Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  “Told you he wasn't ready to talk yet.” The torturer reached a hand down to grab him.

  “Do not lay a hand on him,” Sir Reginald's cane slapped against the torturer’s hands. “The time of torture is over. Understand?”

  “But–”

  “Legionary Verus!” Quintinius's voice cracked and the torturer stepped back.

  “Look at me, scribe,” Sir Reginald demanded of the man at his feet. “Look at me now.” Struggling with the effort, the scribe opened his eyes. “Do I look Roman to you? Do I look like a soldier to you?” The scribe said nothing. “I am from a land a long way from here. I am what they call a detective, amongst other things. I solve crimes. I do not go around causing harm. While I am here no-one will lay a hand on you. You can trust me. Now, a question so simple even a child could answer it; what is your name?”

  The scribe stared at Sir Reginald for a few moments, as if daring the stranger to restart the torture. The torturers stamped their feet impatiently, but Sir Reginald was more than happy to wait it out.

  “Actis,” the scribe said when nothing had happened for almost a full five minutes. “My name is Actis.”

  Sir Reginald looked at Quintinius who nodded that the boy was telling the truth.

  “Give young Actis some water,” Sir Reginald ordered. The slave guzzled greedily on a ladleful of fresh water, then fell back almost to the floor from exhaustion, and closed his eyes.

  “What did you do for Emperor Marcus Aurelius?”

  “I was his scribe,” Actis said, his eyes still shut. His Egyptian accent was quite clear, the Greek Egyptian of Alexandria, not the native speakers of the cities to the south.

  “And what did you do as his scribe?”

  “I...I wrote things down for him?” Actis fixed one eye on Sir Reginald querulously. “I...well...I took dictation when the emperor tired of writing himself. I wrote his letters, made copies of his letters for sending to his colleagues in Rome and abroad, transcribed his wax notes to parchment, kept track of his books. What more do you think a scribe does?”

  “I just wanted an accurate picture,” Sir Reginald said and nodded to the torturer with the water. Actis gulped down another mouthful. “Every individual uses their scribe differently. I wanted to know how the emperor treated you.”

  “He treated me very well,” Actis sat upright and winced at the pain.

  “So I gather—”

  “I would never want to cause him any harm, he was as good and kind a master as anyone could want, always firm but always forgiving—”

  “You don't have to defend the man, Actis,” Sir Reginald cut him off but made a note all the same. “That is not why I am here. I only want facts.”

  “I—”

  “Last night, what did you help the emperor with?”

  “We...he was working on his meditations,” Actis said, falling back to the ground. “It's sort of a list of his thoughts.”

  “I know it.” Sir Reginald made a sign that Actis deserved some more water. “What sort of time were you working?”

  “From the early evening, just after supper, until quite late, the moon was high in the sky by the time I got to sleep.”

  “Did you go out for any reason?”

  “A few times, to get books the emperor had left behind,” Actis pulled at the wounds on his face, like a child. “Er, I think, the history of the city, Caesar's Gallic War, and...and–” panic spread across his face.

  “That's all right, Actis,” Sir Reginald said, and ordered the slave be given more water. This time instead of drinking it the slave used it to wash his face. Under the blood he had a swarthy complexion, the colour of fresh bronze, and hair as black as soot. Around his eyes lingered signs of kohl. Sir Reginald noted, however, that the boy didn't look Egyptian in his eyes.

  “Was the emperor in good health yesterday evening?”

  “The best,” Actis said. “He was a lion.”

  “No odd behaviour recently? Odd orders? Short temper?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Actis shook his head slowly. “He was...very patient.”

  “Do you know the rings on your master's hand?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is the one he wears on this finger?” Sir Reginald pointed to the ring finger of his left hand.

  Actis squinted to see and then his eyes flickered while he tried to remember. “Er, that's the Sphinx, isn't it? Caesar's ring?” Sir Reginald made a sign to give Actis some water.

  “And here?” Sir Reginald pointed to his middle finger.

  “The one with the pearl in it. That big, Purple Pearl. The one that's gone missing.”

  “Did he ever wear it on another finger?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever take it off?”

  “I never saw him without it,” Actis said. “And I've been his scribe for two years.”

  “Two years?” Sir Reginald raised his eye brows. The scribe looked younger than Commodus.

  “Well, a year and a half,” Actis squirmed. “Maybe a little under.”

  “Did anyone ever look covetously at that ring?”

  “Not that I saw,” Actis said. “The emperor did have this...I dunno, this sort of tick. When he was thinking he would stroke it with the other hand.”

  “I see,” Sir Reginald scribbled this down. “Why were you working in the paymaster's vaults?”

  “The emperor wanted solitude,” Actis said. “He has more than enough space in the principia but he hears like a bat. He would complain about the noise of the hypocaust, or slaves in distant rooms making too much noise.”

  “Commodus's room seemed quite quiet.”

  “Not to the emperor, and he never could stand the smell of that much incense.”

  “Then his daughter's room? She and Bruttia have more than enough space to themselves, I believe.”

  “And force his daughter out into a fort full of soldiers?” Actis gave a worrying glance at his torturers.

  “Understood,” Sir Reginald nodded and wrote this down as well before closing his notebook. “One last question, at least for now,” Sir Reginald leant forwards and tapped his hands together. “When you left the emperor's service last night, what was he doing?”

  “He was writing at his desk,” Actis said.

  “He didn't want you with him?”

  “He said he wanted to work through the night, or at least until an idea was fully formed,” Actis gulped.

  “And yet he ordered you away?”

  “He said that no-one can criticise an emperor if he oversleeps, but if a slave oversleeps they get a caning,” Actis said, wincing as he tried to shift his weight. You could almost hear the crackle of breaking scabs. “And he knows my speed suffers if I haven't slept.”

  “Pheh,” a torturer spat.

  “Thank you Actis, you have been most helpful,” Sir Reginald slipped into perfect Egyptian as he popped the notebook back in his pocket.

  “Er, yes.”

  “I said you've been most helpful,” Sir Reginald repeated, this time in Latin and more loudly. Separated by three thousand years of divergent development, the two languages could not have sounded more different.

  “Yes, I heard,” Actis smiled weakly.

  “Give him all the water he wants,” Sir Reginald stood up and spoke to the chief torturer. “Give him some bread and oil as well. And bring him his clothes.”

  “But he's a—”

  “And make sure to bind his feet and keep him under guard,” Sir Reginald ordered. “I may want to talk to this little fish again before my investigation is over.”

  “Do as Regulus says,” Quintinius nodded gravely at the legionaries.

  Sir Reginald tipped his hat to them and snatched up his cane. He turned the pommel of it carefully in his left hand as he thought.

  “Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus and Bruttia,” Sir Reginald said as they walked down the road following along the steep stone walls of the granary and fort. “I need to speak to them next.”

  “The
y'll be in the principia,” Quintinius said. “I've had them wakened.”

  “The palace?”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” Quintinius shrugged. The segmented plates of his armour rattled. “It's not a patch on the one in Rome.”

  “I’ll meet you there; I must find Hannah first.” Sir Reginald adjusted his hat with his cane and strode off into the fort.

  *****

  This is where I can again speak with certainty. He found me sitting cross-legged on the ground outside some barracks surrounded by soldiers. The sound of dice rattling in cups echoed down the street. Rather than approach us immediately, he waited in the shadowy lee of the barracks and watched. A small crowd of men sat watching me and two others at a gambling table.

  “Then you slam it down, so,” the dice-bowl cracked against wood.

  “Like this?” I followed suit.

  “That's it!” The soldier teaching me grinned, revealing only half a mouthful of teeth. “Now, you take a peak; don't let any of us see.”

  “A peak?” my tongue tripped over unfamiliar Latin.

  “You know, you look at it,” the soldier lifted up the dice cup while averting his eyes. “You look at the dice and then cover it back over. Then you make a bet.”

  “I don't have any money...” I tilted my head and smiled. The soldier reached for his money pouch.

  “Well I—”

  “I believe gambling is forbidden in the army.” Sir Reginald's voice rang out across the street entirely unlike his usual voice – hard and piercing as a sergeant-major on the parade ground.

  The soldiers leapt to their feet and snapped off a salute before they even saw who was speaking. The sight of Sir Reginald striding towards us twirling his cane did little to absolve them of fear. Cloth as dark and clean as Sir Reginald's suit couldn't be cheap. Even if he was civilian, he had to be a senator, or higher.

  “Begging pardon, sir—”

  “I am sure the centurions turn a blind eye to dice games in the barracks,” Sir Reginald continued, ignoring them. “Because the only sure-fire way to stop a man making dice is to cut off his fingers; however, I hardly think they want it spilling out into the street. That sounds like a good way to get a hand cut off. You,” Sir Reginald's cane thrust against him. “Name and legion.”

  “F-Faustus Tullius, Optio of the first rank, XV Legion,” Faustus stammered.

  “I hope I don't catch you again, Faustus Tullius,” Sir Reginald jabbed him. “Or it will be a sharper instrument than this in your ribs.”

  “Yes sir,” the legionary saluted.

  “Come along Hannah.” Sir Reginald turned on his heel and headed for the principia whose bulk rose up behind the barracks. “We have our last interviews to do.”

  I flashed the soldiers a sympathetic smile and dashed after him. Once I was sure we were out of earshot I grabbed Sir Reginald by the arm.

  “Why did you do that?” I hissed. “They were nice men. I wanted to practise my Latin on them! I'm tired of you and Quintinius sniggering at it!”

  “My dear, they're soldiers, they're not nice men,” Sir Reginald said. “They would think nothing of...taking advantage, if they thought they could. They already lured you to gambling.”

  “I can handle myself, Sir Reginald,” I snapped. “Even against brutes like that. I study kendo. I can probably use their swords better than they can. Now answer the question, why did you do that?”

  Sir Reginald's brow knotted. I could almost see the gears ticking away behind his irises.

  “I can't discipline or hurt the torturers who, while we pottered around the vault were reducing a poor young man to beaten meat pulp,” Sir Reginald said after a while. “But I can discipline those soldiers.”

  “Are you saying you did it out of revenge?”

  “I am not proud of it,” Sir Reginald pulled himself out of my grasp and readjusted his suit. “But yes, revenge. Even if young Actis is guilty of murder, he doesn't deserve torture. We all have our moments of weakness, Hannah, and that was one of mine.”

  “Well, as moments of weakness go...” I crossed my arms and stared at the sky. I was still no closer to understanding Sir Reginald's moods.

  “Being a chrononaut is not easy,” Sir Reginald said while flattening out his cravat. “Have you heard the principle of culture shock? Travelling to another country and living in another culture can make a person profoundly ill. Eventually the body adjusts, but for a time, perhaps even a few months, living in that foreign culture can cause nausea, flu-like symptoms, mental fatigue, or even insanity.”

  “Oh, I know,” I said, bringing my gaze down to the funny little man in the top hat and tail coat.

  “As a chrononaut you will never stop experiencing culture shock,” Sir Reginald continued. “You will live every moment outside of time, and as they say, the past is another country. As the fascination with a new culture fades, so the fatigue will set in. You must always be prepared for those moments of weakness, and quell them.”

  A breeze whipped through the fort. The weather on this March morning did not seem so very different from the March afternoon we had left back in London.

  “Well now,” Sir Reginald turned to me with a smile. “Let us go to the principia. Two more interviews and I think we will have all the evidence we need for this case. Then we can go to a time period that does not fatigue us so.”

  Chapter VI

  The principia reminded me of a cathedral. Not like those of England, or my native Canada, but the Romanesque cathedrals of Spain and Italy. Four or five stories rose up to a domed roof, with a huge entrance hall purposely designed to make the entrant feel small. Numerous wings spread off the central dome and encircled a courtyard. The might of Rome echoed strongest in this part of Vindobona.

  “It's all concrete, you know.” Sir Reginald waved his cane at the wall. “Concrete poured into wooden moulds, and then dressed with marble and other stone to make it seem more impressive.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s why it crumbles to dust before they build Vienna, while the Parthenon of Athens will continue to stand well into the twenty-fifth century,” Sir Reginald's smile flickered. “Or was it the twenty-second? I forget. In either case, thousands of years longer.”

  “Salve Quintinius,” I waved to the General waiting for us on the other side of the entrance hall.

  “Salve Hannah,” Quintinius saluted. “Your Latin grows better with every passing moment.”

  Quintinius directed his attention to Sir Reginald. “Tiberius Claudius can give you a brief interview, but he has a lot of work to do. Regardless of who might have been the emperor's killer, Tiberius Claudius will hold the empire together.”

  “And if Tiberius Claudius is the killer?” Sir Reginald asked.

  “Then falls the empire,” Quintinius wrinkled not just his nose at the thought but his entire face. “But Tiberius Claudius wouldn't, the two were old friends, perfect friends, he doesn't even want the… His nobility of spirit is a... But—”

  “Everyone is a suspect, Quintinius,” Sir Reginald put a hand on his shoulder. “Even you.”

  “But—”

  Sir Reginald smiled. “Now, lead me to Tiberius Claudius and we shall see what we find. Like you, he might well be nothing but a possibility.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Or he could be the killer, and by exposing him we doom the empire. We must find out with certainty. Only then may we act.”

  Sir Reginald, Quintinius, his guards and I entered the east wing of the principia and the General led us up a flight of stairs and to double doors guarded by a pair of legionaries. They saluted and opened the doors as Quintinius approached.

  “Before I forget,” Sir Reginald said out of the corner of his mouth. “Hannah, my corn-rose, take this.” He handed over his notebook. “The last few pages are my interview with Actis, the scribe. I suggest you transcribe them to your personal telecommunications computer.”

  “If you insist,” I took the notebook. “I'm not ha
ppy about it.”

  “Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus, may I introduce Regulus, the Tribune of Truth.” General Quintinius's voice boomed out ahead of us cutting off any reply Sir Reginald may have had.

  “Hmph, bring him forward,” Tiberius Claudius grunted.

  The first thing I noticed was that he must be twice the age of his wife, Lucilla. Like the late emperor he wore a beard and trimmed it to imitate the scholarly Greeks of old like Socrates and Aristotle. He wore a military uniform, with a long red cloak, but it clearly didn't fit him as well as it had at the start of the campaign, eight years ago. Muscles had shrunk, the waistline had expanded. He wasn't fat or weak, but he was fighting a losing battle against the onset of age. He sat behind a desk covered in papyrus, flanked by two clerks busy taking away scrolls he had written and giving him fresh scrolls.

  “Greetings, Tiberius Claudius.” Sir Reginald took off his hat and bowed. “I am Regulus and this is Hannah Delaronde, my associate. If you would be so kind we would like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts last night.”

  “After supper I came back here,” said Tiberius Claudius tersely, not looking up from his papers. “I worked for another two, maybe three hours and then I went to bed.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “I doubt it,” Tiberius Claudius shrugged. “These two were asleep,” Tiberius Claudius waved his reed pen at the clerks. “And I don't think I remember seeing anyone else.”

  “Your wife then?”

  “No, she wouldn't have seen me.”

  “You don't share a bed?”

  “What we do, or do not do, is our private affair.” Tiberius Claudius put down his pen. He glared at Sir Reginald, who didn't even flinch.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill the emperor?”

  “About fifty-thousand Marcomanni.”

  “Who?” I raised a hand from my typing.

  “The German tribe north of the river,” Tiberius Claudius shot me a withering look.

  “Anyone who might have struck more secretly than in a pitched battle?” Sir Reginald asked.

  “The emperor was beloved by all,” Tiberius Claudius said firmly. “The only flare-ups happened when rumours spread that he had died.”