The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  ‘Xanthippe, Xanthippe,’ he admonished her, gently shaking his head. ‘How is a philosopher to contemplate God’s nature in the universe, with his wife stamping about like Flavian’s whole legion on the march?’

  ‘Crato, Crato,’ she returned, shaking her head back at him wearily but affectionately. ‘You may fancy yourself Socrates, but you are not, and no more am I that ancient philosopher’s wife. We live in the world’s last age, and at earth’s farthest end – where you are as good as uncle to all Camolindium and teacher to almost nobody – and your best little scholar should have been here long ago!’

  He blinked. ‘What? Is it Pytho’s day again so soon?’*

  ‘Pytho? You would call Pytho your best scholar? No, no, old man. This is our morning for Flavian’s granddaughter, little Marcellina.’

  ‘Little Marcellina. You would call her my scholar?’ But Crato’s voice, never truly angry, grew milder yet. ‘Little, golden-haired Marcellina, whose baby tongue still sometimes slips and calls herself Kyna, after her British father. Why, she has not yet seen her third summer –’

  ‘But this is her third spring,’ his wife reminded him.

  ‘The very turning of the seasons is still a strange wonder to her, and, moreover, she is a girl. How should we call her my scholar?’

  ‘I call her your scholar, husband, for the attention she gives your words – more than they deserve, Pallas Athena knows! – when she climbs into your lap and twines her tiny fingers in your beard.’

  ‘Well, then, call her your scholar as much as mine. If I am Camolindium’s uncle, you are Camolindium’s aunt, and our small visitor gives you as much attention as me. And yet,’ he added dreamily, ‘for all that, I am well content that it is she I will see today, and not Pytho.’

  ‘If we see her today. Crato, have you not noticed how high Apollo’s chariot is already?’

  He glanced up, blinked, and looked down at the half-eaten cake in his hand. ‘By all gods and goddesses, heroes and daimons! Only a glutton is still breaking his fast at this hour. Here, great Demeter, accept my offering.’ Carefully he crumbled his remaining cake upon a plot of spaded ground. ‘To you, and to your fair daughter whose yearly return brings us this fair season of spring – even here at earth’s farthest end – and to your birds of the air, I give back this portion of your good gifts to humankind. Now, my Chloe,’ he added, calling his wife by her right name as, brushing off his hands, he turned back to her, ‘surely no one but a madman would dare molest the granddaughter of our glorious legate Cassius Marcellus Flavian, so let us wait yet a little while longer before scurrying off to him like frightened mice to learn what may have happened to detain her.’

  The house of Cassius Marcellus Flavian had been adapted to seize as much as possible of the cold northern sun. Instead of a comfortably private atrium, it had one vast open courtyard, enclosed on three sides by his house – one long row housing triclinium, offices, bedrooms, and larder; flanked by two wings, one for kitchen and private baths, the other providing quarters for the family’s slaves. The columns of the peristyle separating rooms from courtyard stood spaced widely to allow as much warmth and light as possible into the residence, and also showing off a finely crafted shrine to the household Lares and Penates. On the fourth side of the courtyard was nothing but front wall with its gated doorway.

  In such a courtyard, calm ought to have prevailed. But, today, it did not. An aging woman in simple, unadorned stola bent to bandage the bleeding head of a young man in his twenties, clad in the tunic of workingman or slave, who lay on one of the benches and tried through moans and groans to render a military-style report to the silver-haired officer towering above him.

  This officer, clearly the master of the house and more soldier than senator of Rome, heard the youth out and meanwhile from time to time ordered various slaves on their errands with few and simple words, doing much, by his command and stern example, to stem the tide of panic . . . even though his own brows were separated only by a frown so deep an onlooker might have expected blood to drip from it, too – as one of his slaves whispered to another while hurrying off to have wine warmed for the injured man.

  The other slave whispered back, ‘Gods! Who can blame our unhappy master?’

  The first slave halted in her errand long enough to call her friend’s attention to a tall young matron, not many years removed from girlhood but bearing herself with sober maturity, who had appeared between two peristyle columns. ‘Unhappy young mistress! Ah, Dea Matrona, our poor mistress Marcella!’

  The two slaves hurried on, pausing momentarily at the household altar to bow their heads in quick prayer. Marcella, unseen by either legate or injured man, listened with lips compressed and one hand clutching the stone pillar ever more tightly.

  ‘In brief,’ said Cassius Marcellus Flavian, ‘you have betrayed your charge.’

  ‘Master!’ The woman tending the young man’s head stared up at the legate with fear in her large eyes. ‘You do not . . . blame my son Bucco?’

  ‘Was I not struck from behind?’ Bucco added with surly respect.

  ‘For whatever reason, you have lost the child entrusted to your safekeeping. A true servant would have laid down his own life in protection of any helpless one given into his charge.’

  Bucco darted one angry glance at his master, but immediately bowed his head again beneath his mother’s hands.

  ‘Father, no!’ Marcella said, coming down from the peristyle.

  Flavian turned and saw her. ‘Marcella! You overheard?’

  ‘Would you have tried to keep this from me? This knife that cuts into my soul more deeply than into anyone else’s?’

  ‘Daughter! Your child is doubly mine. By blood, grandchild. By adoption, daughter and namesake.’

  ‘Father! Man’s love for his children may run deep as Neptune’s waters – I would never deny this – but mother’s love runs deeper still. No man has carried his child within his own bowels, beneath his very heart.’

  Bucco’s mother bowed her head over his as though to conceal tears.

  ‘But I am your daughter, and Roman,’ Marcella went on, visibly holding her emotions in check. ‘How well I came to understand this – what it is to be Roman – those months I spent as wife to that British chieftain. Never think it was the rigors of their wild tribal life that brought me home again to you. Am I not a soldier’s daughter? No, it was their lack of civilization in all things that shape the soul. Not their lack of drains,’ she continued, like one who had turned these thoughts over and over in her mind, ‘but the crudity of their brains. Some rough religion they have, but it is not our pious reverence for God and fellow man; some crude honor and coarse affection, but how far it is from Roman honor and Roman love of family. Even though, granted Roman citizenship, my former husband valued his Roman name less than any casual trinket, something to be worn on rare occasions but more often tossed aside. No, do not blame Bucco for trusting that orderly Camolindium would offer no dangers between our home and that of our philosopher friend. Blame Marcellina’s father by blood! Summon Kynon here to answer for Marcellina. And, if he will not come, send your legion!’

  ‘Daughter,’ said the legate, ‘had you been my son, what a soldier you would have made!’ Turning to his adjutant, who stood by, he ordered, ‘Take this message to Gnaius Metellus Lucian: that he is to go to the British village and bring their chieftain Horatius Marcellus Kynus, whom they may still call Kynon, back here to me at once.’

  ‘Lucian?’ Marcella interjected. ‘Not Octavio? Father, why not Marcus Gordius Octavio?’

  ‘Gnaius Metellus Lucian,’ the legate repeated sternly to his adjutant. ‘At once.’ As the adjutant hurried away, Flavian turned back to his daughter. ‘There are reasons, Marcella, for my wish that you see no more of Marcus Gordius Octavio. Remember my wisdom in opposing your marriage to Kynon, even after making him Horatius Marcellus Kynus, and be content.’

  Breathing deeply and rapidly, she stared back unblinking into Flavian’s eyes. ‘
Octavio is not Kynon. Father, do you not think I have learned more wisdom than was mine four years ago?’

  ‘Let us agree that Octavio is not Kynon, nor Kynon’s flaws identical with those of Octavio. Would you see our present business imperiled by some quarrel struck as if from tinder when he who had your love once and he who almost has it now come face to face?’

  ‘It is because Octavio cares for my child as much as –’ She choked off her own sentence and resumed, dropping her gaze, ‘No, you are right. What does any of all this matter, until we have Marcellina safe with us again?’

  ‘Marcellina?’ another voice broke in. The old philosopher Crato had arrived, with his wife on his arm.

  ‘I knew it!’ Chloe exclaimed before her husband’s one-word question could be answered. ‘And then, when your messenger all but ran us over at your gate in his hurry, I knew it again!’

  ‘Hush, wife.’ Crato stroked her hand soothingly. ‘As yet, we know very little. What of the child?’ he added anxiously, looking at Flavian.

  ‘All that we ourselves know is soon told,’ the legate replied. ‘It appears that as my slave of questionable worth was bringing Marcellina to your house this morning, honored friend, some villain or villains struck him from behind and knocked him senseless long enough to make off with my daughter’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh, Marcella!’ Chloe cried, leaving her husband to fold the young mother in her arms. This sudden show of tenderness broke Marcella’s resolve, and her tears flowed freely at last.

  The slave Bucco had cast up another fierce look at his master’s latest insult, but only his mother noticed it, and she quickly drew his head down again.

  Old Crato was pulling his white beard in his apparent effort to ward agitation off with reason. ‘Was it not at about this same time last year that another child vanished without trace?’

  Everyone else stared at him. Horror was especially plain in the faces of the women – Marcella, Chloe, and she who bent over Bucco.

  ‘They said,’ whispered Chloe, ‘they said that Christians took him – Oh, God! Can we truly have a coven of Christians here in Camolindium?’

  ‘Hush, wife,’ said Crato. ‘These Christians are mere harmless fools.’

  ‘I remember that case,’ Flavian mused with creased brow. ‘A younger child, was it not? An infant boy, less than one year of age . . .’

  ‘Some slave’s baby,’ Bucco supplied in a tone of respect so studied as almost to constitute insolence. ‘Worth only whatever he might have brought on the block. Not to be mentioned in the same sentence with the grandchild of a legate of Rome.’

  ‘My . . . master!’ gasped the old slave woman. ‘Forgive my son – his wound – he wanders in his wits!’

  ‘Not so far,’ said Bucco. ‘I remember now. Just before that blow fell, I heard voices. Voices speaking in British. No words that I understood, but one of them might have been “Kyna” or “Kynon.” ’

  Flavian studied his young slave for as long as a bird might need to pull a worm from the ground. At last he said, ‘For your sake, Myrtilia, once my daughter’s nurse and now my granddaughter’s, I will forgive your son. I may never again entrust him with any errand involving another person’s safety, but let that be the full extent of his punishment. Now take him to your own quarters, nurse him well, and summon me at once should he find any further details while wandering in his wits.’

  Head bandaged, Bucco was able to stagger away with his mother as living crutch. One might have suspected him, indeed, of exaggerating his weakness and giddiness somewhat, no doubt to re-emphasize his blamelessness and prolong his convalescent ease.

  Watching them go, Flavian told Marcella, ‘Daughter, let us not forget that we have guests.’ To Crato he added, ‘I have newly received a shipment of books from Rome, among them several that I am sure would interest you. Marcella knows where to find them.’

  ‘Come,’ Marcella said, drawing herself into the role of hostess. To a pair of the remaining slaves she added, ‘Nathan, Sarah, attend us.’

  As the women and slaves started for the house, Flavian muttered in Crato’s ear, ‘Watch over her, old friend. May your philosophy serve us well in this hour.’

  ‘I have no fear for Marcellina,’ the philosopher replied somberly. ‘Barbarian though he may be, the child’s father can hardly mean her ill. These British love their offspring as much as we love ours. As for Christians, they are mere foolish dabblers in atheism, much maligned, and if they return nothing to the State that nourished them, neither could their contribution greatly enrich society in any case.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the legate muttered to himself after Crato had followed the others into the house, ‘I will leave no stone unturned.’ To the last slave left outdoors with him, he said, ‘Summon the decurion Marcus Gordius Octavio here to me at once.’

  The man hurried across the courtyard, and narrowly missed colliding at the gate with a handsome young officer on his way in.

  ‘Master,’ said the slave, stepping back into the courtyard long enough to flourish an extravagant bow, ‘the decurion Marcus Gordius Octavio has been summoned here to you at once.’

  ‘I thank you, Dromo,’ Flavian said dryly. ‘Now go and arrange for Juno to have two lambs in sacrifice for Marcellina’s safe return.’

  The slave disappeared. The decurion, moving with the disciplined stride of a Roman legionary, approached his superior, halted at a respectful distance, and saluted. One could see the tension in his soul, and the self-mastery with which he held it in check.

  ‘Well, Octavio,’ said the legate. ‘What god gave you word that I would send for you? Was it Juno, or Venus?’

  ‘Your daughter’s daughter has vanished and her attendant been left stunned and witless,’ Octavio replied. ‘This is no secret in our barracks. Moreover, I was with Metellus Lucian when your order came for him to bring the British chieftain to you. If you would thank any gods for hastening my steps, thank your own household guardians.’

  ‘It remains to be seen whether I will owe thanks to any god for your presence.’ Flavian took several paces back and forth, as if in thought, before speaking again. ‘Marcus Gordius Octavio, have you seen any Christians here in Camolindium?’

  The young man stiffened. ‘As you know, sir, I determined to leave that godless sect upon first learning that they would require me to forswear all warfare. The gods fashioned me to serve my country as soldier, and soldier I knew I must remain. It was only on direct order from my commander in Gaul that I pretended still to be one of them long enough for us to catch them at those foul rites by which they would have initiated me fully into their membership.’

  Flavian nodded. ‘And I alone, in all Camolindium, am aware of all this. It was for obeying Quintus Severan and helping to exterminate that nest of them in Gaul, as well as for your early report to him, accompanied with your own confession and recantation, that you were allowed this second chance, with clean slate, here in Britain.’

  ‘With clean slate, sir,’ the decurion repeated, allowing some faint bitterness to tinge his voice. ‘Thinking their founder to have been the son of one Panthera, himself a soldier, I had at first supposed their cult akin to that of Mithras. Otherwise, I would never have become their “catechumen,” as they call them.’

  ‘I sent for you,’ Flavian went on, somewhat impatiently, ‘not to rake through old matters, but to learn if you, with your experience of them, have noticed any sign of Christians among us here.’

  ‘I have not looked for them, sir. Nor, until Marcellina’s disappearance today, had I seen anything during my half-year in Britain to suggest their presence in or near Camolindium.’

  ‘True. You were still in Gaul last year at this time, when the infant slave disappeared.’

  ‘Mars and Minerva!’ the decurion exclaimed. ‘Two young children vanished at this season in subsequent years! Sir, that chills my soul.’

  ‘Let us assume the worst. From what you know of them, is my granddaughter likely still to be alive?’

>   Octavio nodded gravely. ‘Until tonight, at least. Possibly longer. They would no more sacrifice a child already dead than we would a calf or piglet.’

  ‘And, if they are among us, would any of them know you? Could this explain why they have kept themselves so well concealed from your initiated eyes?’

  ‘No initiate, sir,’ Octavio reminded the legate. ‘It stopped just short of that. But, if any Christian here had known me for one of their “apostates” – as they call those of us who awaken to their errors and leave their cult voluntarily – I think they would more likely have sought to assassinate than merely avoid me.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The legate paced again, staring at the courtyard beneath his sandals while Octavio stared at him. Neither of them noticed Crato approaching from the house. ‘Well,’ Flavian resumed at last, ‘my chief suspicion still rests on Marcellina’s British father. But, if you were to look, would you be able to scent out any local Christians for us?’

  ‘They are cunning, sir. They have learned secrecy well. But, yes, I could find and contact them, if commanded to do so.’

  ‘Then do so at once. I command it.’

  ‘What is this?’ the philosopher asked, stepping eagerly forward.

  ‘Crato!’ said the legate. ‘Old friend, we thought you with my daughter.’

  ‘She has Chloe to comfort her,’ Crato explained. ‘Nor is Marcella’s Sarah any mean help at that skill. And where women comfort one another, men may only be in their way. But have I blundered into some delicate conference?’

  ‘That depends,’ Flavian answered carefully, ‘on how much you may have overheard.’

  ‘Enough to know that you, like my dear wife, suspect some infestation of Christians in our area, and that this good decurion has some talent for finding those maligned misanthropes.’