The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  ‘We – well, we didn’t see anything suspicious – there wasn’t a sign of anything. No smoke signals, no fresh tracks. There was no warning at all – we were almost there –’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the fort – we were almost at the fort.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘There’s a ford across a stream – the road comes down off the high ground, the engineers have made a cutting – there’s a log corduroy and I think the ford’s paved – I think it is –’

  ‘I know the place.’

  ‘Well, it was quite near the fort –’

  ‘Five thousand and six hundred paces to be exact. And they hit you as you were crossing?’

  ‘Y-yes – not exactly –’

  ‘How – exactly?’

  ‘How?’ Clodius flinched at the memory of the little arrow in the trooper’s neck. He had been looking down at the wheel sunk almost to its axle in the mud beyond the edge of the corduroy. They were so close to home that he had shaken off his fear and his mind seethed with useless anger at the driver’s incompetence and the stupidity of the men who had been trying to lift the heavily loaded waggon back onto the logs . . . He had opened his mouth, but before he could speak something had flashed past his face soundlessly and the arrow had sprouted in the man’s neck, a little reedy thing with bedraggled flights, like a child’s toy.

  ‘How – did – they – ambush – you?’ The words were evenly spaced, each with the same controlled emphasis.

  ‘I – I was at the rear of the convoy –’ Clodius tried to keep his voice steady, ‘– to keep them moving. One of the escort came back – he said the lead cart had gone off the logs at the edge of the stream. It was – half on them and half off, so the other waggons couldn’t get past it.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I rode to the front – they were trying to lift the waggon, but I knew they wouldn’t be able to – I told them to unharness the horses.’ He blinked under the grey man’s concentrated stare. ‘The two front carts were drawn by horses, not mules –’

  ‘Where was the driver?’ cut in the grey man sharply.

  ‘The driver?’ All the natives were alike to Clodius, their expressions as inscrutable as their camp-Latin was incomprehensible. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Then start remembering. Who unharnessed the horses? Was it the driver?’

  ‘Well –’ Clodius frowned with the effort of trying to recall the minor details of a confused scene. ‘I think – no – there was a trooper holding the horses when I arrived. I didn’t see the driver.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you that was suspicious?’

  ‘No –’ The contempt in the voice brought up Clodius short. But there was nothing surprising in the driver’s taking fright, surely . . . if he had driven the cart off the logway he would naturally have made himself scarce before the convoy commander arrived.

  The grey man snorted. ‘So – what happened then?’

  For the third time the arrow flashed across Clodius’ memory.

  ‘They came on us. They were – they were waiting for us, hundreds of them – lying in the bracken on each side. There wasn’t any way of stopping them –’ His voice faltered. If the man couldn’t understand the hopelessness of it – his handful of troopers strung along the trackway, half of them already dismounted, against that howling naked mob.

  And the horror of it too, with the animals snorting and rearing, his own pony screaming with the pain of an arrow in its rump and tearing the reins out of his hand as he tried to mount it, all order dissolving instantly into chaos around him. It had been over and finished with them before the savages had even reached them, with no defence possible. It had simply not occurred to him to stand and fight, but only to get away before he was engulfed. He hadn’t even drawn his sword.

  ‘So you ran.’

  It was the plain fact, the plain statement which betrayed him now, just as it had done before the camp-major. But at the time there had seemed no disgrace, at least no thought of disgrace, because there had seemed no choice. And that was where the cowardice and the disgrace now lay.

  ‘In which direction did you run?’

  The question caught him off balance while he was still trying, as he had tried a few hours before, to justify that plain disgraceful fact to himself.

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘They came at you from all sides.’ The grey man paused. ‘How did you get away, boy?’

  How to get away?

  The trooper who had been holding the harness behind the team of draught-horses from the ditched waggon stared at him open-mouthed, then dropped the harness and vaulted onto the back of the rearmost of them. But before he could set heels to it a javelin took him in the chest, pitching him back the way he had come, over the horse’s crupper. Clodius sprang forward, reaching for the harness, and threw himself onto the same animal. His legs seemed to have sprouted wings – the leap almost carried him clear over the broad back and he clasped at the neck with both arms to keep his seat.

  The team plunged and jostled, hooves thudding on the logway. Then, as though suddenly released, they surged ahead towards the ford.

  The other trooper who had been holding the lead pair appeared round the flank, reaching as frantically for the harness as he had done himself. But the forward movement was too much for him; he missed the strap and clutched instead at Clodius’ leg, running alongside. Clodius kicked out at him, but the man struggled to hold on and then managed to scramble up behind him just as they entered the water, wrapping his arms tightly round his officer’s waist.

  The stream exploded in wild foam as the team hit it, drenching Clodius’s face pressed against the horse’s neck. He saw a group of savages halt in midstream and then scatter before them – one painted brute, his teeth bared like a wolf’s, stabbed ineffectually at them with his spear before falling away out of sight. Another great curtain of spray rose, forcing him to shut his eyes against it. He felt the animals slow down, fighting the deeper water furiously in their panic. Then they strained forward and he heard the rumble of their hooves on the logway as they heaved themselves out on the far side.

  As he opened his eyes again the sudden wild hope inside him froze in despair as he saw another party of savages running along the lip of the cutting, parallel to him and not ten paces away. They were carrying short javelins in their hands, and as he watched them one checked his stride and drew back his right arm, pointing with his left straight down towards Clodius.

  He squeezed his eyes shut again and buried his face into the horse’s mane, his mind cringing away from the javelin. One of the horses screamed, and the trooper at his back gave a frightful gurgling cry of agony and clutched at him convulsively –

  ‘– So they hit him and not you?’

  Clodius re-focused on the dark eyes, unable to remember what he had just said.

  ‘And then they didn’t pursue you? They let you get away?’

  ‘I – don’t know . . .’ He shuddered as he remembered the hot blood the dying Batavian had vomited over his neck and shoulders. ‘We went on about two miles before – before he let go of me . . . and I stopped, but he was dead . . . so I took the lead-horse and left him.’

  The grey man looked at him narrowly. ‘You left him? By the roadside? For the savages to find?’

  ‘For the savages –?’ Clodius looked at him. ‘But he was dead, I tell you,’ he repeated defensively. ‘He was dead.’

  ‘Of course he was dead.’ The man gave a derisive snort. ‘Dead and still fighting for you – don’t you see?’ He paused, and then shook his head. ‘No, of course you don’t see. But never mind, boy – because I know how you got away now. And I know you’re an idiot, but not a traitor.’

  ‘A traitor?’ Clodius stared at him incredulously.

  Another snort. ‘Aye, boy – did it not occur to you that I might wonder how you did what no one else has done? That I might wonder why they let you get away?’

  ‘But – they did
n’t!’

  ‘Of course they didn’t. They went after the one who got away – and they found him dead beside the road, so they thought, and so they turned back – I’ll bet a year’s pay on it. An idiot, but not a traitor – go on, boy, finish your tale.’

  Clodius felt his own blood hot under his cheeks. There was no end to their unfairness: now he was condemned as a fool as well as a coward – something to be pitied as well as despised.

  ‘I rode to the fort,’ he said stiffly. ‘There were – there was a squadron of Dacians there. We rode back to the ford –’

  ‘We?’

  ‘They gave me a horse.’ He heard his voice strengthen, hating the man. ‘The savages had burnt the waggons – they’d thrown the wounded into the fires –’

  The smell of burnt flesh . . .

  ‘We followed the tracks to the left – west – where the land is open, the woods must have been burnt back there in the summer.’

  The grey man was sitting up straight, frowning.

  ‘We went about five miles, maybe more – we went until the forest was too thick –’

  ‘You pursued them for five miles?’ The question was taut with disbelief.

  ‘At least five miles. We rode fast – the land is open.’

  The grey head shook vigorously. ‘You rode to the fort, called out the Dacians, rode back to the ford – and then followed the tracks for five miles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And returned to the fort before nightfall?’

  ‘Yes. The light was just going.’

  ‘Impossible. You had time to get to the ford and back to the fort again, barely. I’ve ridden every inch of that road – aye, and taken convoys on it too. So don’t lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘Up to now you haven’t been – now you are.’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘You are. Because time and distance say you are, and they don’t lie, boy.’

  ‘I tell you I’m not.’ For the very first time Clodius didn’t feel unsure of himself, yet strangely his new certainty left him puzzled rather than angry. ‘Why should I lie?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know. It’s a little late to show how brave you are.’

  The jibe stung cruelly: a coward and a fool, but not a liar. They couldn’t prove that!

  ‘It wasn’t my idea to go after them, it was the Dacian captain’s. He said if they’d loaded the corn on the mules there was a chance we could catch up with them before they reached the forest. It was his idea, not mine.’

  Now the grey man’s frown was puzzled too. He seemed to be staring at Clodius without actually looking at him.

  He scowled. ‘Describe the country to me, boy. Five miles from the road – what’s it like, then?’

  ‘The country?’ Clodius had a vision of endless trees and trackless undergrowth, as featureless and indescribable as the ocean. ‘It’s – beyond the burnt lands there’s oak scrub and bracken. And there’s a ridge with a rock outcrop, where we stopped. The forest starts on the other side, and you can see the hills away to the north –’

  ‘You saw the hills from the ridge?’

  ‘A long way off, yes. The captain said –’

  ‘All right!’ the grey man held up his hand abruptly to cut him off.

  There was a sudden thickening silence in the hut which was somehow more frightening than the fierce questioning had been, like the stillness before the thunderclap.

  ‘I –’ Clodius didn’t really know what he was about to say, only that he wanted to break the silence. ‘I think –’

  ‘Be still! I believe you.’ The grey man stared into the darkness behind Clodius, the lantern-light picking out every bristle of the stubble on his face. Then at last he stirred, slowly raising his eyes to the man with the lantern.

  ‘Bassus.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘You will take my Germans, and you will arrest Camp-Major Valerius Gavius and Senior Quartermaster Sullonius Crescens. Put them under close arrest and see they are disarmed – I want no suicides and no injuries. I want them both alive and well. Make sure that they are.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Clodius’ jaw dropped. The man Bassus was not questioning the grey man’s right to treat senior officers like – like felons. Colonel?

  ‘And the Batavian captain –’ the cold voice went on ‘– place him under open arrest. Two Germans to his billet, but leave him his sword. Then turn out the night guard – seal off the quartermasters’ billet, two men to their records office and two men to every granary and storehouse. A corporal to every gate and no one to leave without my written permission. And you’d better double the parapet sentries – if you need more men you have my authority to call out the garrison. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, colonel.’

  ‘Very good. As of this moment I am assuming command of this depot. I will receive your report in the camp-major’s office. Leave the lantern.’

  Bassus placed the lantern carefully on the table. Then, straightening up, he gave the grey man a formal salute.

  Slowly the dark eyes came back to Clodius.

  ‘A crucifixion, he said, if I remember aright – eh, boy? Do you know how we set about it?’

  Clodius looked at him speechlessly.

  ‘No? Well, it’s high time you learnt –’

  . . . an old trick, which you will doubtless have guessed by now: the sacks were filled with chaff, not corn, the price of which had gone straight into the pockets of Gavius and Crescens (both of whom I executed, together with a dozen of their underlings). They used the tribesmen, who were perfectly satisfied with the captured weapons and animals, merely to cover their fraud.

  As for the boy, I have sent him to his regiment without a stain on his character; it would clearly be dangerous to tamper with so strong a life-line!

  For mark, Lupus, how his luck lay in his invincible stupidity, not only in the ambush but also back at the base. Gavius had promised him a bad death, had filled him with wine – and had carefully left him his sword. Believing what he did, any man of sense would have killed himself – as the Batavian captain promptly and wisely did. But young Clodius didn’t know what was expected of him, and consequently survived to meet the one man most likely to grasp the truth.

  For Celer knew better than anyone that the supply line forts are sited exactly one day’s journey apart for a loaded waggon train. Yet that green, stupid boy had obviously clipped more than a full hour off the best time achieved by experienced officers over the same distance. So because luck is one thing and miracles are another – and corn is heavy – those loaded waggons had to be travelling light.

  THE LAST LETTER

  Derek Wilson

  The spread of Christianity throughout the Roman Empire was the work of the apostles, and none is more famous than Paul, originally Saul of Tarsus. At one time he was a persecutor of Christians, but on the way to Damascus had a vision of Christ that revealed that he was the man to take the Word to the Gentiles. Paul travelled throughout the Mediterranean world and is believed to have ended up in Rome, but just what did become of him has never been satisfactorily resolved. In the following story, Derek Wilson, a historian and author of the Tim Lacy art-world mysteries, sets another of the apostles on the trail of Paul.

  Dear Theophilus,

  Five years have passed since I attempted, at your request, to provide an orderly account of the spread of the message about the Kingdom of God from its beginnings in Jerusalem to its open proclamation in the capital of the Empire. I was an eye witness of many of the events I recorded then and, for the rest, I had information directly from those possessing first-hand knowledge. Nothing was hearsay; nothing gossip. My concern, as with my earlier report on the life and teaching of Jesus, was to present you with a true and trustworthy narrative.

  I have not been impervious to your entreaties that I should continue the chronicle as far as our own troubled times, and, particularly, that I should record accurately what befell Pa
ul after the lifting of his detention in Rome. Family business in Philippi and my own indifferent health prevented me for some time from complying with your request. It was only fifteen months ago that I realized that I must delay no longer. After the great fire in Rome responsibility for which was unjustly fastened on the Christians, the vilest calumnies were spread from the centre to the very rim; of the Empire. In the chaos of denunciations and persecutions many believers fled, carrying with them confused and confusing stories about Paul, Peter, Apollos and others. Thus it became imperative for me once more to set out upon my travels in search of the truth.

  Even when I had ascertained all that I could I hesitated to write to you. The posts are frequently tampered with and my letter might have attracted to you the unwelcome attentions of over-zealous officials. Now that the arch-enemy of the Christians is dead by his own hand* and discredited it is safe to convey to you those facts which I have been able to gather. My own involvement in the work of God through his servants has always been insignificant but on ‘this occasion I shall have to place myself at the centre of the action so that you will understand the remarkable happenings as I was able to unravel them.

  I set out with extreme anxiety about Paul. Apart from one brief letter passed on to me by the church elders at Philippi my only sources of information were rumours. Some claimed that he had died in Rome on Nero’s orders; others that he was still in distant Spain; and I frequently came across reports that he had been seen in various locations - Ephesus, Crete (where he supposedly was being hidden by Titus, the leader of the churches on the island) and even — most unlikely of all considering his reputation there — Corinth. On one occasion when I visited Thessalonica, the elders there showed me with great pride a letter that one of their number had recently brought back from Asia. It was a copy of a message addressed to Timothy, whom you met as a young man when we stayed in your house all those years ago, and it purported to be from Paul. I scanned it eagerly for clues about our friend’s health and whereabouts. Alas, it was a disappointment. I, who have taken down many letters at Paul’s dictation, could recognize little of his style, and you may imagine my surprise when I read that I was among the writer’s present companions. Parts of this missive may, indeed, have come from Paul or his immediate circle but they had certainly been mixed up with passages from other hands. In these times of discord, when few of the Lord’s first followers remain to provide guidance, there are leaders who resort to all manner of stratagems to bolster their own authority. As you assuredly know, some have even claimed that Peter and others went from Jerusalem to Rome to organize the church there. I concluded that, rather than follow up any of these dubious leads, I should start my investigations in the place where I had last seen my dear friend.