The cloak was as nondescript as Gelina had indicated, a dark, muddy-coloured garment neither tattered nor new. There was no decoration or embroidery to indicate whether it might be locally made or from far away, the cloak of a rich man or a poor one. The bloodstain covered a great deal of it, not just in one place but spattered and smeared all about. One corner appeared to have been cut away ��� to eradicate an identifying insignia or seal?
The slave had found it along a secluded, narrow section of road that clung to a steep cliff above the bay. Someone must have cast it from the cliffs edge, trying to throw it into the water below; the crumpled cloak had been caught on a scraggly tree that projected from the rocky hillside, several feet below the road. A man on foot or horseback could not have seen it without stepping to the edge of the cliff and peering over; the slave, mounted atop a high wagon, had barely glimpsed it on his way to market, and indeed had left it there until his return from Puteoli, when he took a closer look and realized that it might be important.
‘The fool says that he wasn’t going to bother getting it, because he could see it had blood on it,’ said Mummius under his breath. ‘He figured it was ruined and of no use to him; then it occurred to him that the blood might have come from his master.’
‘Or from Zeno or Alexandros,’ I said. ‘Tell me, who else knows that this cloak was found?’
‘Only the slave who found it, Gelina, and the boy, Meto. And now yourself, Eco, and I.’
‘Good. I think, Marcus Mummius, that there may be some cause for hope.’
‘Yes?’ His eyes lit up. For a hardened military man who could treat his galley slaves so harshly, he seemed oddly eager to save the slaves of Gelina’s household.
‘I say this not because I have any solution, but because things as they stand are more convoluted than they should be. For instance, though it has not been found, it appears that the killer used a bludgeon of some sort to murder Lucius Licinius. Why, when a knife was at hand?’
‘A knife?’
‘The killer must have used some sort of blade to scrape the letters. And why was the body dragged into position instead of being left where it fell?’
‘Why do you think it was dragged at all?’
‘Because of the posture Gelina described. Think: legs straight, arms above the head ��� not likely to be the pose of a man who collapses to the ground after being struck in the head, but exacdy the posture of a body that has been dragged feet first across a floor. Dragged from where, and for what reason? Then there is the matter of this cloak.’
‘Yes?’
‘There is no way of knowing whose blood is on it, but for now, and because there is so much blood, we shall assume that it came from the dead man. Gelina told us that there was not much blood on the floor beneath the wound, and yet Lucius must have bled profusely; it seems likely this cloak was used to absorb the blood. And yet this garment could hardly have belonged to Lucius himself; having seen the extravagant sort of house he lived in, I can hardly believe that he would choose such a drab garment. No, this is the very best cloak that a common man might own, or the sort of common cloak that a rich man with pretensions to old-fashioned Roman virtue might affect to wear, or simply the sort of dark, common cloak that a man or woman might choose so as to move about unseen at night ��� an assassin’s cloak.
‘Somehow, this cloak must be incriminating. Otherwise, why carry it away from the scene of the crime, and why attempt to cast it into the sea? And why cut away a corner of it? If the escaped slaves did indeed kill Lucius, they were evidently bold enough to brag about it by inscribing the name of Spartacus on the floor; why would they bother to hide the cloak after so brazenly proclaiming their allegiance? Why wouldn’t they leave it behind for all to look at in horror? I think we must be very careful to see that no one else discovers this cloak has been found. The true killer must continue to think that it was successfully cast into the water. I shall take it and hide it among my own things.’
Eco, who had been listening intently, tugged on my tunic. At his insistence, I handed him the bloodstained cloak, whereupon he pointed to the various patches of blood, and mimed a series of motions with his open palm.
Mummius looked on, baffled. ‘What is he saying?’
‘Eco makes an excellent point! See here, where the blood is most concentrated, roughly in a circle - as if it had been placed under a gushing wound to catch the blood? While elsewhere the blood is smeared in swathes about the width of a man’s hand ��� as if it had been used to wipe up blood, perhaps from a floor.’
Eco pantomimed again, lying backward and putting his hands behind his head, then extending both arms as if dragging a heavy object, all done so enthusiastically that I feared he might fall from his horse.
‘And what is all that about?’ said Mummius.
‘Eco points out the possibility that the cloak was first placed under the dying man’s head, so as to catch the blood while his body was dragged across the floor. Then the murderer might have used the clean portion of the cloth to wipe up the spatters of blood from the room where the blows were actually delivered, as well as what had been smeared on floor in transit.’
Mummius crossed his arms. ‘Is he really that eloquent?’
‘I scarcely do him justice. So much for the cloak. Most disturbing of all is the fact that the two missing hones returned to the stable the next day. Surely Zeno and Alexandros would not have relinquished them willingly - unless they obtained horses elsewhere;’
Mummius shook his head. ‘My men made inquiries. No horses have been stolen in the area.’
‘Then Zeno and Alexandros would have been reduced to travelling on foot. In an area as civilized as this, with so much traffic on the roads, so much suspicion and fear of escaped slaves among the populace, and with your men actively searching, it seems hardly possible that they could have escaped.’
Eco intersected one hand with the other in pantomime of a sail on the sea. Mummius looked puzzled for a moment, then glowered. ‘Of course we inquired among the ship owners. None of the ferries to Pompeii or Herculaneum would have taken two runaway slaves, and there have been no stolen vessels. Neither of them would have known the first thing about sailing a boat, anyway.’
‘Then what possibilities remain?’ I said. Mummius shrugged. ‘They’re still somewhere in the area, hiding.’
‘Or else, more likely, they are both dead.’ The light had begun to fade rapidly. The cliff cast a long shadow onto the water. I looked back towards the villa, and above the trees could see only a few tiles of the rooftop and some plumes of smoke; the evening fires were being stoked. I turned my horse around.
‘Tell me, Mummius, who currently resides in the villa?’
‘Besides Gelina, only a handful of people. This is the end of the holiday season in Baiae. There weren’t that many visitors this year even in the spring. I was here myself in May, along with Crassus and Fabius and a few others. Baiae seemed a shadow of itself. Between Spartacus and the pirates, everyone is afraid to leave Rome.’
‘Yes, but who is staying here now?���
‘Let me think. Gelina, of course. And Dionysius, her philosopher in residence - calls himself a polymath, writes plays and histories and pretends to make witty conversation, but he puts me right to sleep. Then there’s Iaia, the painter.’
‘Iaia? A woman?’
He nodded. ‘Originally from Cyzicus. Crassus says she was all the rage when he was a boy, with paintings in the best houses in Rome and all around the Cup. Specialized in portraits, mainly women. Never married, but seems to have made quite a success on her own. She’s retired now and paints for pleasure, together with a young assistant she’s instructing. They’re here doing some project as a favour for Gelina, painting an anteroom in the women’s baths.’ ‘And who is Iaia’s assistant?’
‘Olympias, originally from Neapolis across the bay.’ ‘A girl?’ I asked.
‘A very beautiful girl,’ Mummius assured me, at which Eco’s eyes lit
up. ‘Iaia treats her like a daughter. They have their own small villa on the sea coast up in Cumae, but they often stay here for days at a time, working in the mornings and keeping Gelina company at night.’
‘Were they in the house on the night Lucius was killed?’
‘Actually, no. They were up in Cumae.’
‘Is that far?’
‘Not very; an hour away on foot, closer on horseback.’
‘Besides the philosopher and the painters, are there any guests in the house?’
Mummius thought. ‘Yes, two.’
‘And they were here on the night of the murder?’
‘Yes,’ Mummius said slowly, ‘but neither of them could possibly be suspected of murder.’
‘Even so .. .’
‘Very well, the first is Sergius Orata. I mentioned him to you before, the builder of the baths in the south wing. He comes from Puteoli and has villas all around the Cup, but as often as not you’ll find him staying in other people’s houses; that’s the way they do it here, the rich move about playing guest in each other’s villas. Gelina says he was here talking business with Lucius when word came that Crassus was on his way from Rome and wanted to consult with them both. Orata decided to stay on, so that the three of them could transact their business together in one place. He was here on the night of the murder and is still here, staying in a suite of rooms in the north wing.’
‘And the other house guest?’
‘Metrobius, up from his villa across the bay in Pompeii.’
‘Metrobius? The name sounds familiar.’
‘Famous from the stage, once the best-loved female impersonator in Rome. A favourite of Sulla’s. That’s how he got his villa, back when Sulla was dictator and was handing out the confiscated property of his enemies like party favours to his inner circle.’
‘Ah, yes, I did once see Metrobius perform.’
‘I never had the privilege,’ Mummius said, with a sarcastic edge in his voice. ‘Doing Plautus, or some creation of his own?’
‘Neither. He was performing a rather lewd mock homage to Sulla at a private party in the house of Chrysogonus, years ago.’
‘And you were there?’ Mummius seemed sceptical that I could have moved in such rarefied and debauched circles.
‘I was an uninvited guest. Very uninvited. But what is Metrobius doing here?’
‘He’s a great friend of Gelina’s. The two of them can carry on for hours, trading local gossip. Or so I’m told. Between us, I can’t stand to spend more than a few minutes in a room with him.’
‘You dislike Metrobius?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘But you don’t suspect him of murder.’
Mummius snorted. ‘Let me tell you something, Gordianus. I have killed more than my share of men, always honourably and in battle, you understand, but killing is killing. I’ve killed with a sword, I’ve killed with a bludgeon, I’ve even killed with my bare hands. I know something of what it takes to snuff out the life of another man. Believe me, Metrobius hasn’t the mettle to have bashed in Lucius’s skull, even if he did have a reason.’
‘What about Zeno, or Alexandros, the two slaves?’
‘It hardly seems likely.’
‘But not impossible?’
He shrugged.
‘So,’ I said, ‘we know that these people were in the house on the night of the murder: Dionysius the resident polymath, the Puteolian businessman Sergius Orata, and the retired actor Metrobius. Iaia the painter and her assistant Olympias are often here, but not on that night.’
‘So far as I know. Of those who were here, each was alone and asleep in his or her own private bed, or so they say. None of them heard anything, which is perfectly possible, given the distance between rooms. None of the slaves claims to have heard anything either, which also seems plausible, since they sleep in their own quarters out by the stables.’
‘Surely at least one slave has the duty to keep watch through the night,’ I said.
‘Yes, but on the grounds, not in the house. He’s supposed to make a circuit, keeping one eye on the road in front of the house and another on the coast behind. Pirates have been known to attack private villas on the coast, though never in Baiae, so far as I know. When the slaves made their escape the watchman must have been at the back. He saw nothing.’
‘Is there anyone you suspect? Any of the residents or guests in Gelina’s house who seem more likely to have killed Lucius than the slaves?’
In answer he only shrugged and scowled.
‘Which makes me wonder, Mummius, why you’ve expended so much of your own time and energy to help Gelina prove that the slaves are innocent.’
‘I have my reasons,’ he said curdy, thrusting out his jaw and staring straight ahead. He spurred his horse to a gallop and raced on to the villa alone.
Part Two
The Jaws of Hades
VII
Dinner began at the twelfth hour of the day, just after sundown, in a modestly appointed room in the southeast corner of the upper floor. Windows opened onto views of Puteoli to the east and Vesuvius farther south. A coterie of slaves unobtrusively hurried about the room and the adjoining hallways, lighting braziers against the slight chill in the air and illuminating the richly coloured walls with an array of hanging lamps. The air was windless, empty of bird song or the noise of any other living thing; the only sound from the World outside was the vague murmur of the sea, like a distant sighing. Looking out of the southern window, I saw a single star glimmering above Vesuvius in a sky of darkest blue. A sensation of hushed luxury descended upon the villa, that special feeling of comfort and sumptuous privilege peculiar to the homes of the rich at twilight.
Gelina, already reclining on her divan, welcomed her guests as they arrived separately or in pairs, all dressed in sombre dark blue or black. There were places for eleven people in all, an awkward number for a dinner, but Gelina managed it by placing the company in a square with three divans on each of three sides and two on the last, one for herself and another reserved for Crassus. The small tables before each divan were already set with cups of honeyed wine, white and black olives, and an appetizer of sea urchins in a cumin sauce.
The painter Iaia and her protegee Olympias, along with the polymath Dionysius, sat opposite Gelina; Marcus Mummius, Faustus Fabius, and Sergius Orata sat to her right; Eco and I were to her left, along with the actor Metrobius. Gelina introduced us simply as Gordianus of Rome and his son, with no further explanation. From their expressions, I gathered that Gelina’s guests already had some idea of my purpose in being there. In their eyes I saw varying degrees of scepticism, suspicion, and disinterest.
Iaia, striking in her jet-black stola, silver jewellery, and voluminously coiffed magenta hair (surely dyed), had clearly been a great beauty in her day; now she exuded that mellow, self-confident appeal of women who have lost their youth but kept their charm. Her high cheekbones were generously rouged, her eyebrows shaved and pencilled.
While Iaia gave me cool glances, her young protegee, a dazzling blonde, stared.at me brazenly as if my presence were some sort of affront. Olympias could afford to be careless with her beauty; her undressed hair was like a mane of spun gold and silver in the lamplight, her eyes an almost purple shade of blue that would have made the least trace of makeup, had she bothered to use it, look pale and tawdry on her perfect flesh. Her sleeveless, dark blue stola was absolutely plain, even plainer than the tunics Eco and I wore, having no embroidery or border. She wore no jewellery. I noticed traces of pigment on her fingers, and a few dabs of paint near the bottom hem of her gown.
Dionysius, a gaunt greybeard with a supercilious expression, gave me shifty-eyed glances between dabbing at his olives with the fingers of his left hand. He was almost silent during the first part of the evening, as if holding his words in reserve for later use. He looked to me like a man with a secret, but perhaps that was only due to the appearance of smug sagacity which he affected, like so many other philosophers.
Dionysius’s reserved, sour countenance offered a striking contrast to that of the local businessman and engineer, Orata, who shared the polymath’s corner. Almost bald except for a fringe of orange hair like a victory wreath, Orata had the portly build of a man grown fat on his successes. His plump, bemused face seemed out of place amid the general gloom. When he happened to look my way, I could not tell whether he liked me at first sight or was craftily smiling to conceal some other reaction. For the most part he seemed to take little notice of me at all as he busily ordered the table slaves assigned to his divan to slice the pits from his olives and fetch more cumin sauce.
The elderly actor Metrobius, who reclined at my right, gave me a nod as I was introduced and then immediately turned his attention to Gelina. He reclined on his right side, she on her left, so that their heads were together. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, and occasionally Metrobius would reach out and clasp her hand reassuringly. His long, flowing robe covered him from head to foot; the finely spun linen appeared funereal black at first glance, but upon closer inspection I saw it was actually a very dark purple. He wore gold around his neck and wrists, and a great jewel-encrusted ring on his left hand, which flashed in the light whenever he lifted his cup. Metrobius had been Sulla’s great love, it was said, the dictator’s companion and friend throughout his life, outlasting all of Sulla’s many marriages and liaisons. Whatever physical allure he had possessed in youth was long gone, but there was an assertive dignity in his great mane of white hair and a kind of robust beauty in the weathered wrinkles of his face. I recalled the night ten years ago when I had seen him perform for Sulla, and remembered the spell cast by his presence. Even with his attentions directed toward Gelina, I could feel the charismatic power he exuded, as palpable as the smell of myrrh and roses that spiced his clothing. His every movement was accomplished with an unstudied grace, and the low, calm murmur of his voice had a soothing quality like the drumming of rain on a summer night or the soughing of wind in treetops.
Arms of Nemesis - Roman Sub Rosa 02 Page 8