Murder in Hadrian's Villa

by Gavin Chappell

Erichtho straightened up. Her hair hung in elf locks round her face and she looked as if she had been dragged from her bed. ‘Half an hour ago,’ she told him tiredly, ‘I was called here by Praetorian guards. They told me that they had been alerted by a terrible noise from the centurion’s quarters. When they had broken down the door they found him writhing in agony on the bed.’ She shrugged, and raked back her tangled locks. ‘He had died by the time I reached his side. The description of his condition and the state of his body now that I have examined it suggest to me that he was suffering from cantharadin poisoning.’

  Flaminius twitched with recognition. ‘Cantharadin poisoning?’ A cold hand of dread squeezed round his heart.

  Wordlessly, she indicated a goblet lying on its side by the bed. The floor was stained dark red with wine; it looked almost like a bloodstain. Flaminius noticed an open amphora in a stand on a nearby shelf. All his confusion about his own recent experiences vanished from his mind.

  ‘Why would someone want to poison the centurion?’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s what we would like you to tell us,’ said Septicius Clarus.

  Flaminius looked uneasily from the Prefect to Ursus Servianus. The empress glanced up from her muted conversation with Medea. ‘Yes, why?’ she snapped, as if asking him why he had chosen to urinate in one of the fountains.

  ‘I-I haven’t the faintest idea!’ said Flaminius. ‘Not wishing to speak ill of the dead, but I never got the idea that he was much liked.’ A thought struck him. ‘He admitted to me that he was the murderer of Senator Nigrinus,’ he added. ‘You were there, Prefect, in the mess, when he told me. I don’t know if you overheard. The centurion had had a couple of drinks and was… unburdening himself, I suppose…’

  Septicius Clarus and the others stared at him unspeaking. Flaminius faltered into silence.

  ‘I’ve been asking a few questions tonight,’ Septicius Clarus announced to the gathering. ‘The centurion was not well liked, no; most First Spears are not popular—it’s not their job to be popular but rather they are there to instil order and discipline into the men, which often requires a degree of brutality. But very few end up poisoned. And who was the poisoner? Men I’ve spoken to witnessed a developing friction between the centurion and his tribune…’

  Flaminius felt his scalp crawl. He stared in horror at the Prefect. ‘What are you saying?’ This night already felt like a bad dream, but he didn’t think he was going to wake up yet.

  Erichtho spoke up. ‘The centurion died from cantharadin poisoning,’ she said. ‘You, tribune, were in my pharmacy earlier in the day, asking questions about poison. I even gave you a phial of cantharadin which you requested…’

  ‘In fact, you seemed positively obsessed by the subject of poisoning when I first spoke to you!’ the empress commented, glaring at him as if the very fact condemned him. Medea looked at her mistress. There was an expression on her face that Flaminius couldn’t interpret.

  ‘From the time of death,’ Erichtho added, ‘I would say Chief Centurion Messalus was poisoned at a little before the third watch of the night.’

  ‘Not long after I dismissed you and the centurion from the mess,’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘And the physician says that you begged from her some cantharadin. Why was that?’

  Flaminius put a hand to his face. He looked at Medea again. This was going to be difficult to explain. ‘It’s… it’s used as a love philtre,’ he said feebly. ‘I left it on my desk.’ He frowned. ‘I couldn’t find it before.’

  ‘Why did you want a love philtre?’ The empress was incandescent. ‘So you could debauch my handmaiden?’

  ‘Not sure you could manage it unaided?’ Ursus Servianus taunted him.

  ‘And yet you did, didn’t you?’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘You return here with the handmaiden, both of you stinking with sweat… But you didn’t use the cantharadin as a love philtre! That was a lie, a virile buck like you would have no need for it. You used it for another purpose, didn’t you?’ He gestured at the centurion’s slowly stiffening body. ‘A more sinister purpose.’

  Flaminius’ world was closing in. All of a sudden he saw a chance to exonerate himself.

  ‘When exactly did you say the centurion was poisoned?’ he inquired. Erichtho repeated her previous estimate. Flaminius shrugged. ‘Well, I couldn’t have administered it. I wasn’t here. I had gone to meet Medea. Isn’t that right?’ he asked her.

  She looked at her feet. ‘I saw the tribune,’ she admitted, drawing a venomous look from the empress. ‘But it was later than that. The beginning of the third watch.’

  Flaminius stared at her, puzzled. Was she trying to preserve her own reputation? Some chance, the dirty minds they had round here. And at his own expense!

  ‘Besides,’ said Ursus Servianus airily, ‘the centurion clearly had the poison slipped into his drink. You could have done that earlier and gone off to debauch the handmaiden while your enemy died slowly.’

  Septicius Clarus signalled to two guards. ‘Take the tribune and confine him to barracks.’

  —6—

  Tibur, Hadrian’s Villa, 9th April, 122 AD

  Flaminius sat in the cell-cum-storeroom that he had examined the previous day, this time a prisoner. He stared into the darkness, idly tracing the mysterious graffiti with its meaningless message. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone—someone else?—had blamed him for the murder of his chief centurion. Who had tried to kill him? Someone had known or guessed about his clandestine meeting with Medea in the amphitheatre, who had used it as an opportunity to kill him, setting free one of the lions from its pen beneath the arena. Whoever it was, they didn’t like him, that was for sure.

  As for the murder of Chief Centurion Messalus, it had been carried out in a way that immediately threw suspicion on Flaminius. The murderer had used cantharadin—the cantharadin he had weaselled out of Erichtho and which had later gone mysteriously missing? Everyone seemed to think so—it had laid the guilt at his door, and right now he couldn’t see a way to clear his name.

  He felt a chill. Was this the work of the same person? Had they tried to have him killed and at the same time framed him for the murder of Chief Centurion Messalus? That seemed overcomplicated. Perhaps two forces were at work here, one that had tried to have Flaminius killed, another that had killed Messalus and set Flaminius up.

  So why kill Messalus? Well, because he was the real killer of Rufinus Crassus, a catspaw employed by higher forces, who had to be poisoned to stop him revealing what he knew. That seemed feasible; the man had murdered senators in the past. He had been little more than a hired killer. If someone had wanted Rufinus Crassus out of the way, the centurion would have been the ideal choice, and besides, Messalus had been in the right place at the right time, on guard over the prisoner. The first on the scene.

  Flaminius looked dismally round the dim room. This was where Rufinus Crassus had met his end. He had died because he had known too much. Flaminius had come poking his nose into the man’s death, and now he too was locked in this room, awaiting trial for alleged murder. Or perhaps he was just awaiting his own death.

  He traced the graffiti yet again. TFSBQJT DTQRF ZPV DMBSVT. He had it memorised now. Perhaps Rufinus Crassus had scratched it in his last hours. Probus had suggested it was a cipher. In which case, Flaminius wondered how it could be deciphered. His mentor had him about ciphers and codes during his training in Eboracum.

  As a boy, he’d read about the old Spartan skytale, a strip of goatskin with letters on it that spelt out a message if the skin was wrapped around a stick the same thickness as the one it had been wrapped round when it was written. Cipher technology had moved on since then, Probus had explained, becoming increasingly more sophisticated. Julius Caesar had developed a series of complex ciphers for his private communications, and even some comparatively simple ones. The one Flaminius remembered was the one known as the Caesar cipher. In this code each letter was replaced by the one that was three letters along from it in the alphabet, so A became D, B be
came E, and so on. In which case the graffiti would read W… I… V… E… U… M… W…

  Flaminius scratched his head. At first he’d thought he had been going somewhere with it, but no. No. It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t Greek. It wasn’t any of the British dialects Flaminius had picked up when he had been serving with the Ninth Legion. And it remained as meaningless as it had been before he’d tried to decipher it.

  His shoulders slumped. For a moment, the intellectual exercise had kept his mind off his fate. But he had failed, his chariot had crashed at the first turn of the track, and now the hopelessness of his situation returned.

  But maybe it was another kind of cipher. Maybe if he tried changing the letters to their equivalents four letters along the alphabet… In which case the graffiti would start with an X. Good. Maybe it was Greek. Lots of Greek words began with an X. But… in that case the next letter would be a J, and the Greek alphabet didn’t have a J. He frowned. Surely the second letter would have to be a vowel… unless the first one was.

  He sat back against the wall, sighing. It was hopeless.

  Why didn’t they hurry up and put him on trial? At least then he would have a chance of proving himself innocent. Ha! Some chance. He might well end up being be tried by the man who’d attempted to kill him.

  Moonlight fell through the little window. It wouldn’t help him defend himself if he got no sleep. He lay down on the uncomfortable cold bench and pillowed his face in his hands. He tried to get to sleep but with the cold and the hardness of the bench, not to mention his fears, he found it almost impossible.

  That night seemed to last forever.

  He was woken at last by a banging on the door. Eyes red rimmed and heavy, he blinked in the shaft of morning sunlight as a panel in the door slid open. The brutal face of Centurion Junius Italicus appeared.

  ‘You are summoned,’ the centurion said, ‘sir.’ Junius Italicus had been the centurion second in rank to Messalus.

  ‘Summoned?’ Flaminius said, confused. ‘When does the trial begin?’

  ‘The trial’s already begun,’ the centurion said, unlocking and opening the door. ‘That’s why you’re summoned to the empress’ presence.’

  As he allowed himself to be led into the palace, where he had previously been hailed as a hero, Flaminius told himself that the empress was taking a very keen interest in what was a purely military matter.

  The Dining Room of the Centaurs had been decked out as a military court room. The empress and some of her guests sat on one side, observing. Septicius Clarus sat on one side, as prosecuting advocate, while Ursus Servianus had been appointed judge. Praetorian guards lined the walls. Flaminius was shown to a seat in the middle of all. He was offered an advocate from the empress’ staff but told the court that he would testify in his own defence.

  Septicius Clarus began the proceedings with an account of the events of the previous night. To clarify matters, he called several Praetorians who explained he they had realised that something was wrong with their chief centurion.

  ‘I heard him, sir,’ said Albus, a tall, gangly fellow with curly dark hair. ‘I was on patrol nearby so I heard the noise.’

  ‘What noise was that?’ asked Septicius Clarus.

  ‘It was a crash, and a gargling noise,’ Albus said. ‘It was coming from the First Spear’s chamber, so me and my mate ran in. We found Chief Centurion Messalus lying on the floor, choking. I went to get the tribune, but he wasn’t in his room, so then I went to find the prefect.’

  ‘For the court,’ Ursus Servianus said, ‘where did you find him?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Albus, ‘I found him in the palace. He came out of the emp…’

  ‘Thank you, soldier,’ Septicius Clarus interrupted. ‘Sir, by the time we returned to the chief centurion’s quarters, he was already dead. I shall now describe what I saw.’

  ‘Prefect, I am perfectly capable of presiding over this trial,’ Ursus Servianus said, showing disapproval at Septicius Clarus’ interruption. ‘Tell the court. What happened?’

  Septicius Clarus gave Ursus Servianus a dark look, then he turned and faced the gathered people.

  ‘I was called from my office in the palace,’ he said, ‘by Albus. We hurried to the barracks and entered the chief centurion’s quarters. I…’

  ‘Describe the quarters when you entered it,’ said Ursus Servianus.

  ‘I...’ Septicius Clarus paused and stared at Ursus Servianus. He cleared his throat and glanced at the empress, who nodded encouragingly. ‘I entered to find the chief centurion sprawled on his bed. Two Praetorians were already there, the guard on duty and the chief centurion’s clerk. They said he had died a quarter of an hour ago, just after Albus was sent to get me.’

  ‘Was there any sign of anyone else having been in the room?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

  Septicius Clarus shook his head. ‘I saw footprints. But they were those of the Praetorians, who had stepped in the spilt wine on the floor. Also on the floor was the chief centurion’s wine cup.’

  ‘Where was the wine?’

  ‘I told you, on the floor.’

  ‘No, where was the amphora it came from, I mean,’ Ursus Servianus said.

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ said Septicius Clarus. ‘I think it was on the shelf nearby. I checked Messalus for a pulse, but he was dead, as the men had said. I looked at the body. From its expression I guessed it had been poisoned, so I sent the guards to get Erichtho. She confirmed that Messalus had suffered cantharadin poisoning. Then I remembered seeing a phial of cantharadin in the tribune’s office, so I sent guards to find him. He was discovered shortly afterwards, outside, accompanied by the empress’ handmaiden. Both were covered in sweat. By this time, I had also sent other guards—the barracks was awake and in uproar by then—to the palace, and several members of the imperial household had joined us.’

  ‘And your contention is that Tribune Flaminius murdered Chief Centurion Messalus with cantharadin?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

  Septicius Clarus stared at him again. ‘Of course. It’s obvious! He had the cantharadin, which he got from Erichtho. He had been arguing with Messalus. They were at odds…’ He trailed off.

  ‘And so, you contend, he poisoned him?’ said Ursus Servianus. ‘Thank you, Prefect. I will speak with Erichtho now.’

  Septicius Clarus paused. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.

  Erichtho swished up to the front in a whirl of flowing garments. ‘I was called from my bed,’ she said. ‘Inside the room it was much as the prefect has said. The centurion showed all the classic signs of cantharadin poisoning. Of course, I thought at once of the phial I had given to the tribune…’

  ‘What precisely are the classic signs of cantharadin poisoning?’ Ursus Servianus cut in.

  ‘Blisters, mainly,’ Erichtho replied. ‘There were blisters all over his chest, caused by the cantharadin.’ She cast her eyes downwards and added, ‘I also noticed that he was substantially priapic, which is of course another effect of cantharidin. This is why the drug is used as an aphrodisiac—in smaller, non-fatal doses, of course. Furthermore, he had urinated involuntarily during his struggles, and the urine that stained his breeches was flecked with blood, another classic symptom. The description of his dying was also consistent with that of someone poisoned with cantharadin. Furthermore, when I sniffed at the fallen beaker, it had something of the foetid smell associated with the drug.’

  ‘Enough for the murdered centurion to have noticed?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

  Erichtho shrugged. ‘He could have smelled it. What’s more, if there was enough in there to kill him, as there clearly was, it would have tasted bitter. But from what Septicius Clarus has told me, the chief centurion had already been drinking, so perhaps he did not notice. I think he took a long draught of it, and it took effect immediately.’

  ‘Where do you suppose the cantharadin was obtained?’

  ‘As the prefect said,’ Erichtho replied testily, ‘I gave some to Tribune Flaminius since he intimated that he was
suffering from impotence.’

  Flaminius surprised himself by blushing crimson.

  ‘When would you say the fatal dose was ingested?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

  ‘Just before the beginning of the third watch of the night,’ Erichtho replied.

  ‘Thank you, that’s all,’ said Ursus Servianus, and Erichtho went to sit down. ‘I think it’s about time we heard from the accused,’ Ursus Servianus added, and beckoned to Flaminius to rise.

  ‘Very well,’ said Septicius Clarus, ‘Tell us your own story, tribune.’ That earned him a glower from Ursus Servianus.

  ‘I wasn’t there at the beginning of the third watch,’ Flaminius began. ‘I received a note from the imperial handmaiden Medea, who…’ He paused. ‘She wished to speak with me in confidence. At the disused amphitheatre.’

  ‘Why exactly did she want to speak to you in confidence?’ Septicius Clarus demanded.

  ‘You’ll have to ask the handmaiden that yourself,’ Flaminius told him. ‘We didn’t get much of an opportunity to talk. When I first got there, there was no sign of her, but then someone tried to murder me.’

  ‘Tried to murder you?’ Septicius Clarus looked genuinely amazed. ‘Why would anyone… how… who?’

  ‘I don’t know who,’ Flaminius said, ‘but… I thought I saw someone down in the arena. It was dark and I couldn’t see them properly. I assumed it was Medea. I went down there to speak to her and a lion attacked me.’

  ‘A lion?’ Septicius Clarus looked to the empress in bewilderment. She returned his expression stony faced. ‘What is this story? How could you escape a lion?’

  ‘I ran as fast as I could back to the side of the arena,’ Flaminius said. ‘The lion was almost upon me when Medea appeared and I used her cloak to climb out again. Otherwise I would have been dead.’ He said the last with some emotion.

  ‘And this is your alibi?’ said Ursus Servianus, as if he thought it a farrago of nonsense. ‘But the handmaiden Medea said your meeting happened later than Messalus’ murder.’