The Roman Heir

by Zara Altair

  “Father was a busy man,” Philo said. “Every morning he received people here in his study to conduct business. But in the afternoons and evenings he was often gone. He was very social.”

  Titiana sighed and pulled away from her mother’s shoulder.

  Aemilia drew up her shoulders. “He wasn’t a family man.”

  Argolicus waited for more.

  Aemilia continued, “He was always out visiting. Sometimes he came home with a new acquisition. He kept the newest ones on his desk so he could admire them. When he arranged dinner parties here the guests often included new people we had not met before. As exotic as his collection items are... were, he never invited anyone who was not a Roman.”

  Philo added, “Yes, they had long conversations into the night about Theodoric and his People. He made certain his guests were from old families. They talked about the new appointees from the King. He called them upstarts. They would scheme and plan. But, it was all talk. That’s how he and Boethius became friends.”

  Argolicus once again was glad he was leaving the enclave of Romans. “How do you feel about the King?” he asked.

  “Me?” Philo said. “I prefer my books to politics. I have no experience of the ‘old ways,’ as my father reverently called them. Maybe I’m young. Going to the Games on my own was an adventure for me.” He paused. “But I see that it won’t happen this year.”

  Aemilia said, “There will be other years, Philo. Now you are the man of the house. We must make funeral arrangements. You need to learn from Sabinus. You’ll be busy now. I’m sure the new Consul, Flavius Paulus, won’t miss you at the Games.”

  “Sabinus?” Argolicus said. The talk was wandering from Pius’ death. He felt the time constraint before his boat left. If he could get a better picture of the family he was certain he would find clues to Pius’ violent death.

  Aemilia drew up her shoulders and then let them down. “Sabinus is a businessman. An organizer. His life is the port. His daily activities are filled with cargo and the coming and going of ships. He makes certain cargo is distributed to make room for what is contained in the new ships that arrive. He rarely attends social events and even more rarely hosts them. He spends the evenings with his family.” She paused. Argolicus saw a tiny frown develop between her elegant eyebrows.

  “He is devoted to his family. He has three boys and two girls. He has a penchant for the ordinary and the pedestrian. I’ve heard him tell the story of Cornelia’s jewels in reference to his own children. What can I say? His home is in Portus; his work is in Portus. Pius thought him boring. But, he did make the shipping business run smoothly.”

  Argolicus waited to see if Titiana or Philo had anything to add, but they were both silent each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

  “And you?” Argolicus asked, looking directly at Aemilia. “How did you get along with Pius?”

  “What do you mean ‘get along’?” Aemilia asked. “We were husband and wife. We made things work.”

  Argolicus waited without responding.

  Aemilia shrugged. “We were amicable. I wouldn’t say we were a loving couple. We’ve been married many years. We made it work.”

  Philo stared blankly. Titiana moved away from her mother and sat primly alone.

  “Did you argue?” Argolicus asked.

  “Of course, we argued. We were a couple. We had our disagreements but I can’t recall any arguments of any seriousness. Marital disagreements happen with any couple.” Before Argolicus could speak she said, “I don’t know who you are trying to ensnare. Philo asked you to look into his death, but I won’t suffer insinuations from anyone, especially just the kind of man my husband could not tolerate.”

  She drew up her shoulders again, stood up, and began to leave the room.

  Argolicus stood as well, mentally brushing off her reference to his appointment in Rome. To her he was one of the new Romans whose appointment came from the King. “I am sorry I have upset you. Murder is upsetting. I ask questions. The more I know the better I understand.”

  Aemilia said, “I’ll leave you to Philo.”

  Titiana stood, glanced at Philo, and then ran across the room. Both of her fists beat Argolicus on the chest. “You don’t understand anything,” she cried as she hit him over and over.

  Philo jumped up from his silent reverie to pull Titiana away. She turned and sobbed into her brother’s shoulder. Then she ran out of the room.

  Philo looked at Argolicus. His face was distorted like a young child about to cry. “I apologize for my mother and my sister. My father protected them from the world. They feel exposed and defenseless.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Argolicus said. “And you?”

  Philo seemed to gather himself. “We are a family. We are not a loving family. My father kept the household running. We all bowed to his will. Even Sabinus. He was paterfamilias, but at a distance. What my mother said was right, they were married like the contractual arrangement that they made from the beginning. She did his bidding and relied on him for protection.”

  He stopped. Then he waved his arm at the house before them. “Look at this. Look at all of it. This is a house of things. To my father people were a means to an end and the end was things. I was his son and I was his possession. I must always look good. I’m sure the reason he didn’t want me to go to Rome was not because of anything that would happen, but because young people do wild things and he did not want me to do anything that would reflect on his name.”

  “And your books?” Argolicus asked. “Did he approve of your library?”

  “Yes and no. He approved of the collection. My building my own collection was an extension of his image. But my ‘bookishness,’ as he called it, upset him. He wanted me to be more of a man.”

  “A man? What does that mean?” Argolicus asked.

  “To be like him, of course. To take the family name out in public. To attend events. To go to parties. To accompany him on his searches for the one new thing. That’s what he meant. He cited Boethius as an example of a man who loved books and yet was in the thick of things.”

  Argolicus had a picture now of the young man’s emotional turmoil. His father was dead and he had no one to help. He’d been pushed into a position he couldn’t handle and that did not suit his nature. “Ah, to be a man in his image.”

  “Yes, exactly. My father wanted me to be just like him. I’m not.”

  “Philo, do you want me to stay and continue? I don’t want to upset your mother or your sister.”

  “Yes, more than ever. You saw how emotional they are. How would they help find who killed my father?” He nodded toward the passageway where Aemilia and Titiana had disappeared. “I need you.” He looked Argolicus in the eye.

  Argolicus felt an ache at the bottom of his chest at the remembrance of his own father’s death. He also remembered the comfort he had taken in the male presence of his uncle, not only a book lover, but a maker of books. He nodded.

  “Oh, I am grateful,” Philo exclaimed like a young child. “I can’t make a fancy speech, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Argolicus felt that pain in his chest dissipate. “I will do as much as I can do.”

  “In that case, I know the perfect room for you here in the house. Let me show you.” He led Argolicus out of the entertainment room into the peristylum and turned left toward a set of stairs at the far end. “I know it is old-fashioned, but I have a tutor, too. He’s probably in my library looking for something for us to read this evening. His name is Bion.”

  Nikolaos appeared from somewhere in the peristylum and followed them up the stairs. At the top of the stairs was a long hallway lined with doorways.

  “I like it up here,” Philo said. “The rooms have windows. They are light during the day.” He led them along the corridor to a door and opened it. Inside the door was a small whitewashed room for Nikolaos and beyond that a brightly painted cubiculum set with a bed, a chair, and two small tables. One held a wash basin and small linens;
the other was slightly larger to serve as a desk with two oil lamps. A brazier stood near the table against the winter chill. The walls were painted here and there with figures: young women and men singing and cavorting among trees and one lone shepherd playing his pipe.

  Argolicus found his travel bag already placed in a corner. “Thank you, Philo. This will do nicely.”

  “Oh, there is more I want to show you. My library is next door.” He nodded his head to toward the left. “Once you are settled, I’ll show you my collection.” His face shown with pride.

  “Perhaps after dinner. We can all read together.”

  “I like that idea,” Philo said. “We can read from the new book.” He looked around the room and hesitated.

  Argolicus said, “We’ll be fine. I’ll arrange my things. Then I’ll take a walk and do some thinking. Where will you be in a couple of hours?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be in my father’s study. Uncle Sabinus is due in the next hour. We’ll have many things to discuss.”

  “I’ll join you there. I want to speak with your uncle.” He watched the young man leave. Was I ever that vulnerable?

  He must have said it aloud because Nikolaos said, “Yes, Master.”

  Chapter 3

  Nothing Revealed

  Argolicus sighed. “I thought I was leaving all this.”

  Nikolaos looked toward the end of the street. “Just two more days after this.”

  They were walking toward the edge of Ostia and the ocean. The streets were lined with empty shops and vacant apartment buildings. For the past 200 years, Ostia had ceased to be a thriving port, the harbor silted in, and what remained was country retreats for rich Romans. Buildings in disuse showed signs of crumbling from neglect. The snow had melted but a wind from the ocean blew cold, carrying the scent of the sea. Argolicus pulled his cloak tighter.

  “I think I would not have liked Pius. Demanding and supercilious. It seems his collection was all he cared about. He didn’t seem to care for his family except as an obligation. And the mother, Aemilia, is so cold. I’m sure Pius was a difficult man. But, she paints a picture of a model Roman family. The daughter is right. I don’t understand. The boy is the best of the lot.”

  They reached the end of the street. What used to be the harbor was a silted marsh. Reeds bent in waves as the wind rushed in from the water. They turned and walked along the edge of the marsh.

  Nikolaos said, “The daughter, Titiana, seemed overwrought. Hitting you is not a typical Roman action. She’s not a child. She looks close to twenty. Old enough to know that what she did is not acceptable.”

  Argolicus breathed on his cold fingers. “I can’t tell if she is upset at the loss of her father or terrified of the murder. Her words ‘you don’t understand’ could mean anything. Did she love her father? Was Pius more strict with her than with Philo? It all seems as muddy as this marsh.”

  He watched the reeds blowing lost in his thoughts of the family. He heard Nikolaos turn.

  Nikolaos cried, “Hup.”

  Argolicus turned and began to raise his arms from his cape but the blow landed just above his solar plexus. Air whooshed out and he couldn’t breathe. He found he was sitting on the ground. His diminutive tutor stood over him shaking his graying hair.

  “Master, you must learn to quicken your response. Even though Romans cannot carry arms under King Theodoric, knowing defense is important.”

  Argolicus looked up from his sitting position on the ground, took in a couple of breaths, and said, “I don’t know which is worse; your endless Greek conjugations or your fight training. Right now I think it’s the training.” He took in a few more breaths, then got up. “Time to go back and meet this Sabinus.”

  Sabinus and Philo were in the study. Philo looked up when Argolicus entered. Nikolaos took his position alongside Venus.

  “Argolicus, I was just telling my uncle how Titiana struck you. Uncle, this is Gaius Vitellius Argolicus, ex praefect of Rome.”

  “Numerius Norbanus Sabinus, Your Sublimity.” Sabinus gave a brief nod tending toward a bow. A short man, in his mid forties with a gleaming bald dome surrounded by dark curls, Sabinus had the air of a man of business. His tunic was plain but made of finely woven wool. Argolicus saw no jewelry. The man’s direct gaze emphasized his erect posture. A man of facts and transactions from head to toe.

  Philo continued, “My sister has been distraught lately. I don’t know why. For the past couple of weeks she’s been on edge, bursting into tears or blinking back anger for no reason. Father’s death has exacerbated her reactions.”

  Argolicus said, “Everyone reacts differently to death. And murder compounds the feelings. Your sister is young.” He decided to lead the conversation somewhere else. He glanced at the desk. “Are you planning the funeral?”

  Sabinus answered, “Yes, it will be small. The priest here will conduct the liturgy. I’ve arranged for the burial in Rome.”

  “Sabinus,” Argolicus said. “Would you be willing to look at your brother’s body with me? To tell me if you notice anything. You saw him regularly.”

  Sabinus looked uneasy, but said, “Yes, I can look. But what do you think I will see? Pius is dead.”

  “That’s just the point. If you could tell me anything you might notice that is different.”

  Sabinus nodded. They headed across the atrium to look at Pius.

  In the cubiculum, Sabinus gasped. “He’s so pink.”

  “Yes,” Argolicus said. “A disturbing manifestation of death.”

  Sabinus walked to the edge of the table. “Who would do this? Five stab wounds.” He touched each one. “And his neck. Did someone try to cut his throat? This is hard to see.”

  “Are you alright? It was a vicious killing. ”

  “Yes, yes,” Sabinus answered. “It’s upsetting. It looks like Pius and it doesn’t. My brother.” He bent over Pius’ body and sobbed.

  Argolicus watched in silence, sensing the man’s grief.

  Sabinus straightened, touched Pius’ face, and turned to Argolicus. “No, I don’t see anything that looks different to me.”

  They turned toward the door and entered the atrium.

  The doorman, N’Golo, was dark, powerful, and compact as a draft horse, and imposing as though the heavy air of the jungle was wrapped around his being.

  “I’m here all night,” he said, gesturing to his room off the entry. “No one could get past me. The sound of them pounding on the door would wake the entire household. Look at that thick beam. The doors are heavy. Someone knocks, I open the door. That’s how people get in.”

  “I am not questioning your trustworthiness,” Argolicus said. “I’m wondering how someone, not part of this household, could get access to Pius.”

  N’Golo relaxed his glare. “Why don’t you ask the cook, Vasilios? Now there’s someone who enjoys being in charge. He lords it over the cooks. He seeks a perfect world unattainable by the rest of us. Ask him, because he and his slaves go in and out the posticum at all hours of the day and night bringing goods in and taking out waste. If you are looking for someone who could have left a door open giving access into the house, look no further than the kitchen.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest.

  Argolicus was soon in the kitchen where the overwhelming heat of the cooking fires contrasted with the cool winter air in the atrium. Dinner preparations were well under way. Vasilios, although not tall, was recognizable from his constant stream of commands as he paced around the work tables. “Don’t stop stirring. Small bits, small bits, we’re not feeding lions. Stop! Don’t put that on until the coals are just right.” He noticed the invader, Argolicus, enter the door. “Yes?”

  “Vasilios? Could we speak for a few minutes?” Argolicus asked.

  “I can’t leave. Not even for a moment.” He glanced toward a table. “Not yet! Wait until the egg has thickened the sauce completely.”

  Argolicus walked into the kitchen.

  “On second thought,” Vasilios said, visibly ups
et. “Let’s talk in the corner there by the pantry.”

  Argolicus joined him at the arched entry to the pantry where shelves full of urns and herbs towered toward the ceiling. “I’m wondering if any of your staff went out the posticum in the early morning.”

  “Of course,” Vasilios answered. “Magda goes out to the fish market when the boats come in. Little Rufus takes the waste to the barges. Gently, gently, Magda. The white fish is delicate. Ali is at the meat market before the butchers. I get the best of everything there is in Ostia.”

  “Early this morning, who, specifically, went out?”

  Vasilios cast his eyes over Argolicus’ shoulder. “No, no, no. The pastry must sit quietly before it is filled. This morning? Well, Magda for certain. She’s preparing the fish now.” He grimaced and called. “Demetrius and the martyrs! Rufus, the grapes go on top, not first.” He shook his head in a dramatic suffering effect. “You see? I can’t leave them for a moment.”

  Argolicus wondered who had suffered most for the light meal he’d eaten earlier with the family. “Anyone else?”

  Vasilios pondered for a moment, his eyes never leaving his industrious workers. “Junia,” he called. A young woman left off chopping beets into tiny cubes. “Did you go out with Magda this morning? Ali, prepare another dove, that glutton Sabinus is here.”

  Junia nodded her head and went back to chopping.

  “Just you and Magda?”

  Junia nodded again.

  Argolicus said, “I’ll speak with Magda for a moment. Thank you, Vasilios.”

  Vasilios nodded as he returned to the work tables. “Peak under the cloth, Rufus. Those pastries must be ready now. Magda, talk to His Sublimity.”

  Magda did not remember anything unusual from the morning.

  Thinking that talking to people in a group situation was not proving fruitful, Argolicus arranged to interview the rest of the staff, one by one in his room. He spoke with Bion, Philo’s tutor, and also with Pius’ ancient tutor but neither shed any light on the early morning hours. He spoke with household slaves and personal attendants of Aemilia and Titiana. He discovered that the boy, Rufus, had the thankless task of collecting night soil from the rooms, but that happened after the household was up and about. In short, the day’s result was dead ends.