The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

‘I sensed her feelings. They are mine.’

  ‘Based upon anything in particular?’ Flavian inquired coldly. ‘Or do you mistrust Octavio simply because he is Roman, and my man?’ Standing up, the legate went on, ‘Let us understand each other, Briton. You have disliked me from the day we first met, and I you from the day you began to seduce my daughter. But for the sake of your people as well as mine, these personal enmities must be ignored.’

  ‘It is you who have first mentioned them today, Roman. Today, when a common cause requires us to join forces. For the present, I allow your soldier to pass unchallenged, for my suspicion is even sharper on that slave who let the child be taken from his care.’

  ‘Bucco?’ Flavian spoke slowly, meditatively. ‘He did not lose her without having his own head bloodied. Yet he is also Myrtilia’s son . . .’

  As Flavian spoke, Bodicca returned, dragging the old nurse by one arm, two more slaves trailing at a timid distance.

  ‘She is one of them, indeed!’ the warrioress exclaimed, thrusting Myrtilia to the ground in front of the legate.

  The unfortunate slave clawed the ground at Flavian’s sandals and wailed, ‘Mercy! Mercy, master! Mercy!’

  ‘Ask mercy of the gods!’ Flavian replied, staring down at her in distaste. To Kynon, he said, ‘Summon your shieldbearers, and kindly relay to Gnaius Metellus Lucian that I wish him present.’

  ‘What of this woman’s son?’ said Kynon.

  ‘In due time, Bucco shall stand before us as well.’ Keeping one eye upon the as yet uninvolved slaves, who did not move, Flavian added, ‘And that time will be soon. But it is not yet.’

  ‘I go, Roman, because it is my own free choice to accept your direction in this for now.’ Kynon strode across the courtyard to the gate.

  The legate turned his attention back to his moaning slave woman. ‘Myrtilia, Myrtilia! Is it true that you are Christian?’

  ‘Master, mercy!’

  ‘I tell you,’ Bodicca declared, ‘it is true. And, for a moment, she mistook me, also, for one of their breed!’ The warrioress rubbed her forefinger as though it needed rough purification after tracing the unholy sigil.

  Flavian said, ‘I cannot do otherwise than believe you. Were it false, she would deny your accusation, not simply grovel at my feet for mercy.’

  Kynon returned with Lucian and the British youths. The legionary saluted his legate and awaited orders.

  ‘Take these lads – with their chieftain’s permission –’ Flavian told his centurion, ‘secure the outer door to my slaves’ quarters, and leave the Britons to guard it until you can bring men from the barracks to relieve them. It must be guarded well. Allow no one to pass in or out. Detail men to find any of my slaves who may already be abroad for any reason, and discreetly bring them back, by way of my gate. Then return to me yourself.’

  The British shieldbearers looked at Kynon, who nodded and waved them on. Saluting again, Lucian led them from the courtyard.

  Bodicca said, ‘But we must know the place of the Christian meeting! We should post watchers to follow any slave who slips out, not alert them –’

  ‘Have you not already alerted them, dragging Myrtilia out like this?’ Flavian jerked his head toward the silent slaves. ‘Will anyone who may slip out of this house lead us to their meeting, or will they give them warning not to hold it, and to dispose of their victim before she can be found to incriminate them? Besides,’ he added, in tones equally stern but less angry, ‘Myrtilia will tell us where they meet tonight.’

  ‘Oh, Holy Spirit!’ the old nurse moaned, ‘now put Your words into my mouth!’

  ‘I will not ask you to name any of your fellow Christians, Myrtilia,’ the legate continued, almost gently. ‘Not even among my own slaves. Let them prove their own guilt or innocence. I ask you to tell us only where they gather this night.’

  Myrtilia rose to her knees, straightened her back, and replied, her voice ringing as if inspired, ‘You will not ask me to betray my brothers and sisters by name, but “only” to betray them to you all together at their most sacred worship! Never! Draw me apart with horses – feed my poor flesh to wild beasts – I will never betray my brothers in Christ Jesus!’

  Flavian momentarily allowed his anger free rein. ‘Have you not already betrayed master, family, and your own nurselings – yes, Marcella and Marcellina both – who trusted you like a mother?’

  Still appearing transfixed, even ecstatic, Myrtilia cried, ‘Every fleshly bond must be set aside and despised for sake of God’s kingdom.’

  ‘Do not blaspheme!’ snapped Flavian. ‘Spare yourself that sin, at least.’ Trembling very slightly, he sat again. ‘To apply torture at once smacks of illegality –’

  ‘ “Illegality”?’ cried Bodicca. ‘By the Horned God, Roman, what choice is there between your “legality” and your own grandchild?’

  The legate frowned at her. ‘I might with equal justice ask why you interest yourself so fiercely in this matter. My daughter’s child is no kin to you.’

  No Roman matron, Bodicca continued to speak for herself, while Kynon looked on proudly. ‘There is this tie: her father is my husband. There is also the bond of motherhood, that unites all women, those who have already borne their children, those like myself who have yet to bear, and even those who, through no fault save fate and the will of the gods, may never bear, but only share in spirit with their fellow women. All,’ she added, digging one toe into Myrtilia’s ribs, ‘except such unnatural mothers as this.’

  ‘Without faith, without truth, without Christ Jesus,’ the slave woman shrilled back, ‘what can such as you know of spiritual bonds?’

  Turning scornfully, Bodicca seized each of the onlooking slaves by one arm and marched them back toward their own quarters. So purposeful was her stride that Flavian permitted her boldness without comment, merely returning his attention to her husband, who had begun to speak.

  ‘I can hardly fault your hesitation to apply torture, Roman,’ said Kynon, ‘knowing as I know how our British children laugh as they try your leaden balls and arm-squeezing cord on one another in sport.’

  ‘If they laugh,’ Flavian replied, ‘they do not know what they are doing.’

  ‘It is plain, Roman, that you have never watched our British children at play.’ Kynon seized Myrtilia’s arm, dragging her roughly to her feet. Flavian stood with a sharp exclamation, but Kynon went on over his protest: ‘If you love your daughter’s child as much as you claim, Roman, you will let a British father do what must be done to get her back alive and safe.’

  ‘May I remind you,’ Flavian answered, his voice low but menacing, ‘that you are in my city and my house? You have until my centurion returns. Not one moment longer.’

  ‘Enough.’ Throwing his luckless captive half to the ground, so that she hung clamped between his knees unable to regain her balance, the chieftain drew the long knife he wore at his belt and slowly, almost delicately, forced its tip beneath her right thumbnail.

  Her shrieks brought Marcella back to the courtyard, with Crato’s wife on her heels and her personal slaves following close behind. At almost the same time, Bodicca and her two forcibly enlisted attendants returned, hauling Bucco out with his head still bandaged.

  ‘Father! What –’ Marcella began, and broke off as she saw more clearly what was happening. ‘Myrtilia! Oh, Myrtilia, what is this?’

  ‘She is your old nurse no longer, my daughter,’ the legate replied. ‘She has disowned all such fleshly bonds. She is Christian.’

  ‘Christian!’ Stifling her scream, Marcella held one fist to her mouth as she stared at the scene before her.

  ‘Christian!’ Kynon spat out. ‘Marcella, they have our child. Tonight they sacrifice our little Kyna, if we fail to learn their meeting-place.’ Prying up Myrtilia’s first finger, he slid his knife’s tip beneath that nail in turn.

  ‘No!’ sobbed Myrtilia. ‘Oh, Jesus, Jesus –’

  ‘Stand firm!’ Bucco bawled at her. ‘Mother, stand firm in our holy faith!’


  ‘So, then!’ Flavian exclaimed. ‘You are also one of them! Hold him fast!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Roman,’ Bodicca said grimly.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Kynon added, beginning on his victim’s middle finger. ‘That blow to his head was meant only to blind you to the truth.’

  ‘Truth!’ Myrtilia panted between her shrieks. ‘Truth shall set us free!’

  ‘Stand firm, mother!’

  Flavian looked from Myrtilia to Bucco. ‘You do not despise this particular fleshly bond, I see.’

  ‘Master,’ Bucco answered, sneering, ‘we are no longer merely mother and son according to the flesh. We have become lovers in that spirit of which flesh is only symbol and seal, in that kingdom where there is neither slave nor master, but all are free and equal in Christ Jesus our crucified lord.’

  Myrtilia continued to scream and sob. Tears trembled in Marcella’s eyes. Breast heaving, she bowed her head over her fist, while the philosopher’s wife put one arm around her shoulders and hugged tight.

  ‘Marcellina . . .’ the young mother gasped out. ‘Myrtilia? Oh, Marcellina, my darling little Marcellina! Oh, Juno, Marcellina!’

  The legate turned to her and spoke as if to one of his soldiers. ‘Daughter. We must know how far this contagion has infected our household. Gather the rest of our slaves and see to it that each of them in turn prays and burns incense to our own Lares for Marcellina’s safe return. Test them further by asking each of them to join you in cursing this executed magician or evil god ‘Christ.’ Nathan and Sarah,’ he added, glancing at Marcella’s personal slaves, ‘may follow their ancient custom and sacrifice only to their own god. Jealous as Yahweh is of his own people, he is hardly likely to share them with Christ Jesus.’

  Before their eyes, Marcella pulled herself together. ‘I will curse that evil name myself with joy each and every time I administer the test. Have no fear of me, Father.’

  With her attendants and Chloe, the young matron took her way to the slaves’ quarters. Soon, the line of Cassius Marcellus Flavian’s slaves could be seen filing solemnly across the courtyard from their wing to the household shrine, there to burn pinches of incense and offer pious prayers for Marcellina’s safe return, even while Myrtilia’s ordeal continued. When the British shieldbearers returned, signaling that they had been relieved by Flavian’s legionaries, Bodicca set them to holding Bucco and shooed her borrowed slaves away to take their turns in proving their devotion to both the gods of their own household and people, and that one high God who sat above all other deities and belonged to all peoples and nations.

  Constantly encouraged by her son, the old woman held firm until blood dripped from all ten fingertips. Then Kynon let her fall limply to the earth, and it was Bucco’s turn to shriek.

  ‘My son! My son!’ Myrtilia screamed with him, more piteously even that under her own torture. ‘Oh! My son in flesh and more than flesh!’

  ‘Remember – mother – remember . . . the promise and glory!’ Bucco grunted back at her in the midst of his cries of agony. ‘Remember – Maria at her son’s cross! Remember – pray for – body and blood!’

  The legate sat and watched with both fists tightly clenched and lips compressed in a hard, thin line. Two slaves carrying market baskets half filled with food came unobtrusively through the gate, accompanied by a legionary. They stared in shock at what was happening to Bucco, and quietly joined their fellows in prayerful procession to Flavian’s household shrine.

  ‘Speak! Speak, curse you!’ Kynon shouted, growing desperate as he ran out of fingernails to torture. ‘A child! Would you murder an innocent child?’ Half frenzied, he drove his fist into Bucco’s stomach, doubling him over stunned and choking.

  ‘Bucco! My son, my son!’ wept Myrtilia. ‘Christ Jesus! Oh, Christ, welcome my son Bucco – he dies Your holy martyr!’

  ‘ “Holy”!’ Kynon panted, recollecting himself and hauling Bucco’s head up to make sure he still breathed, was still conscious. ‘Behold a “holy” man who murders and eats little children! We have a name for such, and it is “ogre.” “Ogre,” do you understand me, Christian slave? “Ogre” – “monster” – “devil”!’ Seizing Bucco’s arm, he twisted ferociously enough to dislocate the shoulder.

  Barely in time to forestall the breakage of bones, Gnaius Metellus Lucian returned to report his legate’s orders carried out.

  ‘Your time is up, Briton,’ Flavian said, rising from his chair. ‘I regret as keenly as you that these child-murderers will not reveal their secret and thus in some measure redeem themselves, but your British ways of questioning appear no more useful than our Roman methods. They gain us nothing.’

  ‘They gain you nothing,’ Bucco groaned weakly, ‘but they gain us heaven. Come, finish your work!’

  Myrtilia only sobbed, exhausted.

  With military discipline, Lucian ignored angry Britons and bleeding victims alike. ‘Sir,’ he told his commander, ‘we found none of your slaves abroad save Dromo and Geta, who were at market shopping for food. We delivered them back as you ordered. I have four men still searching.’

  ‘They will find no one,’ Marcella said, returning to her father. ‘All our slaves are here, and I have tested each of them. Every one was eager to offer incense and prayer to the Lares and Penates of our house for Marcellina’s return – save only Nathan and Sarah, who prayed with equal fervor to the god of their own people. Most of them, indeed, had prayed and sacrificed already, either to our household gods or to their own personal patrons – for everyone in our house loves Marcellina – but they happily added new prayers to their former ones. Some few there were who hesitated to curse Christ Jesus. I have noted their names, but, for myself, I feel assured that their hesitation was due, not to secret reverence, but to superstitious fear of any deity of such fearful name and reputation.’

  ‘Cassius Marcellus Flavian!’ Bucco cried, recovering sufficiently from his pain to sound boastful. ‘I and my mother alone of all your household are to be numbered among God’s elect!’

  ‘Take them away!’ Flavian commanded. ‘See to their injuries, but shackle them well.’

  Marcella said softly, ‘First let me speak a little with this woman who was once my nurse.’

  Flavian nodded and turned away. As Kynon and Bodicca, for once accepting Lucian’s supervision, dragged Bucco from the courtyard still spewing his mixture of cant and curses, Marcella came down, Chloe still at her shoulder, and knelt beside Myrtilia.

  ‘Oh, Nurse, Nurse!’ the young woman mourned. ‘Nurse, who was almost more to me than my own dear mother, who died so young! Oh, Myrtilia, how could you, of all our people, betray us?’

  Feebly, Myrtilia rolled onto her back, Chloe assisting when she saw the injured woman’s intention. The old nurse groped for Marcella, who, taking only enough notice of bloody fingers to avoid hurting them further, took the slave’s hand into her own and clasped it gently.

  ‘I have loved my son . . . with love beyond that of parent and child,’ Myrtilia whispered. ‘Was I for that an unnatural mother?’

  Chloe whispered, ‘Oh, Hera!’

  Horror flashed across Marcella’s face, but she hid it at once and answered only, ‘How, Myrtilia, dearest nurse? How, of all women, could they have so corrupted you?’

  ‘There,’ Myrtilia protested with what little strength was still within her, ‘there will be no more distinction of rank or wealth, riches or power, slave or master. There, it will be perpetual Juvenalia, and all shall be equal forever in God’s own light!’

  ‘A pretty state of anarchy,’ Chloe muttered under her breath.

  ‘But Marcellina! Our darling Marcellina!’ Marcella went on, tears flowing down her face. ‘Did you not love her as you had loved me before her? Did you not love her for her own sweet sake as well as for mine? Oh, Myrtilia, did you never love us at all? Has your whole life been one long lie?’

  ‘Marcellina,’ the old nurse murmured sorrowfully. ‘Little Marcellina . . . my little, loved one . . . No! I never mea
nt – I would never have agreed – I never knew of this until after . . .’ Her voice rose with some tremble of anger. ‘Christ Jesus, do you demand even this? No! They meet – they meet tonight in the Cave of the Twin Lindens.’

  For one moment, as she fell back panting, an expression of blessed peace filled her face. Before Marcella could breathe thanks, however, Myrtilia’s brief respite shattered – her eyes flew open, staring terrified at something beyond Marcella’s shoulder – she cried, ‘No! Lord Jesus, forgive –’ and then, with one long scream ending in the rattle of death, she fell back, eyes already glazing over.

  Her final moments had drawn the attention of everyone in the courtyard. Flavian was first to speak. ‘The Twin Lindens,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I know that place.’

  ‘God!’ whispered the philosopher’s wife, closing Myrtilia’s eyes. ‘Who would choose to worship any deity so vengeful and merciless as this Christ Jesus?’

  Marcella relinquished her nurse’s hand, carefully crossing it with its companion arm across the dead woman’s chest. ‘Myrtilia, Myrtilia,’ she murmured. ‘May God grant you mercy at last. May I meet you again, cured of this superstitious madness, in Elysian fields.’ Looking up at her father, she added, ‘Let us always remember, if we get Marcellina back safely, it is because this woman recovered her senses at the end, and braved the wrath of her cruel deity.’

  ‘She will have honorable burial,’ Flavian agreed. ‘Let us hope your would-be suitor plays his part as well.’

  Night had fallen – imperceptibly, inside the Cave of the Twin Lindens, lit now by one lamp on a bronze lampstand. Its light no more than partially illuminated an altar, neatly draped in pure white cloth, near the back of which rested a mound the height of a man’s arm, shrouded over with separate cloth. Beside this altar a huge old wolfhound lay chained to the lampstand, his shaggy large head resting on his front paws, quiescent save for occasional little whines.

  Some dozen red-robed Christians and three in white, all with faces deeply hooded, were grouped before the altar, where their flamen Dossemus and a tall man with silvering red hair stood facing them. The tall man had just finished reading aloud, in Gaulish accent, from a scroll he bore reverentially in his hands. As he rolled it up, kissed it, and laid it on one end of the altar, Dossemus led the assemblage in chanting.