Arpocras coughed, as if to say he did not like where this conversation was going, but Pudens merely said, “Oh really? My friend and I were discussing something very similar this afternoon.”
“Indeed?” said Licinius Aper. “Tell me about it.”
Tell him he did, and the loquacious Aper dragged on this discussion for hours, through our bath, well into the dinner that followed, only interrupted by vulgar displays of lewd dancers and mimes and acrobats. There was no doubt that our host was going all out to impress, though I couldn’t help but think of the ridiculous freedman in the Satyricon of Petronius, written in the time of Nero yet as applicable to the present circumstances. But Licinius Aper was a Roman, a true son of the Tiber and the Seven Hills, as he had not failed to impress upon us, as he continued to impress … and if I may add a further new proverb to my short collection, let me say that the man who strives so hard to impress may ultimately give an impression other than the one he intended.
More than once Pudens shot me a glance as if to say how he suffered for the good of Rome, doing his duty, putting up with all this. Arpocras gazed into space, stonily, but remained, I am sure, completely alert. The oddest thing about the whole evening was that at times you might think that Pudens was the object of our host’s hospitality, and I, the legatus propraetore consulari poteste was almost forgotten. But I bided my time, as did Arpocras, waiting for Licinius Aper to get to the point.
He finally did.
The dancers and mimes were long gone. The dinner had proceeded, literally from eggs to apples, and as we lingered into the late hours over dessert, our host said suddenly, “The men of Juliopolis are my enemies.”
I already knew of the rivalry between the two cities, a common enough phenomenon between Greek cities in the East. With the might of Rome to prevent them from actually going to war, they often expressed their enmity in sporting competitions, street riots, and more often than not in ridiculous vanities, each striving to build the grander theatre or aqueduct or temple, which were often unsound, over-budget, and the cause of the very evils which I had come into the province to correct.
I sighed, and thought, At last.
I will not repeat everything he said, for, even when he was getting to the point Licinius Aper could be long-winded. The gist of it was—as I understood the undertext of his discourse—that certain wealthy men like himself, Romans, as he made sure we were all quite clear about, some of whose families had dwelt in the East since the affairs of the region were settled by Pompey over a hundred and fifty years ago, controlled the local economy, the grain markets, the small manufactures, even the religious pilgrimage trade. He being, of course, a gentleman, a member of the local senate, did not sully his hands with actual commerce, but worked through agents and freedmen, as did everyone. He and the senators held the city for Rome, and therefore deserved such rewards as they had reaped (although I was determined that there would be a clear accounting during my stay here), etc. etc. But they had incurred the wrath of the men of Juliopolis, their rivals for exactly the same avenues of commerce. The god of Juliopolis had an enormous member, Aper told us, snickering like a schoolboy, and was therefore identified with Priapus and the subject of “disgusting” rites.
What precisely did L. Licinius Aper want from me which he was (even yet) not quite willing to state plainly?
It became clear enough: He wanted me to contrive some sort of criminal charge and remove, or even have put to death, one Clodius Carus, his opposite number in Juliopolis.
“A mere Greek,” Aper spat out in genuine repugnance—the first sincere utterance I had heard from him, the rest being like the recital of a bad actor. Arpocras drew breath sharply. Our host had obviously forgotten him entirely.
“Not a Roman at all, despite his Latin name, which he surely stole,” Licinius Aper went on, “a wretched provincial scoundrel who desires to destroy my wealth, discredit me in the eyes of the emperor … I am certain, Sirs, that he means to commit some outrage very soon. I thank the gods for your fortunate arrival so that you might thwart his evil schemes.…”
* * * *
Eventually we escaped Aper’s hospitality and retired.
“But of course, of course, you have had a long journey,” he babbled on and might have spoken volumes more if our own slaves hadn’t closed protectively around us to attend to our needs.
I was able to confer briefly with Pudens and Arpocras.
“What do you think?” I said.
Pudens rolled his eyes heavenward as if he were about to faint, then laughed softly.
Arpocras said, “Did you mark how he said ‘my enemies’ and ‘my wealth?”
“I did. This is some selfish, petty matter, then, not of larger political import—”
“It could be both, Sir.”
Verily possibly he, too, spoke prophetically.
I had barely gotten to sleep when the cries of the “outrage” were upon us. There was a great commotion outside in the street. Someone was pounding on the front door. Our host’s slaves were up and about, and then so were Arpocras, Pudens, and myself. We had barely emerged from our rooms when an obviously aroused and possibly frightened Licinius Aper lumbered upon us, blubbering, wringing his hands.
“It is as I predicted, Sirs. I fear that it is. An outrage. A blasphemy! It is the work of my enemy, I am sure, to discredit and destroy our city—”
For the first time he said our rather than my, as if the catastrophe, for the first time, applied to more than himself.
“What has happened?” Servilius Pudens demanded, speaking for all of us.
“It’s so—so—incredible—!”
Licinius Aper could have gone on for enough to fill twenty pages without saying anything, if I were to report his speech exactly, so I must condense his matter: it seemed that the goddess Venus of the thousand breasts, the very one we had let pass in the street upon our entry to the city, had vanished.
“But that’s absurd,” said Arpocras. “Half-ton marble goddesses don’t just disappear!”
Aper leaned forward, as if to deliver his lines in a bad stage-whisper, “They say that she walked. The temple suddenly filled with an unnatural light. She struck down her priestesses, and walked out of the temple, into the night! The people are terrified, Noble Sirs, as you can well imagine. For myself, I don’t know what to think—”
“But you think it might have something to do with the schemes of your enemy, Clodius Carus,” I said, attempting to organize his thoughts.
He stopped, startled, as if the idea had not occurred to him. If so, he was stupider than he looked. If not, his acting was getting better.
“We are men of the world,” I said. “We don’t really believe that barbarous, provincial marble statues get up and walk, do we?”
“No, but—”
“Then it must be the doings of this Clodius Carus, yes?”
Suddenly Aper’s distraught features seemed so much more calm.
“I am relieved that you see that,” he said.
* * * *
But first we had to inspect the scene of the crime, and crime it was, too. We all quickly dressed. The centurion of my guards came to report. Accompanied by a troop of soldiers, marching in step, the steady tread of their hobnailed boots imposing some sort of order on the chaotic night, we followed them through the streets of the city. Pudens, Arpocras, and I walked. Licinius Aper rode in his chair.
The streets were filled with disorderly people, who melted away as we approached, or just stood staring, silently, as we passed.
We came to the temple, which was of moderate size, Greek in form, but more ornately decorated in the Oriental style.
As soon as I entered, I saw that a serious crime had indeed been committed. There were three dead women, two on the floor, one lying halfway out onto the steps. Their skulls were crushed. There was blood everywhere. These are the priestesses of this Claudiopolitan Venus, allegedly struck down by their goddess when she deserted the city.
And she ha
d deserted it. The thousand-breasted divinity was distinctly missing from her shrine within. The place was filled with thick, strange-smelling smoke. It was clear enough to me that some kind of oil had been set afire on the floor, but this did not burn down the temple because the building was made entirely of stone and the oil was swiftly consumed. I held the edge of my toga up over my nose to avoid choking on the fumes, made my way to the back and examined the hole in the floor, behind the altar, where the divinity had been affixed. It was clear enough to me, and to Arpocras, who stood beside me, that the goddess was shaped out of a single pillar of marble, that she was, when not parading about the city in her gilded car, affixed here like a post, and her walking out of the temple was made all the less plausible by her not having any legs.
“It is shocking! Shocking!” said Licinius Aper, when we emerged from the temple. He had just arrived, and had not ventured to climb the temple steps, though he stood supported by two of his muscular slaves. He waved a hand about, indicating a huddle of glum-faced individuals whom I took to be local senators. “It will be the ruin of us all!”
I am not sure if he was performing for me or for his colleagues, but for once he was telling the honest truth. If the goddess were not recovered, it would be the ruin of Claudiopolis, the end of the religious trade, and much else, as the superstitious multitudes fled elsewhere to avoid a place obviously shunned by the very gods. No one seemed much concerned about the dead priestesses, but financial catastrophe on the horizon perturbed them very much.
I realized it was dawn. After a long day’s traveling, a tedious dinner, and these late-hour dramatics, I simply had to call things to a halt. I am afraid my Roman fortitude was giving way to age. I left Arpocras and the centurion in charge and withdrew.
* * * *
In the days that followed I continued to reside in the house of Licinius Aper, as it was the largest and most luxurious in the town, and nothing less would befit the dignity of my office, for all I, personally, would have been content with a comfortable, quiet room somewhere.
I worked very hard. I got very little sleep. It was not merely because Licinius Aper had a habit of bursting in on me at any hour that pleased, offering suggestions, more than once demanding to know if I had arrested “that blasphemous fiend, Clodius Carus.”
I reminded him that I was the imperial legatus here, and I would give the orders for arrests. I assured him that investigations were proceeding.
“But it’s so obvious, obvious,” he sputtered, wringing his meaty hands as he left.
Perhaps he was trying to distract me from my more expected duties, for he and his colleagues could not have been comfortable about what I was doing. As more and more of the town records were brought to me, it was clear that temples and bridges and the new theatre cost three times what they should have, that some projects accounted for had not even been built. When I went out one afternoon to see the famous theatre, I concluded that it would never be completed, because the ground had not been surveyed, some of the walls were already sinking into soft earth, and the whole place was likely to collapse before it was opened. I also found evidence that persons convicted of serious crimes had managed to have their sentences erased, or even transferred to others, for the payment of a suitable bribe. In short, my host and all his colleagues were clearly, as the popular expression has it, lining their togas with municipal gold. There were going to be some prosecutions here, quite aside from the matter of the dead priestesses and the missing goddess.
As for that, Pudens quickly came to the conclusion that the goddess had not, precisely, walked—whether or not she actually had legs was not the point.
He spoke in a whisper, lest some of our host’s servants might be eavesdropping. We were having this conversation in the central courtyard of the house, where a chair and table had been set up for me in the garden, so I could work comfortably by daylight.
“I think friend Licinius Aper stole the goddess himself.”
“But how?”
“Those muscular slaves of his.”
“Just four of them?” said Arpocras. “Even for them, that’s a heavy statue.”
“Maybe they come in matched sets. If he has three quartets, they could have done it.”
“They could have just wheeled her off in her car,” I suggested.
“I looked into that, Sir,” said Arpocras. “The car is in its shed behind the temple. It is not missing.”
“But why would he do it?” I asked. “Why would he ruin his own city—and his own income?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” said Pudens. “So he could blame it on the men of the rival city, Juliopolis. He’d like nothing more than you to march in there with a legion, knock the place down, and crucify the entire population, starting with this—this—”
“Clodius Carus,” said Arpocras.
“Yes. His enemy. It all makes sense. The structure of the explanation is complete and perfectly logical.”
“Now all you have to account for is the supernatural manifestations, the noises, the miraculous light,” said Arpocras, “not to mention the murdered priestesses. The town is quite full of stories, if you care to go out and hear them.”
“I could hardly—”
Indeed he could hardly mix inconspicuously with the local populace, a large, tall, pale Roman. But Arpocras, a Greek, could.
“Nevertheless I can explain those things,” said Pudens.
“Do so.”
“Aper’s henchmen killed the priestesses—bludgeoned them—then carried off the statue, perhaps in an ordinary wagon filled with straw. Well after the deed was done, but before it was discovered, some of them set the oil and incense on fire, then rushed out into the city to spread the alarm. Rumor and panic took care of the rest.”
Arpocras looked up at him and smiled. “Very good. I see I have been able to teach you some of my methods,” he said. “Logical, yes. Complete, yes, as far as it goes. But is it everything? Maybe it requires a few flourishes and decorations in the Oriental fashion.”
* * * *
It was Arpocras who provided most of the final flourishes. But not all of them.
It was he, too, who suggested, more by subtle hints than by stating it outright, that I might be in actual danger, since no one knew what a man like Licinius Aper might do if sufficiently desperate. If I found sufficient evidence to convict him of a crime, what further crime might he—or some of his colleagues—attempt to protect themselves?
But if I were move out of Aper’s house, refusing his hospitality, wouldn’t that bring about a final crisis?
Arpocras insisted that we must seize the initiative. As always, he was right.
I consulted with my centurion. Most of the soldiers were quartered elsewhere, their function being to protect my party as we journeyed across the countryside, not against sedition inside a friendly city. But at the same time, if the centurion came daily to confer with me on official business, there was nothing Aper could do. I waved him out of earshot. The emperor’s business is mine and the emperor’s and not his. He could not pretend otherwise.
Therefore I announced one day that my party and the guards were going outside the city to see the much-discussed, overpriced aqueduct. Licinius Aper offered to accompany me, “for the pleasure of the journey,” he said in that oily, completely unconvincing stage-manner of his. With hopefully more politeness and perhaps better acting skills, I forbade this, out of gracious concern for his health, the heat of the day, the roughness of the roads—and I didn’t mention his girth even once.
He looked unhappy, but we left, Pudens, Arpocras and myself in our carriage, the soldiers on horseback, some of our secretarial staff following in a cart.
We went out to the aqueduct, about which I shall report in detail in another letter. It is indeed overpriced and defective. We inspected it thoroughly, deliberately taking our time doing so. Then, late in the afternoon, after a pause for a rest in the shade of some trees, we made our way back.
Before we reached Clau
diopolis, however, a man, who had been waiting by the side of the road, got up and began jogging alongside the carriage. One of the soldiers made to interfere, but I waved him away and Arpocras caught the fellow by the wrist and hauled him aboard.
The newcomer was a short, wiry Greek, a little younger than Arpocras, though, his hair mostly still dark. If I may trust my instincts, there was something about this man, too, like Licinius Aper when I first met him, that I did not like. If Arpocras was my Greek crow, this fellow was more of a vulture.
Arpocras introduced him as a certain Theon. My Greek had wandered about the city for some days, mixing in low places, jangling purses of money in exchange for information, and now, as the climax of his efforts, we enjoyed the company of this Theon.
He was, to be blunt, an informer. When Arpocras dangled a another purse of coins in front of him, he became most loquacious about the sins of Licinius Aper, which he enumerated in more detail than I could remember, although Arpocras was taking notes. But then I bade him get to the point and tell me where the stolen Venus was.
“In the house of Aper, of course,” he said.
“But I have been staying in Aper’s house.”
“He has more than one house, Sir. Surely you knew that? A man as rich as him, you’d expect it.”
Arpocras nodded. It was so. Unsurprisingly, Licinius Aper had invested much of his wealth in several houses, which he rented out, and a few farms, which he worked profitably, but the place of interest was a villa he had up in the hills, a little beyond the city, to which he normally retired to escape the summer weather. He had only remained in his city house, out of season, because he knew I was coming, and would have to reside in the city to do my work.
Theon wanted to leave, but I wouldn’t let him. The centurion had his instructions. The informant held onto his bag of money, but otherwise sat in the carriage glumly.
The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories Page 4