Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  “It wasn't for me!” Lucilla broke in a rage, her eyes flaring like lightning. “It was for Rome! You've seen Commodus! His fool of a wife! My husband is pious, noble and brave, but Commodus – argh! His vanity will destroy Rome! He will be ruler of the world and he is nothing but petty, vain and cruel!”

  “But he is not a murderer.” Sir Reginald let the rage break around him like waves against a lighthouse, unmoved. “At least, he has never killed anyone outside of battle,” he added, inclining his head slightly. He sighed. “It was a nearly perfect plan, I think. Last night was the third or fourth time you had been to see him, by my reckoning. He was becoming quite used to your visits and suspected nothing. He gave you some of his papers to read last night, after you had finished giving him his daily poison. You read it politely, left your thumbprint on it and made your excuses to leave, hideously aware of the poison filling the air as you spoke. Then, to the surprise of us all, Marcus Aurelius dropped dead. You dropped the papers in surprise, where they lay until my associate found them. Then you made your flight from the room and made the guard promise to have never seen you. By the time he realised Marcus Aurelius was dead he was in too deep to escape. He had to continue the lie.” He fixed Lucilla with a hard stare. “Tell me I am wrong.”

  “You will never convict me,” Lucilla backed towards the door. “I am the former empress of Rome, sister of the emperor, you cannot touch me Regulus—”

  “But despite all that,” Sir Reginald said rather more softly and frowning. “You are not Marcus Aurelius's murderer.” Lucilla paused in her retreat.

  “Then who did kill him?” Lucilla's eyes flickered between me and Sir Reginald.

  “The gods.” Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. “Old age. Cancer, I suspect. Of the pancreas, or perhaps the stomach.” He tapped his fingers on his cane top. “Without cutting inside and looking, I cannot be certain.” I nodded to myself. The hard mass Sir Reginald had just found would most likely be cancer. Of course, this didn't explain the missing pearl.

  “Cancer.” Lucilla looked at her father warily. The disease was not unknown to Romans but was not understood.

  “Your poisoning attempt will not have helped,” Sir Reginald nodded. “You are not his killer.” Lucilla turned to him expecting compassion, and flinched as the ferocity of his glare hit her. “Although you tried.” He looked weary. “Now get out of here please, and tell Quintinius Cassius to wait for me outside. I will be up in a few moments.”

  “I am no mere messenger—” Lucilla tried to rear up haughtily but Sir Reginald had simply stopped paying attention to her. Lucilla swept from the room. The smell of her perfume lingered for a while longer.

  Sir Reginald and I stood in the quiet of the vault with the dead emperor. He turned away from me and stared at the body.

  “What made you sure it was mercury poisoning?” I asked, in English.

  “The redness of his cheeks.” Sir Reginald pointed his cane point at the emperor. “Classic sign of mercury poisoning. I should have caught that when I saw it, but it is still quite faint as he was not yet fatally poisoned.” He stamped the cane point against the tiles in irritation. “I should have done a physical inspection of the body when we arrived. I would have caught the cancer.”

  “You didn't want to disturb the crime scene, it's sensible,” I placated.

  “It is still an irritation when one sees the mistakes in oneself one could have prevented,” Sir Reginald reached into his pocket and fished around. He drew out a small plastic bag. Suspended inside were some scraps of cinnabar. “If I had remembered to analyse this the moment we reached the moon, for example.” He smiled. “Then again, I did remind you to tell me to do it, so perhaps it is your fault.”

  “How can you be sure it was the cancer that was fatal and not the mercury poisoning?” I ignored the joking insult. “Are you sure we're not letting a murderer escape?”

  “Do you recall the hair of the emperor I burnt?”

  “Yes, of course.” I nodded. “It had little specks of dark red flame. That's mercury burning up with the hair.”

  “Precisely so.” Sir Reginald raised a finger to the sky and gesticulated. “Specks of red flame. The concentration of mercury was still very low. A fatal dose would have been one solid tongue of crimson!” He paused to mull this over. “It would also be that colour if the metal was strontium, lithium or radium but none of those metals would be present in Roman times, and thus we conclude the early stages of mercury poisoning.”

  “So,” I walked up to join Sir Reginald looking over the body of Marcus Aurelius. Even after being manhandled by Sir Reginald he maintained a sense of gravitas. “Natural causes, huh?”

  “Despite the best efforts of some, yes,” Sir Reginald shook his head and slapped the emperor on the back. “Sorry old chap, can't catch your killer this time.”

  “And we can't convict Lucilla?” I asked.

  “No, attempted murder is not a crime at this time.” He shook his head. “We could potentially convince General Cassius to charge her with treason, but I doubt that will work. Lucilla and her husband have a great deal of power.”

  Sir Reginald took his hat off while he stared at the emperor, and we paused in reverence for a moment. From what I remembered of history, Marcus Aurelius was well respected as Roman emperors went. It seemed fair to give him a moment of respect now his death had been resolved.

  “Well then, time to solve the mystery of the Purple Pearl,” Sir Reginald rammed his hat back on his head and tapped the brim with his cane. “Time to finish this, Hannah.”

  Chapter XXIX

  In one smooth motion Sir Reginald walked over to the desk, picked up the tiny statue of Zeus, pocketed it and strode to the stairs. He was burning with purpose and nothing was going to stop him. Mountains and hail storms and the laws of the time and space itself could not have slowed him down.

  “Quintinius,” Sir Reginald greeted the General with a curt nod. “I have made my inspection, interviewed all possible witnesses and interested parties and thoroughly examined the evidence. It is my judgement as Regulus, Truth Tribune, that Imperator Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus died of natural causes.”

  “Natural causes?” Quintinius frowned. “But the pearl—”

  “Is a mystery I will solve presently,” Sir Reginald nodded. “But right now the empire must continue. Our noble father needs to be prepared for his funeral, Commodus needs to be proclaimed. You must send word to Tiberius Claudius to have this done at once, and then I have further need of you.”

  “At once, Regulus.” Quintinius saluted and barked orders to several legionaries who were sent running, their segmented armour clattering and hob-nail sandals ringing on the stone.

  “I wish to see Actis the scribe again.” Sir Reginald was already walking towards where he knew Actis was being held.

  “I thought you were done with him?” Quintinius and I had to walk quickly with Sir Reginald who, despite appearing leisurely, walked at a pace other men would jog.

  “On the contrary, Quintinius,” Sir Reginald shook his head with a smile. “It is on Actis the whole mystery turns.”

  “Sir Reginald,” I grabbed at his arm. He didn't stop. “I said I wouldn't be party to torture. I won't hear evidence gained from torture.”

  “He’s no longer being tortured,” Sir Reginald said. “If you do not wish to follow I’ll not coerce you, just as I did not last time. However, the final mystery resides in the mind of Actis and so it is to there I must travel.” He shook himself and continued. “Whether I want to or not.”

  I slowed to a walk, then to a stop, and Sir Reginald drew away from me swiftly. I hopped from foot to foot, stuck in indecision. Morality demanded that I stay away, as decided earlier.

  But we were so close to the end.

  I took a step towards Actis and my heart thudded as if I’d been hit with a physical blow. My body seemed to fight as I was drawn by curiosity towards the granaries and the scribe.

  Actis sat with his feet bo
und, eating the remains of a loaf of fresh bread, the smell of it hanging over him, removing the tang of blood. He held the bread very gingerly; his fingers were too delicate now to grip things tightly. He had been allowed to clean himself up in the interim, removing most of the blood and washing his face. He was quite a handsome young man, even under a mess of scabs.

  “Euchh.” I turned away and shuddered. The torturers were standing around looking glum. They had been done out of a job. Their brazier had burnt low.

  “Hello, Actis,” Sir Reginald greeted him.

  “Regulus.” Actis grudgingly returned the greeting.

  “Show this man your respect, slave,” Quintinius thundered. “He has been kinder than you deserve!”

  “Most salutary greetings, Regulus, prince of men,” Actis gave a mocking bow, and Quintinius a dark look. There was no love left in him for Romans.

  “I am sorry to trouble you,” said Sir Reginald. I gave a start. He was speaking Egyptian. “But I was wondering if I could ask you a few more questions.” I turned back to the scene. Sir Reginald stood over Actis with his hands in his pockets.

  Actis looked up at Sir Reginald dully. Quintinius and the other Romans were watching Sir Reginald warily.

  “Cat got your tongue? Sorry, that's an idiom, they don't translate well,” Sir Reginald's voice grew in cruelty. “Can you understand me, Actis? Can you process what I am saying? Speak, or I'll have Legionary Verus over there cut your tongue out.” He nodded towards the torturer who was picking his teeth with a knife.

  “Er...”

  “Don't you understand Egyptian, Actis?” demanded Sir Reginald in Latin. Actis stayed silent. Sir Reginald rolled his eyes and switched languages. “Maybe this would be better understood?”

  Actis tried to hide his reaction, but I could see it clear as the nose on his face.

  “That's Parthian!” Quintinius spluttered. “You can speak Parthian, Regulus?”

  “Of course,” Sir Reginald replied in Latin. “And worse, so does Actis here.” He tapped the slave with his foot. Actis gave Sir Reginald a look of pure hatred. Not rage, not anger, not dislike; pure, hideous hate. “I solve crimes all over the world; it is my responsibility to speak Parthian. But a scribe working for the emperor?” Sir Reginald returned Actis's look of hatred. “At best, that suggests you're a spy.”

  Actis leapt for him like an animal. A stiletto knife had appeared as if by magic in his hands and the point went singing towards Sir Reginald's heart. He struck it out of the air with his cane. As the cane hit his broken fingers Actis screamed and crumpled to the ground.

  “Stupid boy,” Sir Reginald tutted.

  “I told ya we hadn't tortured him enough,” Legionary Verus spat.

  “This is your Purple Pearl thief,” Sir Reginald informed Quintinius, resting a foot on Actis's body.

  “The scribe?” my brow furrowed. “Two crimes in the same room on the same night?”

  “I'm afraid so,” Sir Reginald explained. From his pocket he withdrew the little statue of Zeus and turned Actis over with his foot, forcing the slave to look at it. “This is your god, isn't it Actis?”

  “I'm from Alexandria,” Actis insisted. “It's easy to get by on Greek alone there—”

  “Please stop lying, Actis,” Sir Reginald sighed. “There’s no point in it. I know you're not Egyptian. An Egyptian would have an Egyptian god, while you have a statue of Zeus.”

  “It's not mine,” Actis insisted, but tears formed around his eyes. He cradled his fingers. I could almost see them throb, distant though I was.

  “Actis came here to steal the Purple Pearl and for no other reason,” Sir Reginald explained. “His cover was to be an educated scribe, and where can you get a better scribe than Alexandria?” Sir Reginald turned the little god over in his hands. “Last night, Actis had his chance. As Marcus Aurelius aged, the ring of the Purple Pearl grew tighter around his finger. Actis, with whom he had formed a very strong connection, suggested he could take the pearl to Syphax, the jeweller, and have it widened on the emperor's behalf. Marcus Aurelius trusted Actis after a year of working with him, and handed the pearl over freely, but not without asking for a deposit. Marcus Aurelius would keep Actis's statue of Zeus until the ring is returned. The close bond formed between master and scribe meant he never questioned Actis's intentions. He never suspected the pearl would be transported back to Parthia that very night.”

  “Lies!” Actis groaned.

  “Had Marcus Aurelius not tragically fallen ill and died when he did, this crime would not have come to light until it was too late. The pearl would have disappeared and Actis would have melted away a few days after that.” Sir Reginald took a deep breath. “I am sure if we take this to a priest,” Sir Reginald handed the statue of Zeus to Quintinius, “he will tell us it is of Parthian origin, not Greek. The Parthians might be the successors of Alexander's empire but their art is different from Greek.”

  “So, where is the pearl?” I asked.

  “With whomever Actis gave it to,” Sir Reginald prodded Actis with a cane point. “And no doubt even as we speak, half-way overland to Greece and a port bound for Syria.”

  “It seems rather tenuous, Regulus,” Quintinius turned the statue over in his hands.

  “No-one else entered or left that room last night,” Sir Reginald said. “The pearl could not have been removed by anyone but Marcus Aurelius without tearing off his finger. Actis is the only person it could be. And if nothing else will convince you, he can't speak Egyptian and he speaks Parthian fluently.” Sir Reginald turned his eyes to the torturers and their instruments of pain. “Of course, if my evidence doesn't convince you, you could use more traditional Roman methods.”

  “No!” Actis screamed from the ground. “Not again! No! No!”

  “I, of course, do not condone such action and will have no part in it.” Sir Reginald crossed his arms and stepped away.

  “Vologases!” Actis sprawled on the floor then pulled himself upright. “King Vologases wanted the pearl back.” Actis gabbled. “He would do anything to get it back.”

  “And now the truth,” Sir Reginald nodded sagely.

  “Vologases brought the two kingdoms of Parthia together again,” Actis said as fast as he could. “He made Parthia great again. He made the Parthians a threat to Rome again. Since the Parthians had to sell the pearl our empire has struggled. Vologases made us strong again, and as his reward he wanted the pearl,” Actis growled. “He offered Marcus Aurelius his weight in gold for that pearl! And a guarantee to never threaten Armenia again! And Marcus Aurelius refused! His selfishness caused all this! If he had just sold the pearl I wouldn't have had to steal it!”

  “Where is the pearl, Actis?” Sir Reginald asked.

  “I don't know,” Actis shook his head. “Gone. On its way back to Parthia where it belongs.”

  “That's not a satisfactory answer, slave,” Quintinius turned on Actis. A shadow fell across the scribe. “You're going to have to think a lot harder than that.”

  I started to back away from the scene. At the sound of footsteps Sir Reginald turned, blinked and his expression softened.

  “Well Quintinius,” Sir Reginald took off his hat. “You have your cause of death and your thief. If you don't mind, I will take my leave.”

  “What?” Quintinius looked round. “But we don't know where the pearl is yet!” Sir Reginald's eye lingered on the sharp instruments that had appeared in the hands of the torturers.

  “That is in your capable hands, Quintinius, I must leave,” Sir Reginald replaced his hat with a satisfying phut sound and walked swiftly past me.

  “I don't like it here, Sir Reginald,” I shook my head as I stomped my way towards the gate. “And I don't like what it makes you into.”

  “I never tortured anyone, my corn-rose. But perhaps I have been rather cold about it.”

  “Let's just leave,” I snapped, glaring at the people we were passing. “We've solved Marcus Aurelius's death and the theft. We can leave these monsters
to themselves.”

  “They're just people, my dear.” He put a hand on my shoulder softly as if I was a flower that would wilt to the touch. “Exactly the same as any others.”

  “And I don't like being reminded of that.”

  A crowd roared ahead of them. I looked up from the pavement. The army was assembled in the road, some in armour and all of them cheering.

  “All hail Commodus!” they yelled. “All hail our new Augustus! All hail the new emperor!”

  “You would think the memory of Nero would last longer than a century,” Sir Reginald looked at the crowd and despaired. Commodus rode amongst them, waving casually, golden-bronze armour glinting.

  “Let's just leave,” I said quietly. I could see the soldiers I'd been playing dice with on the edge of the crowd, cheering with the rest.

  “Yes, my dear, we’ve seen enough of the second century.”

  Chapter XXX

  By the time we reached the time-machine we found it had lost too much pressure to travel. I happily picked up the shovel and started filling the firebox. Physical exercise took my mind off recent depressing events.

  “I am deeply concerned about Genesis.” Sir Reginald sat in a folding chair watching me shovel coal. His fingers, whether knowingly or not, were drumming on the control panel of the time-machine.

  “The super-computer?”