by Mike Ashley
‘There are lotus petals in the room?’
‘Yes. If you give me enough time I’ll be able to explain how they came to be here. And no, General, there is no secret passageway into the room, we lifted all the slabs that are loose. There is only sand beneath them.’ Theo thoughtfully placed a finger against his nose. ‘Until moments ago one mystery I couldn’t explain away was the state of the dead man’s feet. His soles are covered with a rich black substance.’
‘So?’
‘You’ll see, General, that the floor of the room is kept scrupulously clean. Now, if you’ll allow me to conduct one small experiment. Chrysippus, please hand me a clean sheet of papyrus. Thank you. Now, I beg you to watch carefully.’
Theo crouched down beside the body, took hold of one of the dead man’s feet in one hand, and pressed the sheet of papyrus against the bare sole of the foot with the other.
‘See, gentlemen?’
There on the sheet of papyrus was one distinct black footprint as if stamped there in ink. Theo continued: ‘By rights there should be black footprints covering the floor. Where are they? Or was the black substance applied to his feet after death? Or did the deceased visit a place where the floor was covered with the black dirt, and then, for some reason, on his return his feet no longer had reason to touch the floor?’
‘He was carried here?’ ventured Marcus.
General Romulus shook his head. ‘Or do you suggest that after he muddied his feet he magically flew back into the room to die?’
‘I think, General, you are close to the truth.’
‘And I know, Amun-Arten, you’re blasted close to the blade.’
‘You want the map?’
Romulus nodded grimly. ‘So, who killed the scribe?’
‘Why, General . . . you’re looking at the killer.’
Everyone followed the direction of the General’s gaze. Gabinius’ jaw opened as if the muscles of his face had ceased to work.
‘Amun-Arten, what in the name of the blasted gods are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, General Romulus, that Diomedes murdered himself.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes. But he went to extraordinary lengths to make it look like murder.’
‘But what on earth for?’
‘I’ll explain the why later. But first the how.’ Moving his arms in those great priestly gestures, Theocritas Amun-Arten paced the floor as he explained. ‘Diomedes chose, quite calmly and rationally, to kill himself. He chose also to make it look like murder. He’s in a locked room. He has no knife. That limits the means of suicide quite severely, and even more so if it must be disguised as murder. There is the lamp cord hanging from the iron peg. But he could only hang himself with that, and that would clearly look like suicide. Murderers in a hurry don’t hang their victims. He also chose to make us assume, particularly you General, that he’d bravely fought his attacker before being bludgeoned to death. Quite simply he punched the walls until his fists were bruised. I’d guess he cleverly wrapped his hand in some article of clothing first to make it look as if he’d punched at flesh rather than solid stone. It must have taken a will of iron that even you, General, might admire.’
‘But there was a fight. The stools are broken. His head smashed.’
‘I demonstrated earlier that one or more of the overhead lamps would have been broken if there had been a fight in here using the stools as clubs.’
‘One is.’
‘Ah, I sacrificed that one in an experiment earlier this evening.’
‘Continue, Amun-Arten, I’m curious to know how the man contrived to beat himself to death.’
‘Quite simple. He employed a force of nature. Please, come here. See, the iron pegs set in the walls. He used these to climb the wall as far as the stone ledge. It is perhaps the height of four grown men standing on each others shoulders. You can imagine him standing there, he’s frightened, he’s praying to his God, but he believes the self-sacrifice is vital. Then, carefully assessing what he must do, he bends at the waist, then falls forward, allowing that force of nature to rush him downward head first onto the stone floor below. Death would be instantaneous.’
‘And I’m supposed to swallow that fantastic idea? Witnesses heard a struggle first, then a loud pounding.’
‘Those were made by Diomedes. He needed to make the people outside that door believe there was a furious fight taking place in here. So, he tied that length of cord to the stools, climbed up here to the ledge, carrying one end of the cord with him. He then hauled the stools up after him, beat them against the wall, breaking them, shouting all the time, before throwing the stools down to the ground; then himself.’
‘Reasonably plausible, Amun-Arten, but you’ve no proof. And where did the dried lotus petals come from?’
‘Marcus,’ said Theo, ‘it’s quite a hazardous favour I’m asking, but would you climb the wall, using those pegs, to the stone ledge? Then I want you sweep your hand along the surface as if you’re sweeping crumbs from a table.’
With difficulty Marcus scaled the wall using the iron pegs. Reaching the ledge, with his head just a little above it, he swept his arm across the stone work. Light objects like scraps of paper fluttered down. One fell onto the General’s shoulder. Briskly he brushed it off. ‘Dried lotus petals. Who put them there?’
‘The ancient Egyptians, when this was still a temple. Statues probably stood on the ledge. They’ve been toppled now, but some of the lotus garlands remain from their festivals. They’ve probably been there for a thousand years or more. Now . . .’ He called up to Marcus, ‘Marcus, please show the General your hand and arm. Good . . .’ Theo smiled. ‘You see. It is covered with the same greasy black as Diomedes’ feet. It’s a mixture of soot and the greasy dust lifted into the air by the heat from the lamps. If you’d like to send one of your men up there they’ll find, I believe, the whole of the ledge is thick with a layer of that black dirt. They’ll also find footprints that will match with those of the deceased. Naturally, when Diomedes stood on the ledge prior to his fall he did not notice his feet had become blackened.’
The General nodded slowly. ‘Very well, Amun-Arten, I accept your explanation. In the face of the weight of evidence I can do no other. But why did Diomedes kill himself?’
‘You knew he was Christian?’
‘No, is that important?’
Gabinius let out an involuntary moan. His eyes locked hard onto Theo in terror.
General Romulus understood perfectly the reason for the man’s fear. ‘What don’t you want Amun-Arten to tell me, Gabinius?’
Theo answered for the man. ‘To reach the truth I persuaded Gabinius to tell me why the map was so important to you.’
‘Well, after tonight I’m confident you’ll all keep my secrets safe.’
Theo obviously registered the General’s threat but didn’t stop speaking, ‘Diomedes was Christian. He knew of your plan to move the Empire westward to a new land across the Atlantic. He knew this new Empire would be strictly pagan, and that the results of this vast exodus would destroy the old Empire and Christianity would be wiped out beneath a flood of invaders with their own barbaric gods. I don’t believe for a moment Diomedes, nor even Gabinius, thought they would ever find the map, pointing the way to this mythical new world across the sea. When it did appear it caught Diomedes by surprise. He was locked into a room knowing full well that in probably less than an hour you’d walk through that door, you’d have the map in your hands, and that Christianity would be as good as dead.’
‘But why all the elaborate play-acting, then killing himself in such a bizarre fashion?’
‘Naturally he could have simply destroyed the map,’ said Theo, ‘and he knew you would have executed him anyway. No, he wasn’t afraid to sacrifice himself to safeguard his faith, but he was a family man. And he knew you would have exacted retribution on his wife and children. He balked at sacrificing them, too. So in the heat of the moment he concocted his plan to make it look like murder.’
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br /> ‘And the map?’ The General’s expression was stony. ‘Presumably he burnt it.’
‘It wouldn’t have burnt easily; it was drawn on a rabbit skin.’
‘Then where is it?’
Theo knelt beside the body and gently opened the mouth and, with his fingers, reached inside. ‘Here, it is. Or at least a fragment of it.’ Theo held a scrap of parchment between finger and thumb. ‘We can imagine Diomedes frantically tearing at the map with his teeth, and he has exceptionally good teeth, too, unlike we poor Egyptians. No doubt half choking in the process he swallowed the map – a difficult task, then also with great difficulty he will have climbed up the wall using those iron pegs. Undoubtedly, his love for his God empowered him. Postmortem convulsions after he hit the floor will have caused the partial regurgitation of the shreds of skin into the back of his throat.’
‘Perhaps the map can be pieced together,’ said Gabinius, kneading his hands together hopefully.
Theo shook his head. ‘There are powerful acids in the stomach. The pigments on the map will have been utterly destroyed.’
General Romulus picked up his helmet from the table and sighed. ‘Diomedes was either a fool or ruthlessly ambitious. He should have known that if Christians will gladly sacrifice themselves for their God then their faith is indestructible anyway. Is it possible that the old gods have led me astray and that this puling, humbling Christ in whose name even the Roman Emperor now fights is fated to prevail?’
Theo raised an eyebrow. ‘Ruthlessly ambitious? You think Diomedes sought sainthood through martyrdom?’
‘Quite. This religion of self-sacrifice apparently carries its own rewards. Let us hope that he enjoys them now in Heaven, for his family will most certainly get little more enjoyment during their brief time they have left on Earth. Although this wretch is beyond punishment for his treachery, his family certainly are not.’
‘But you promised that –’
‘Amun-Arten. You are too trusting. Why should a senior Roman General be bound by his oath to a funny little Egyptian with no history worth speaking of and certainly no future worth mentioning? The moment is too bitter for mercy. Goodbye.’
As soon as General Romulus, his helmet under one arm, had left the room Gabinius, wild eyed, turned on Theo. ‘You heard that, Amun-Arten? Even after all this, he’s going to kill us anyway. Probably this very moment, out there on the library steps. Don’t you –’
He was silenced by the arrival of one of the lieutenants who barked, ‘Physician. Come with me. Now!’
I, Theocritas Amun-Arten take up the pen once more. I am tired; the end, at last, has come.
On being summoned by the General’s lieutenant, I followed him from the Isis room into the main body of the library. He marched quickly and I had to run to keep up with him. I had no doubt he was eager to cut my throat.
Then I saw a bizarre and incredible sight. Some of the bodyguard were pointing towards the distant ceiling, and while I watched in amazement, dried lotus petals fell gently from the vault of the roof. I’ve heard descriptions of snow from travellers. Surely this must be how it looks, fluttering palely from a dark sky. I followed the lieutenant to my death through this softly falling cloud of petals that misted the air white. Perhaps the monkeys had run out of stones to throw and had found the dried lotus flowers that must clutter every niche and ledge.
Through the mist of gently falling petals I made out figures. They were gathered about another figure that lay face down on the floor.
It was General Romulus. He had gone forward to meet his ancestors.
I asked what happened.
‘The General was walking towards me,’ said the lieutenant, ‘and appeared to be about to deliver his orders, when he was hit by a piece of stone thrown by one of the apes.’
I looked up through the swirl of petals cast by the now silent monkeys. Sitting in one of the niches that had once contained one of the gods of Egypt, was a huge specimen, the father of his tribe. He looked steadily back at me, the serene wisdom of Thoth in those ebony eyes.
‘The General is dead?’ asked the lieutenant.
I answered softly, ‘Oh yes, quite dead.’
After the guards had carried away the body Marcus picked up the lethal piece of stone and handed it to me.
Librarian appeared. ‘I saw Romulus fall as if he’d been hit by a thunderbolt.’
The piece of stone in my hands was a granite fist, twice the size of mine.
Librarian looked at the blood on the floor. ‘What Killed him?’
‘The hand of god.’ I held up the granite fist. ‘Which god?’ I shrugged. ‘A god. Any god. It doesn’t really matter at all.’
The rising sun is bringing a pink blush to the houses and temples and churches of this wonderful city. The streets are peaceful; the air still. In a little while, I’ll put down my pen and follow the monkeys as they stream homeward to their nesting places.
After the events of this turbulent night I feel both a satisfaction, and the warmth of a serenity that touches upon the divine. And now that warmth becomes a glow of anticipation. Because I know in just a few short moments I will open the door of our house, be greeted by the scents of home: sandalwood and musk and thyme, mingling with freshly baked bread, and as I climb the stairs, my heart will feel the fire of love, because, I know, at last, that’s where I will find you.
LAST THINGS
Darrell Schweitzer
Darrell Schweitzer is an American editor, reviewer and author. His work is primarily in the fantasy field, in which he scored a marked success with his novel The Mask of the Sorcerer (1995), but he has also written several stories with a Roman background. In ‘Last Things’, his first serious murder mystery, Schweitzer explores the rule of law at the very moment that the Roman Empire collapsed in the West in AD 476.
I can’t tell you how immensely pleased I was, though not really surprised, to see that the house of Plautia Marcella stood as it always had, nestled among trees on a ledge above a stream and a narrow valley, in the foothills of the Alps. Throughout my journey I had noted the general impoverishment of the countryside; the very few, stick-thin tenants still laboring in the fields; the burnt villages; the tracts of waste; but here, as my carriage inched across the ancient stone bridge and I gazed up through the dusk at the welcoming villa, time seemed never to have passed. Here was a place immune to the ravages and follies of men and the death-throes of empires. The sight was more comforting than I can put into words.
I had been a guest here many times in my youth, in the old days, when the third Valentinian wore the purple and Roman political fictions went on as they always had, like a stately dance of shadows. Here there was light. Here were solid things. The great lady Marcella’s husband had grown greater still in the imperial service, leaving her richer than dreams of avarice – and I think she had few of those, desiring only to live in the old way, without hindrance.
So, in her house, you might think that Trajan still ruled. Some genius hovered above the place, a guardian spirit who insured that the life of Plautia Marcella remained like the unrippled water in a tranquil pool.
She would survive, I used to believe, until the end of time, until the deaths of the gods.
But aren’t the gods already dead? Ah, I digress.
Suffice it to say that inside this house, strict decorum was always observed. A gentleman wore a toga, never daring to appear in the actually more practical Germanic trousers the twit Valentinian once tried to outlaw. (‘A few more attempts like that, and I shall actually believe he is alive, not a stuffed dummy,’ Lady Plautia once said, but softly, because in those days the emperor’s mother, the Christian gorgon Galla Placidia, was still among us, and everything was said softly.)
There one spoke perfect, classical Latin, rife with allusions. The eunuch-chamberlain Gregorius greeted one at the door. He was a dark, frail little thing, an Armenian with a whispering voice, whose beardless condition made him seem forever a child. It was his task to exchange initial ple
asantries and small gifts to and from his mistress, then conduct the guests to the baths, where we would linger in sumptuous luxury, often accompanied by music, sometimes Gregorius himself on a lyre or pipe. And at last, at the appointed hour, one followed Gregorius and the other servants in stately procession into the triclinium, the dining hall, where Plautia Marcella held her court and the games (of wit and eloquence) were about to begin.
In those days, when I was fourteen or fifteen, I was the best friend of her favorite nephew Sabellianus. For all that I felt smothered in such company and had been more interested, as Sabellianus was, in hunting or riding, I genuinely liked her. The very artificiality of her condition appealed to my already ripening cynicism. Here was a lady who had style.
I was a would-be poet then, spinning vast tapestries of word-play and rhetoric, and if, sometimes, I lost all sense of what I was trying to say in the process, Plautia Marcella always praised my compositions. She too was a cynic, not in any strict philosophical sense, but someone who accepted mere surfaces and did not peer underneath, because she already knew there was nothing there.
Laughter, I associate with her, and very faint mockery, like the wind under the eaves. I could mock Virgil merely by not being Virgil. She could mock Galla Placidia by not being empress.
We became confidants. She was of a far higher social rank than I, which removed any sense of competition. There was no danger I would ever be asked to marry her daughter, Plautilla, who had the potential of becoming another gorgon. So she told me things she told no one else, particularly after my boyhood friendship with Sabellianus had ended, and he had gone off to become a priest and convert the heathen who were arriving across the Rhine in inexhaustible waves. I still visited. We two, together, had our little jokes and our secrets. But there was no possibility of scandal between us. She did not lust after me. She called me one of her puppies.