by Adrian Speed
And there were a lot of muscles to clean. Commodus was eighteen years old, younger than both me and Sir Reginald, and built like a god. A medical student could have used Commodus's body as an anatomical chart to pick out every muscle and tendon.
“Aha, I've scarcely been emperor five minutes and already the Germans send me their prettiest little thing to assuage my vengeance.” Commodus's eyes fixed on me. “Take a seat on the bed, I'll be with you in a few minutes.”
“I'm not a—” I began hotly.
“You are not emperor yet,” Sir Reginald stamped his cane on the floor. His voice was small and quiet, but it carried the weight of mountains.
“Oh, and who are you to say that?” Commodus snapped.
“Commodus,” Quintinius saluted the young man, “it is my honour to introduce Regulus and his assistant, a German freewoman. They are investigating the death of your father.”
“What is there to investigate?” Commodus snorted in derision. “He was an old man who overworked himself and had the decency to die while I’m still young enough to enjoy being emperor.” Commodus raised his right arm for the slave to scrape underneath it and slide the scrapings into a jar.
“One of your father's rings is missing,” said Sir Reginald.
“Not Caesar's ring?” Commodus stepped forward, alarmed, leaving the slave to flap after him.
“No, not Augustus's ring.”
“Then, Alexander's?”
“The ring with the Purple Pearl set into it.”
“Oh that old thing,” Commodus relaxed. I could see every single muscle soften from hard-edged tension. “Well that's no great loss. Well, it is, it must have been worth a million sesterces—”
“The ring went missing from your father's hand on the night he died, in a locked room, which no-one came in or out of save for a scribe.” Sir Reginald hammered the points home. “The room was untouched. The soldiers had to break the door down. Do you not find that the least suspicious?”
“Well then the scribe probably took it,” Commodus shrugged and returned to his cleaning. “Slaves have sticky fingers and he can't rely on father leaving him a legacy.” The slave at Commodus's side showed no signs of offence. Within his master's presence at least, the man acted as nothing but a piece of living furniture. “Or one of the soldiers took it when they broke the door down. Soldiers have similarly poor regard for property ownership and we emperors are so very rich compared to them.”
“So you don't want the thieves punished?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh I want them punished,” Commodus's head whipped round. “I will nail them to the cross myself if I have to. However,” he turned back to Sir Reginald, “a theft does not stop me becoming emperor.”
“I think until we can ascertain exactly what happened last night,” said Sir Reginald, “we cannot proclaim anyone emperor. And so, to that end, if you could, please account for your whereabouts last night?”
“You don't think I killed him?” Commodus's glare hardened and his muscles tensed.
“Your whereabouts, if you would,” said Sir Reginald. “Then we can put this matter to rest.”
“Well, I had supper with father, Lucilla, her husband and Bruttia,” said Commodus while I transcribed it quickly to my phone. “Then Bruttia and I came back here to do the whole...marital thing. Then she retired to her room and I played dice here with Placitas Caius and his lot for a few hours.”
“'Placitas Caius and his lot'?” asked Sir Reginald.
“Tribunes in the thirteenth legion,” Quintinius answered before Commodus did.
“Did you win much?” asked Sir Reginald.
“I got my even share of dice rolls,” Commodus replied. “But I didn't always bet on them when I should.”
“Well then, no doubt Placitas's share of your money will prove your alibi,” Sir Reginald said. “After you played dice, what then?”
“I went to bed.”
“At what time?”
“The moon was up, it must have been quite late,” Commodus shrugged. “I don't pay attention to that sort of thing. I have slaves to make sure I get up at the right time.” Commodus's slave was just finishing up the last areas of the young emperor's legs and feet.
“And can anyone else back up when you were sleeping?” Sir Reginald pressed.
“Oh, I am sure one of the slaves was around,” Commodus said and glanced around. “I am sure I had a Cyrenean stoking the fire.”
“Supper last night was the last time you saw your father alive, then?” I asked.
“I've not seen him dead, yet,” Commodus smirked. “But yes.”
“Were there any arguments at dinner?”
“Arguments?” Commodus blinked. “No, I don't remember any.”
“No arguments about whether the continuing war in Germany is a good idea?” Sir Reginald suggested.
“Oh that was hardly an argument,” Commodus rolled his eyes. “A discussion. A candid one, but an amicable one.” The slave finished with the scraper and bustled away with the jar of scrapings.
“One last question, Commodus,” Sir Reginald said while I watched the slave bring a purple tunic over to the young man. Unlike the plain blue wool of his father's clothes, this tunic was of silk, with golden threads embroidering the hem. That single piece of clothing was probably worth all the clothes I’ve ever owned. “Do you always burn incense in here?”
“Hmm?” Commodus seemed surprised. “Er, yes.” He pulled the tunic on. He wore it clinging, like his sister wore her clothes. Both of them wanted every attractive attribute on show. “It keeps out the smell of horse. And of men,” he said with distaste.
“Thank you, Commodus, you have been most helpful.” Sir Reginald bowed and lifted his hat.
We left while Commodus inspected himself in a bright silver mirror, looking at himself this way and that, calling for different sashes or jewellery.
“Um,” I paused at the door. “Why do you have a purple tunic already if you didn't know you were going to be emperor?”
Commodus rolled his eyes. “I've been co-ruler with my father for eight years, girl,” Commodus said. “It would be suspicious if I didn't own a purple tunic. All that's changed is that now I don't have to listen to father's stupid Greek advice about what's moral.”
“I'm at least three years older than you,” I muttered and pulled the door closed with a heavy clunk of iron fasteners.
“I think,” Sir Reginald said, “I have seen enough of nobility. Time for a little commonality.”
Chapter V
“I never let no-one in but that scribe.” The guard, a legionary named Pollux, struggled to find the words. He spluttered because at the very same time his hands were busy shovelling food into his face. We were in one of the barracks mess halls sitting on wooden benches. “I never did, upon my honour, Regulus, upon my honour.”
“Upon the honour of the legion?” Sir Reginald pressed.
“Upon the honour of Rome itself.” The man broke off a hunk of bread.
“And you never drifted off to sleep?”
“No, sir!”
“Not even shut your eyes for a second?”
“They'd kill me if I fell asleep for even a moment, sir!” the legionary said.
“I know, that is why I want you to think very carefully.” Sir Reginald leant in close, nose-to-nose with the young legionary. “Your emperor is dead and someone has absconded with the emperor's precious pearl. You are the only guard to the only entrance. If you are lying you are preventing us from ever finding and returning that pearl to the emperor's line and perhaps even hiding Marcus Aurelius's killer.”
“Upon the honour of Rome, may she and I perish together in flames, I did not fall asleep the entire time I was on watch,” Pollox said. His eyes didn't waver. Sir Reginald took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Well then,” he fell back and struggled to contain his irritation. “We're left with two possibilities here, young Pollox. Either you're lying, and you've just cursed Rome to fa
ll in fire, or we're dealing with a thief who can magically get in and out of a room without using the door or breaking any of the stones.”
“If you want my opinion, sir,” Pollox leaned in conspiratorially pausing stuffing his face for a few seconds. “It's that scribe I'd watch.”
“You said yourself Marcus Aurelius was alive when the scribe left the room for the last time,” Sir Reginald snapped. “Or was that a lie?”
“No, no, I mean,” Pollox flicked his eyes left and right. “The scribe's an Egyptian, sir.”
“And?”
“And those Egyptians have queer powers in them,” Pollox gulped. “It'd be the trick of a wink to magic himself inside.”
Sir Reginald and I exchanged a glance.
“Young man, I am not even going to entertain for one moment that the thief entered or exited that vault by magic.”
“But he's an Egyptian!” Pollox choked on his own indignation. “I've seen them! Their priest of Isis in Rome—”
“One last time, Pollox,” Sir Reginald rapped his cane on the ground. “Did anyone except the scribe enter or leave that room at any time?”
“I saw no-one,” Pollox said. “I saw no-one.”
“Well then,” Sir Reginald pulled himself to his feet and I followed him. “We will have to leave you to your food.”
“Thank you sir,” Pollox got to his feet and saluted as we left.
“Have one of your most trusted men guard that man,” Sir Reginald said to Quintinius when we rejoined the General outside the barracks.
“Why?”
“Because he is either going to try to run or someone is going to kill him.”
“He's clearly lying,” I said.
“And the curious question is why,” Sir Reginald cocked an eye at Quintinius. “You had the guard searched, and his things?”
“Yes, Regulus.”
“And there was nothing, out of the ordinary?”
“He had nothing but what I would expect every other legionary to have,” Quintinius said. “No personal notes or tokens, not even any sign he was a secret Christian.”
“No gold?”
“No gold, just some of the remaining silver he had been paid at the beginning of the month,” Quintinius said.
“Does the man play dice?”
“I don't know,” Quintinius admitted. “He is one of Tiberius Claudius's men.”
“No matter,” Sir Reginald took a watch from his pocket and checked it. “Forty minutes since we arrived.” He said in English. “We have, at most, two hours before events will spiral out of control and, killer or not, Commodus will become emperor with an unchallengeable claim. Momentum will carry Commodus forward whether he killed his father or not.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked and Sir Reginald fixed me with a haunted expression.
“Experience,” he snapped the watch closed and switched to Latin. “Time to talk to that scribe, I think.”
“He is still with the torturers,” Quintinius said. “They'll barely be half-way done with him.”
“Nevertheless—” Sir Reginald began, but I cut him off by grabbing him by the arm and yanking him nose-to-nose with me.
“Torturers?” I gasped.
“If you'll excuse me one moment, Quintinius.” Sir Reginald held up a hand. “I think I had better meet you there.”
“We're behind the granaries, in the north corner,” Quintinius said. He watched my anger with detached amusement.
“Understood,” Sir Reginald nodded, unflappable in the face of my scowl even as it pressed against his forehead.
“What did Quintinius mean by torturers?” I demanded in English.
“Men who inflict pain on other men either for pleasure or more usually with the intent to make the tortured man speak truthfully about something,” Sir Reginald said. “As I understand it the threat of torture usually does more good than the actual use of it.”
“I didn't want you to define the word for me,” I dug my fingers into Sir Reginald's arms. I could feel his pulse under my hand, as calm and steady as a rock. “I wanted you to explain why he was being tortured.”
“The scribe is a slave,” Sir Reginald said. “Under Roman law at this time slaves can only give testimony if they are tortured first. Why do you think I have been asking everyone if there is a freeman who can give them an alibi instead?”
“Why on earth,” I shook with anger, “do the Romans have to torture slaves before their testimony is allowed?”
“The Romans assume that because a slave lives such a terrible life they will lie in court to doom their master. They assume a slave will be more interested in revenge than justice,” Sir Reginald said. I just stared.
“So they torture them to be sure? What sense does that make? Surely that makes them less likely to tell the truth!”
“For all they achieved, ‘nice’ doesn’t well describe the Romans,” Sir Reginald said with a grim smile. “Especially not their laws.”
“Then why are we associating with torturers!?”
“Because it would be happening whether we were here or not,” Sir Reginald began. “So we can perhaps spare the boy a bit of pain by stopping it now. And because we cannot impose our own values on ancient cultures.”
“Why not?”
“Because if we impose our values on them we will change history, and if we change history we might not exist in the future,” Sir Reginald said.
“And what, we wink out of existence? It makes a paradox?”
“It gives me a very powerful headache.” Sir Reginald pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't like torture, my dear Hannah. I don't like torturers. However, in all of human history I have never found a period of time where the values match entirely my own views on how the world should be run, and that includes the time period I grew up in. I imagine, in time, you will reach the same conclusion.”
“So?”
“So, I do not want to associate with torturers, and in the privacy of my own mind I will damn them to hellfire, but at this period in history I do not have the right to prevent them from doing what they are doing,” Sir Reginald said. “If we were in the nineteenth century, or the twenty-third, I would say something different. But we are not. We're in the second, and in the second century torture is not only permissible, it is required.”
“I’m not happy about this,” I said. “I'm not going to consort with torturers.”
“That is your right,” Sir Reginald said. “We all must draw the line for ourselves. I, however, am going to try and find out what that scribe knows, and, perhaps help him if I can.”
“Why?”
“Because there is a mystery to solve and I cannot solve it without him.”
I let him go and turned my back to him. More soldiers appeared as the camp woke up, and even more had turned out to watch what to them had sounded like a long argument in German. I felt at least a dozen pairs of eyes on me.
“Go,” I snapped and folded my arms. “Go and do it then. I'm not following you.”
“Then by your leave,” Sir Reginald straightened his jacket and tipped his hat to me. “I will return as soon as I can.”
*****
I refused to be complicit in torture. I could not stand by and watch such an abhorrent act. And yet without it the mystery could never have been investigated. It was impossible for me to avoid this act from the moment I landed in the second century – perhaps even the moment I first read the letter to Sir Reginald. It was unavoidable.
This part of the mystery I was forced to learn from Sir Reginald’s notes. Whether he acted as admirably as he claims I cannot say. But as I look back and reflect on this, I cannot hold myself much higher than Sir Reginald. Whether I witnessed it or not I used information gained through torture to help solve this mystery and it continues to haunt me to this day.
The granaries were the largest buildings in the fort. In the north-west corner of the fort the granary and outer wall almost converged, to create a shadowy area, the furthest point
within the fort from the barracks. If you wanted to do something away from prying eyes, that’s where you went. Sir Reginald strode up with a heavy heart.
A brazier crackled with burning wood and heating metal. Metal instruments coated a table. Some of them were blunt, some sharp, some heavy and some delicate, but they shared one common purpose: to cause pain. Quintinius was talking hastily to three men with the torturers’ company of the Thirteenth Legion. Two of them held whips. In the centre of the group, strung up with ropes, a broken man wore nothing but a loin cloth and his own blood. Sir Reginald shook his head in disgust.
“I require a chair, a bucket of drinking water and a ladle,” Sir Reginald announced. “And someone cut the poor boy down.”
“We've not finished yet,” said one of the torturers in a voice that sounded like ball bearings shaken in a barrel of oyster phlegm.
“Well, once the boy has answered my questions I dare say you can string him up again,” Sir Reginald said. “If you think there is any point.”
“There's always one last thing they didn't tell ya–”
“Do as Regulus says, legionary!” Quintinius thundered in the authoritative tones of a general in the field. The torturers found themselves obeying before the order had even been processed by their conscious brain.
Sir Reginald folded himself up into a chair brought for him and dug out a notebook and pencil from one of his suit's many pockets. It was filled with cursive handwriting closely written.
The torturers reluctantly cut the scribe down. He collapsed into a heap of limbs at Sir Reginald's feet. Sir Reginald noted sadly the horrible things that had been done to the scribe's hands. The boy would be lucky if he ever held a pen again.
“Right,” Sir Reginald said when the water arrived. “Here’s how this is going to work.” He leant down closer to the boy and turned the scribe's face with his cane to look him eye-to-eye. “I'm going to ask you some questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction you'll get a drink of water. Understood?”
“And if I don't answer them, you'll torture me some more?” The scribe spat at Sir Reginald's feet.