Fortune's Fool

by Albert A. Bell

  “She’s old, probably addled from the beating she took. She knew what she meant. It just means a little more digging for us. That looks like a tool shed over there.”

  The shed was far enough away from the main building that it had escaped the blaze. We found tools that Lutulla used to cultivate the herb garden growing on the west side of the courtyard and the vines that climbed the wall there.

  “You take that one, and I’ll work here,” I said as I plunged a spade into the joint between one of the fourth stones and the one beyond it. Tacitus went at the other with a pick. I pried up my stone and had removed several shovels of dirt but found nothing. I dropped to my knees, scraping at the dirt with my hands. “Are you finding anything?” I asked Tacitus.

  “Nothing. And the scratches on this stone make me think somebody was digging here recently.”

  “May I ask who you gentlemen are,” a voice said from behind us, “and why you’re digging in my mother’s courtyard?”

  I turned to see a young man stepping out from behind the shed. I tightened my grip on the shovel and Tacitus stepped away from me. We’ve learned that two are more effective against one when the two are spread out.

  “I am Gaius Pliny, and this is my friend Cornelius Tacitus. Who are you?”

  “I am Gnaeus Lutullus, son of Lutulla.”

  “I didn’t know she had a son,” I said. “How old are you?”

  “I’m sixteen, sir, so, to set your mind at rest, your father was not my father.”

  From his name—the masculine form of his mother’s name—I could deduce that he had no father, in the legal sense. He was too young, by several years, to be my father’s child. With dark wavy hair and an aristocratic nose, he was a respectable-looking boy, almost my height. His father was probably a man of some status here in town who could not acknowledge a bastard child, or perhaps someone passing through Comum who never knew what he had left behind.

  “Why would you say such a thing?” I asked, though I knew his reason.

  “My mother told me about your father, sir, and the daughter she had by him.” He nodded toward the fountain. “And she told me that, if anything ever happened to her, I was to dig something up and give it to you. My only concern is whether you really are Pliny.”

  I held out my hand so he could read my signet ring.

  “Thank you, sir. Just a moment.” He stepped behind the shed and came back carrying a leather pouch.

  The pouch was tied at the top but bore no seal. When I opened it I found another pouch bearing my father’s seal on the wax over the knotted string. For a moment it was difficult for me to speak.

  “Were you in the taberna last night?” Tacitus asked.

  “No, sir. I was across town, with…a friend. I came over here just before dawn when I heard about a fire on this side of town. When I saw what had happened, I retrieved that pouch, as my mother had instructed me to.” He was putting on a brave face and having difficulty keeping it up. “Then I hid back here. I didn’t know what to do next.”

  “Didn’t you know that Gaius Pliny here rescued your mother from the fire?”

  Lutullus’ face brightened and he clasped Tacitus’ hand. “By the gods, no! I heard people saying different things. I figured she was dead.”

  “She was badly injured,” I said. “Right now she’s in a room in Macer’s inn. I assume you know it.”

  “Yes, sir. May I see her?”

  “The doctor tending her has given her something to help her sleep. Perhaps you can stop by later in the day.” But he was already off.

  Tacitus and I brushed off one of the tables and sat down. “This is my father’s seal,” I said as I examined the pouch.

  “I’m very relieved not to see a skull,” Tacitus said. “Lutulla certainly thought ahead. Something could have happened to her at any time and you would never have known about this pouch.”

  I broke the seal, untied the knot and shook the pouch to dump the contents onto the table. They consisted of three documents, one of which was an all-too-familiar-looking piece of parchment, folded and sealed with the skull ring. do not open was written below the seal.

  The other two documents were papyrus sheets, rolled up but not fastened or sealed on the outside. I opened one to find a deed to the taberna and the instructions that it was to be left to me upon my father’s death, with Lutulla remaining as the occupant of the building as long as she wished. My father had signed his name and pressed his seal at the end of the document. It had also been signed and sealed by someone—presumably a town official—whose name I did not recognize.

  When I laid it down, Tacitus picked it up and ran his eyes over it. “You’ll need to keep this one. It answers a lot of questions.”

  “Almost as many as it raises,” I said.

  The next document I picked up was made of two sheets of papyrus glued together.

  “Looks like it was cut from the end of a scroll,” Tacitus said.

  I smoothed it out. “It’s a letter, from my father.”

  “Do you want me to step away while you read it?” Tacitus started to stand up.

  “No. I don’t know what other shocks he may have in store for me. I would appreciate your support.” I began to read:

  Lucius Caecilius to his dear son Gaius, greetings, love, and regret.

  I am writing this when you are five years old, Gaius. If you are reading it, I hope you are old enough to understand and to forgive. If you never read it, then I suppose something has happened to Lutulla and all of my planning has been in vain. All I can do is hope for the best.

  The deed to the taberna in Comum is self-explanatory, I suppose. The man who witnessed it—and the copy which Lutulla has—was an elderly friend of my father’s. I paid him for his seal and for his silence, expecting that he would die soon after, and he did. The taberna will belong to you after I die. As far as I know, no one except Lutulla knows about the deed, but it is entirely legal. Have no fear on that score. I told her to keep the two copies in separate places.

  What you don’t understand, I’m sure, is why I built the taberna and set Lutulla up as the proprietor. The answer to that puzzle is quite simple: I love her and want to make sure she is taken care of, no matter what happens to me. If you’re reading this, I must assume that you have met her. I beg you to take good care of her.

  I hope you will never have to live as I do, in love with one woman but married to another. I wish I could love your mother. “Love conquers all,” Virgil claimed. If only that were true. We don’t expect love in our marriages, of course. That’s not their purpose. Your mother is a fine woman. I’m sure some man could love her. The best I can do is to keep my feelings hidden and insure her happiness. I owe her that much for giving me you.

  The plan is that you will eventually marry the daughter of my friend Livius and his wife Pompeia, who is your mother’s cousin. I imagine you’ve at least met Livia. Sad to say, I don’t find much charm in the little girl, but she may blossom, just as, from its stalks and thorns, one would never suspect how lovely a rose can be.

  As for the sealed document you found in this pouch, all I can tell you is that it must not be opened, except under circumstances I will explain below. It contains information which would ruin several families and involve you in a deadly scandal as well. Having the document protects you, but only as long as it remains sealed. The others involved know that you have the document and that I have promised that it will not be opened and that no harm must come to my family or to Lutulla. She will tell you about the money she receives because of this document. As long as she receives it, the document must remain unopened. If the money stops coming or if someone harms her or your mother, open the document and do what you think is best. I’m sorry I cannot say any more.

  I hope you are living well, as the philosophers always urge us to do. Your uncle, Gaius Plinius, has promised me that he will look after you and your mother, if something happens to me, as I fear it might. He is a good man.

  Hail and farewell, my
beloved son.

  “He dated it and put his seal on it,” I said as Tacitus took the letter from me and looked over it.

  “I’m sorry, Gaius,” he said. “I know this was painful to hear.”

  I leaned back in my chair and looked over at the smoldering pile which testified to my father’s love for Lutulla and back at the statue of the child their love had brought into the world. “You love Julia, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do now, but I didn’t when I married her. How could I? I hardly knew her when we were married.” He looked over my father’s letter again. “You sound like some addled poet, Gaius. We don’t marry for love—”

  “I know, I know. We marry for political advantage, or to keep property within a family. Livia’s mother and mine are cousins. Do you know how much property we have between us? If we had a son, he’d inherit half of Tuscany. And we should be reasonably happy with that.” I sighed like a man about to be led into the arena. “Unless one of us has the misfortune to fall in love.”

  “You want to go home, don’t you, and see Aurora?” Tacitus stood up.

  “I need to be sure she’s all right, but first I want to talk to Lutulla again.”

  “What are you going to do about this?” He picked up the sealed document.

  “I’m going to have to think about it.”

  “You aren’t seriously considering opening it, are you? In spite of a warning of doom that sounds like it came out of the Sibylline books? Lutulla says she’s getting the money. Your father said not to open this as long as she’s getting the money.”

  “I believe it has something to do with this business that’s plaguing us.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “This letter of my father’s is dated less than a year after the body was sealed up in the wall. We found the body and suddenly we’re getting messages with this skull seal on them and my wife is kidnapped by men wearing skull masks, and Lutulla is attacked by a man wearing a skull mask. There has to be a connection.”

  “If you open that document, Gaius, it could be like opening Pandora’s box. You’d never be able to get all the evils back in.”

  “It looks to me like the evils have already been loosed. But remember the one thing that was left clinging to the inside of Pandora’s box—hope. I hope this document will enable us to learn who was put into the wall and who put him there and who is attacking us.”

  Tacitus leaned over the table. “What if your father was involved?”

  “That’s why I have to think about how I’m going to manage this.” I gathered up the three documents and slipped them back into the pouch, drawing the string tight. “But first I have to see Lutulla again.”

  When we got back to Macer’s inn the door to Lutulla’s room was closed. Her son was sitting outside it.

  “Have you seen her?” I asked him.

  “There’s no response when I knock,” Lutullus said. “I guess she’s asleep. I didn’t want to disturb her.”

  I knocked, waited, then opened the door partway. “Lutulla?” I said.

  Hearing nothing, I opened the door the rest of the way and stepped into the room. Lutulla was lying in the bed, on her back, with her head turned to one side. Someone had pulled a blanket up to her chin. Blood had dried where it had run out of her mouth.

  “The doctor must have given her that potion,” Tacitus said over my shoulder. “She’s quite asleep.”

  But something about her face didn’t look right. I stood by the bed and bent over her, listening for a breath. “No, she’s quite dead.”

  XIV

  Fortune and love favor the brave.

  —Ovid

  I finished the bowl of stew Nicera had brought me. “I want to go home,” I told Julia.

  “Do you think you can travel?” she asked.

  “If I lie down in a wagon, with enough padding, and we travel slowly, I believe I’ll be all right. Gaius is going to go home as soon as he finishes whatever he’s doing in Comum. I know he’ll want to see me, and I want to be there. I want to see him.”

  “But if you come in a wagon, everyone will want to know what’s the matter. They’re already curious that Gaius sent and asked for me.”

  “Then we’ll say I was injured in the struggle to save Livia.”

  “Oh, is that what we’ll say?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume—”

  She patted my hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, dear. That’s what Gaius said in his note. Of course I’ll back you up. That bruise on your stomach will testify to how seriously you were hurt. We won’t have to share any details.”

  I put the empty bowl on the table beside the bed and lay back down. “I really was surprised at how hard he hit me. I’m not sure if it was with the hilt of the sword or just his elbow. He jerked so violently when I stabbed him.”

  Julia squeezed my hand. “What does it feel like to…to kill a man? You know, we watch gladiators fight, and we go into a frenzy when one falls, but what did it feel like to plunge that knife into him?”

  This wasn’t something I wanted to talk about with anyone but Gaius. “I didn’t have time to feel anything. I had to strike quickly enough and hard enough that he wouldn’t be able to harm Livia. I saw Gaius’ eyes bulge and his hand go to his mouth. It was all a blur after that—everybody scurrying around.”

  “I find it quite remarkable that you risked your life to save a woman who hates you.”

  “And lost the life of my child in doing it.”

  * * *

  Lutullus stayed by his mother, weeping while Tacitus and I rushed down the stairs and found the owner of the inn. “Where’s the man who was with Lutulla, that so-called doctor?”

  “He left while you were out, sir. He said not to disturb her so she could sleep for a while and he would check in on her later.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “Why, no, sir. Is something the matter?”

  “Lutulla’s dead. That man poisoned her, I’m sure of it.”

  “Where did he come from?” Tacitus asked.

  “He came in not long after you gentlemen sent my man to Romatius’ house. He showed me your note, with that dolphin seal on it, said he was the one you asked for. He was carrying a bag, like I thought a doctor would.”

  “Has your servant returned yet?”

  “No, sir. I figure he’ll come back with Romatius and his people.”

  I suspected he was going to be disappointed. His servant was almost certainly lying dead somewhere between here and Romatius’ house.

  “We need a magistrate,” I said, and Tacitus followed me out the door.

  When we reached the corner, we saw a crowd gathered in front of the ruins of Lutulla’s taberna. Because he is rather tall, I spotted my friend Romatius near the front. I hailed him and walked quickly toward him. His toga was bleached white, to indicate that he was running for an office. It bore no stripe. I was surprised to be reminded that his family was not of equestrian status. Surely they had the money to qualify.

  “Friend Pliny, what a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I didn’t know you were in Comum.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Surprise? Didn’t you receive a note from me earlier this morning?”

  He shook his head.

  “So you didn’t send your freedman doctor to assist Lutulla, as I asked?”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I heard there was a fire in town last night, so I came in to see what had happened.” As any candidate for an office should do, to show his concern for the city.

  “Lutulla’s been killed, that’s what happened.”

  “What? How—”

  “She was beaten and the taberna was set on fire. I rescued her, but someone posing as your doctor came in this morning and poisoned her. I’m sure it was the same man who tried to kill her last night.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Medium height, dark hair, fair skin, with a scar on his right hand and very bad teeth.”

 
“Don’t know that fellow,” Romatius said. “My doctor is short, rather stout, with darker skin from his Egyptian mother. I am truly sorry to hear about this.” He raised his voice, so the people around him couldn’t miss what he said. “Lutulla was much loved. I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements for her.” Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd. Romatius could count the votes.

  “She had a son, I’ve learned.”

  “Yes, but he’s just a boy. He doesn’t have the means to provide even a modest funeral. I’ll talk to him and see if he wants to give her eulogy.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

  “She will be missed by a lot of people. I am going to miss that chicken of hers, if I’m not being too crass.” Romatius turned to face the pile of ashes. “This is a rather desirable property. I wonder what’s to become of it.”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  He looked at me over his shoulder. “You? What do you have to do with it?”

  “It turns out my father built the place.”

  “For Lutulla?” He turned to face me.

  “Yes. She was his mistress. I learned just today that I’ve owned the building since I was six. That’s when my father died. I’ve got the will and the deed.”

  “By the gods! That’s amazing. Are you going to rebuild?”

  “I’d rather sell it, but I don’t want to throw her son out on the street.”

  Romatius nodded. “He is a reliable lad, from what I know of him. If you rebuilt, he could probably run the place. He worked here with his mother all his life.”

  “I don’t have anything to hold me here. Would you be interested in buying the property and rebuilding?”

  “Let’s talk about it under better circumstances, shall we? That will give me a chance to go over my accounts and see how much I might pull together. It’s certainly a desirable piece of property.”

  “Do you have any idea who the boy’s father was?”

  “Let’s just say that, from what I know, the field of candidates would be rather crowded. I wouldn’t be surprised to find my own father’s name on the list.”

  * * *

  “The ‘doctor’ must have been the third kidnapper,” Tacitus said. “Once he knew we had rescued Livia, he had to kill Lutulla to keep her from exposing him.”