhood is wine and flesh.”
“Go on,” Marcus replied with a grim, unamused expression.
“When a client wishes to buy some paint,” Cunitius said, turning his attention back to the scroll. “They typically send one of their slaves or freedmen to place the order. The paint makers then create the paint, which may take a few days, and then they deliver it to the house of their client, where the financial transaction is also concluded. That means that our paint makers have the addresses and names of everyone who buys their products.” Cunitius’s eyes gleamed in amusement. “So, I persuaded them all to share their client lists with me. This list here is a record of all the families who have purchased vermillion in the last six months. It contains the names of the slaves and freedmen who purchased the paint, and the addresses to which the paint was delivered. The bad news is that the list contains four hundred and seventy-two different names and addresses.”
Marcus grunted as he gazed down at the scroll and for a moment he didn’t reply.
“How accurate is this?” he growled at last.
Cunitius sighed. “As accurate as I could get it,” he replied. “Ofcourse there is a small chance that our saboteurs purchased the paint, without giving their address or stole it or got it from outside of Rome. Or that the paint makers have not shared their full client lists with me. But if Philip, my paint expert, is right then our saboteurs have chosen this specific paint because they want to send you a subtle message. They must have realised it would be risky to use this expensive paint instead of a more common variety, but they decided to use it anyway. That tells me something.” Cunitius tapped the scroll with his fingers and looked up at Marcus. “This is as comprehensive as its going to get. I suggest that you take some time to study the list and see if anything jumps out at you.”
Marcus nodded as he gazed at the paper. Then slowly he looked up at Cunitius.
“You said that this tells you something about the saboteurs,” he said in a grim voice. “What do you mean by that?”
Cunitius looked thoughtful as he raised his fingers to his mouth. For a moment he remained silent. “Maybe,” he said at last. “Just maybe the people we are looking for want to be found. Maybe they don’t want to hide forever. It’s just a theory. Just a hunch.”
***
Marcus looked unhappy as he carefully unrolled the papyrus scroll onto his garden table and fixed it, by laying a heavy stone at each end. Around him in the garden of his villa, high on the Janiculum hill, the first of the spring flowers had started to appear and a fresh and pleasant scent and breeze filled the noon air. In a nearby tree a cheerful bird was singing and on a chair, the black cat was sitting contentedly watching Marcus with its yellow eyes. As Marcus straightened up and gazed down at the list of names and addresses, his mutilated left hand started to tremble uncontrollably. Silently Marcus reached across with his right hand to steady himself. Then quickly he turned to look around, but no one had noticed what had just happened. The uncontrollable trembling had started after his meeting with Attianus, a week ago. Marcus stared at his left hand and arm. He’d not told Kyna. For she would just worry and use it as another excuse to try and get him to retire to Vectis. But at some point, he would have to go and see a doctor. The trembling could just be stress but it could also be something worse.
Marcus was studying the list carefully, when Kyna appeared at his side and placed a cup of posca and some bread, cheese and olive oil on the table. Nodding his gratitude Marcus leaned back in his chair and stretched out his arms.
“I have been over this list twice now and nothing jumps out,” he complained, in a frustrated voice. “It’s just an endless listing of the rich and famous. Gods, there are people close to starving on the streets of the Subura and here their fellow citizens are spending vast amounts on fancy wall paintings.”
“Mind if I have a look,” Kyna said, as she turned to gaze down at the scroll with its neat, professionally written paragraphs.
Marcus gestured for her to do so. Reaching out to the bread, he dipped it into the oil and took a bite. The black cat was still watching him. Stiffly Marcus rose from his chair and, breaking off a little bit of cheese, he reached out to let the animal have a sniff.
“That’s odd,” Kyna suddenly exclaimed with a frown. “That’s Cassius’s address. That’s the name of his freedman, Blaikisa.”
“Are you sure,” Marcus said, as he quickly returned to the table and gazed down at the list.
“Yes, that’s Cassius and Elsa’s address all right. I am sure of it,” Kyna replied. “And that’s the name of one of Cassius’s freedmen, Blaikisa,” she said, pointing at a name on the list. “What are Cassius and Blaikis
a doing on this list?” Kyna looked up at Marcus. “Blaikisa was one of the Dacian prisoners of war brought back from the Dacian war. Cassius freed him about a year ago I think. He got his own apartment in the city after he was freed.”
Marcus frowned as he studied the list.
“You said it was odd,” he said at last. “Why is it odd?”
“I have been to Cassius and Elsa’s house many times,” Kyna replied. “We planned her wedding there and I am helping her prepare for the baby. The last time I was there, which was just a few days ago, they did not have any wall paintings or frescoes in their home. There was not a lick of red paint to be seen anywhere.”
Marcus grunted. “But it says here that Blaikisa took delivery and paid for a large quantity of vermillion paint, less than two months ago. If they don’t paint their walls, then what the hell is all this paint meant for then?” Annoyed, Marcus turned and bellowed for one of his slaves to come out into the garden.
“Go to Cassius’s house at once,” Marcus said as the slave appeared. “Tell him that I wish to see him right away. He is to come right away. I will not accept any fucking excuses.”
***
Cassius looked nervous as he came striding out onto the garden terrace. Marcus rose from his seat as he caught sight of his young secretary.
“What’s this all about Sir?” Cassius stammered as he caught the look on Marcus’s face. “Has there been another attack?”
“No,” Marcus growled, as he turned and gestured at the papyrus scroll that was pinned down onto the table. “I want you to explain how your address and the name of one of your freedmen appears on a sales list for vermillion paint. Kyna here tells me that you have no wall paintings in your house. So why do you need red paint? It’s not like it cheap either.”
A little colour shot into Cassius’s cheeks, as he turned to gaze at the scroll in silence. At last he shook his head in confusion.
“Is this to do with the investigation into the recent attacks on our infrastructure,” the young man exclaimed. “For if it is, then I swear I have nothing to do with them.”
“Just answer the damned question,” Marcus snapped.
Cassius stared at Marcus. Then hastily he turned his attention back to the scroll and slowly shook his head in bewilderment.
“We haven’t bought any red paint,” he protested as his blush deepened. “Kyna is right - we do not paint our walls. This must be a mistake or else,” Cassius paused. “Or else someone is impersonating me; using my address for false reasons. Blaikisa is the name of my freedman. That is true. But he can’t possibly have signed for that shipment of red paint two months ago.”
“And why is that?” Marcus said sharply.
“Because he is dead,” Cassius blurted out. “Blaikisa died four months ago. He caught a fever. I saw them burn his body with my own eyes.”
Marcus stared at Cassius in silence. Then he turned to look at Kyna, who just shrugged.
“Someone is using my address and the name of my freedman without my knowledge or approval,” Cassius snapped, stabbing the scroll angrily with his finger. “This is a disgrace,” Cassius said as he looked at Marcus. “And for you Sir to suspect me of being complicit in these attacks.” Cassius’s blush grew, but mixed in with it was real anger. “Well I am disappointed Sir,” the young man said sharply. “Have I not proved my loyalty to you. Have I not carried out everything you have asked of me?”
Marcus sighed and looked away. Cassius was right. Maybe he’d been too hasty, too aggressive. It was the relentless political pressure he thought. The growing and ever- present fear of what Nigrinus would do, when he heard what Attianus had to say about Fergus and the plot to assassinate Hadrian.
“You have,” Marcus muttered, lowering his eyes. “And I apologise for being so blunt.”
Marcus was about to say something else when a slave, accompanied by another man, came hurrying onto the terrace. Turning to face the newcomer, Marcus recognised the man as one of the priests of Ceres, the goddess of the harvest. The priest’s face and neck glistened in sweat and he was gasping for breath as if he had been running.
“Oh god what is it now?” Marcus called out, as his heart began to sink.
“Prefect,” the priest gasped. “I have come straight from the temple of Ceres on the Aventine. Last night a bronze statue of Ceres was stolen from the temple and a snake was left in its place. The snake is an evil sign, and without the statue we cannot bless the harvest. My colleagues are greatly upset. They believe that Ceres has abandoned us and that this is an omen, telling us that we are all going to starve. We only discovered the theft a few hours ago.”
“So why come to me?” Marcus exclaimed, as his face darkened. “Similis is the urban prefect and in charge of security in Rome. He is responsible for dealing with thefts.”
But the priest hastily shook his head. “Prefect you do not understand,” the man stammered. “A message was left in the room where the statue was kept. It was painted onto the walls. The message was addressed to you. It reads simply - the dead cry out for vengeance and they shall receive it.”
Marcus stared at the priest in horror and for a moment he could not move.
“The dead cry out for vengeance and they shall receive it,” he said at last, in a weak sounding voice. “Was the message painted in red paint?”
The priest nodded. “But there is more,” the priest added hastily. “One of my fellow priests is missing. His name is Evander. He was on duty last night. He was supposed to be guarding the statue but he didn’t show up at the temple this morning. We have the address where he lives. It’s on the Aventine not far from the temple. The high priest is waiting on you to decide what to do.”
“Indus,” Marcus roared, as he quickly turned towards his bodyguard. “Fetch my sword. Hurry. We are going to the Aventine hill. Cassius, you are coming with us too.”
***
The Aventine, the southern-most of Rome’s seven hills, was a densely packed neighbourhood of tall insulae, apartment buildings and narrow, twisting streets dominated by the magnificent temples of Ceres and Diane, the goddess of the hunt. Marcus looked grim and determined as he followed the posse of priests down the noisy, smelly and crowded street, with Indus and Cassius bringing up the rear. A single bronze statue of Ceres didn’t mean much to him he thought, but to the priests of Ceres the theft was an outrage, an ominous sign of divine displeasure. Whoever had masterminded the theft must have known this. Marcus’s rage deepened. If their intention was to sow discord and fear amongst the religious establishment, then stealing the statue was the way to go about it. But to link his name to the theft made his blood boil, for how long would it be before the ordinary people started to blame him personally, for their misfortune. In Rome, he thought sourly, the mob always like to find someone to blame for their misfortune.
Up ahead, the posse of finely dressed priests of Ceres had come to a halt around the doorway into one of the high, five storey apartment blocks.
“Is this the place where he lives?” Marcus growled as he came up to the doorway. The priests nodded solemnly.
Glancing upwards at the roof, Marcus noticed a few people leaning out of the windows gazing down at him. The gathering of priests in the street was starting to attract some attention. He would have to hurry. Turning to nod at Indus, Marcus quickly drew his gladius and then, leading the way, he vanished through the doorway and into the building. The lobby was deserted and dark and the narrow stairwell at the back stank of urine and rotting food. Carefully Marcus began to ascend the stairs, clutching his sword in his right hand. Behind him came Indus, Cassius and the long column of silent priests. As he climbed the stairs, he met no one and reaching the top floor Marcus paused to listen, but apart from a few distant voices, he could hear nothing unusual.
Creeping across the small landing, Marcus took a quick glance at the door to room nineteen and then, with a grunt he launched himself at the door, slamming into it with his shoulder. With a harsh cry of pain, he crashed through
the flimsy barrier, before tumbling ungainly onto the floor and into the room beyond. As Marcus hastily and painfully staggered to his feet, Indus appeared at his side, his sword in hand and behind him the priests flooded into apartment. And as they did, some of them cried out in horror and clasped their hands to their mouths. Marcus grunted in surprise as he caught sight of the man hanging from a hook in the ceiling on a short rope. The corpse was stark naked, and a large pool of blood had formed on the floor directly below his feet. But it was not the corpse or the blood that horrified the priests. As he stared at the dead man, Marcus could see that someone had cut off the man’s penis and had stuffed the remains into his mouth.
“Is this Evander,” Marcus growled, as he turned to the priests. “Is this the priest who didn’t show up for work?
“It is,” one of the priests stammered, his face horror stricken.
“Someone murdered him,” Cassius gasped, as he stared at the corpse hanging from the ceiling. “But why mutilate him like that. What does it mean? Who would do such a thing? It’s disgusting.”
Chapter Fifteen – Investigation
Quickly Marcus reached out to steady his trembling left hand. For a moment he stood still, frowning, as he gazed down at his arm and gently rubbed it with his fingers. Then hastily he glanced at Cassius and the others, but no one seemed to have noticed. In the small top floor apartment, the priests had managed to cut down their colleague and had laid the body on the floor and had covered it with a bedsheet. Some of the priests seemed close to tears. Others were muttering to themselves and praying out loud. With a sigh, Marcus turned to look around the room. Apart from a camp bed, some discarded clothes, a small wooden table and a single chair, the apartment was bare. Moving towards the window, Marcus poked his head out, looking down and then up at the roof but he saw nothing unusual. Turning back into the room, he sighed again and gazed about.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 13