Catilina's Riddle (40 page)

"Unless we can find out who he is."

"And where he came from."

"Surely, whoever left Nemo in the barn also left . . . " Meto frowned. "What shall we call this one, Papa?"

I looked down at the wretched, lifeless mass of flesh. "Ignotus," I said:
Unknown.

A few moments later a slave arrived from the house. "The mistress is eager for you to come," he said, casting furtive glances at the naked corpse. "And Congrio says that your dinner is getting cold."

"Tell your mistress that I have no appetite tonight. And while you're at it, tell Aratus to gather all the slaves outside the stable."

"Even Congrio?"

"Yes, even Congrio."

By the light of Meto's torch we made our way through the gathering darkness to the stable. The slaves began to assemble and whispered among themselves. A moment later Aratus came down from the house, followed by the kitchen slaves and Congrio.

- 233 -

Aratus stepped beside me and spoke in a low voice. "They're all here. Do you want to address them yourself, Master, or shall I?"

"I'll speak to them."

Aratus stepped forward. "Quiet! Something important has happened, and the Master wants to speak to us all together." He stepped away from me but did not join the other slaves, keeping himself apart.

Congrio, too, stood off to one side, while his underlings from the kitchen joined the others. Even among slaves there are the high and the low.

I had not addressed the slaves as a group since I had first come to the farm. In the glow of the torches I could see their faces clearly. They looked back at me anxiously. Lucius Claudius had been a lenient master before me. I had been, if anything, more lenient; perhaps too much so, considering that one or more of them must have betrayed me.

"A dead body has been found in the well," I said. This came as a surprise to no one, since word had already spread among them, but still there was a murmur of excitement. "Who among you knows how it got there?"

No one spoke. "Do you mean to tell me that not one of you has any idea how it happened, or when, or who did it?"

They looked at me and at one another evasively, cleared their throats, shook their heads. At last one of them meekly raised his hand and stepped forward. It was the oldest slave on the farm, a graybeard called Clementus.

"Yes, speak up," I said.

"A few nights ago I thought I heard something . . . "

"Yes?"

"A sound coming from the well. I often wake up in the night—I never sleep straight through. I always have to rise in the night to pass water. It's been like that since I was a young man. Others always chide me and say I have a small bladder, but it makes no difference whether it's full when I go to bed or not, and as I've gotten older—"

"Get to the point!" said Aratus. "What did you hear?"

"It was late at night, closer to dawn than sundown. The moon had already set, and it was very dark. I was sleeping beneath the lean-to behind the barn when I woke. It was a sound that woke me—a splash coming from somewhere. From the direction of the well, I think. A big splash, but not loud, rather muffled, just as if something large had been dropped down the shaft of the well. I roused myself to piss into the pot I use, then went back to sleep."

"What night was this?" I asked.

"Three nights ago, I think. Or maybe four. I'd forgotten all about it. It only came back to me just now, hearing about this body dropped down the well."

- 234 -

"Ridiculous!" snapped Aratus. "He wakes up needing to relieve himself and hears the sound of splashing! He was dreaming."

"It seems to me that you cut him short for no reason, Aratus," I said sharply. "Why shouldn't he have heard the splash, and why not in the middle of the night? After the splash, Clementus, did you see or hear anything else?"

He scratched his beard. "Did I? It seems there was someone walking about in the dark after I relieved myself, but I didn't think anything of it at the time. It was a hot night, the kind that keeps people awake, and I don't suppose I'm the only one with a weak bladder. Why shouldn't one of the slaves be up and walking about in the dark?"

"But did you see this man? Do you remember anything about him?

Did he speak, or hum a tune? Was he dressed in a certain way or have a certain gait?"

Clementus scratched his beard thoughtfully again, but finally shook his head. "No, I don't remember anything like that. I only seem to remember someone walking about out in the open area by the well.

Perhaps I only dreamed it, or perhaps that was a different night altogether."

"Useless," muttered Aratus.

"On the contrary, he seems more alert and aware of what's going on than those who should be responsible for the proper running of this farm and the safety of those who live here," I said in a low voice.

No one else came forward. No one but Clementus had seen or heard anything. I might as well have been questioning a congregation of the blind and deaf. I warned them that I would not hesitate to punish any slave who I later discovered had withheld the truth from me; I searched for flashes of guilt in their eyes, but saw only the natural fear of slaves. I assured them that the well would be purified—as head of the household, the ritual duty would fall to me, though I had no idea how to perform it. So far as I knew, Cato did not cover the subject in his book. Nor did I know how the well might be purified in fact as well as in ritual. What sort of pollution had Ignotus left in the water, and how long would the danger last? I had only Aratus to consult, and as always I didn't fully trust him. I could ask Claudia, but I hardly wanted to share the incident with her.

I charged a group of slaves to take the body of Ignotus to a little shed beside the stable, and dismissed the rest. As they dispersed, Aratus drew closer.

"They should be tortured, Master."

"What?"

"They're slaves, Master. You talk to them as if they were soldiers, or free men in a marketplace. Common slaves like these never tell the

- 235 -

truth unless it's forced from them. There's no telling what they know, and no way of getting it except by forcing it out of them. You know what the law says: you can't trust the evidence of a slave unless it's obtained under torture."

"By that logic, I should begin the torture with you, Aratus. What do you say to that?"

He blanched, not sure whether I was serious or not. I was not quite sure myself.

It may have been hot outside, but it was chilly in my bedroom that night.

Bethesda was quietly furious. She consented to put a soothing balm on my scraped elbows and knees and even massaged my shoulders, but when I spoke to her, she wouldn't answer. In our bed she turned her back on me and finally spoke. "Whatever it is they want from you, give it to them. No more headless bodies, do you understand? Swallow your pride and think of your children. And no more foolishness like climbing down wells!"

I did not sleep well that night. In my dreams headless phantoms arose from the well and went walking about the fields.

In the morning Meto woke me. His tunic was crooked and his hair was still mussed from sleep. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running.

"Papa, wake up!"

I shrugged his hand away and looked up at him blearily.

"Papa, I know the truth. I woke up knowing it! I just ran out to have a look at his body to make sure."

"What are you talking about? Ignotus?"

"Not Ignotus, Papa. Not any longer. I know his name, and so do you. Come, I'll show you. I'll prove it to you."

He waited impatiently while I put on my sandals and slipped a tunic over my shoulders. Bethesda pulled the coverlet over her head.

Meto led the way to the shed, running ahead of me in his eagerness, then waiting for me to catch up. Inside, the body of Ignotus had been laid on a low bench. His odor permeated the little room. He would have to be moved before the sun got much higher, or else we would never get rid of his stench.

"There, Papa, do you see?"

"What?"

"There, on the back of his left hand!"

I stooped, groaning at the ache in my muscles. The lifeless hand

- 236 -

was bent so that I had to twist my head to see the little mark on the back. It was roughly triangular in shape and hardly larger than a coin, of a rich purple color like the dye of the murex.

"A birthmark," I acknowledged. "Yes, I noticed it last night. I thought I would allow you to remark on it, but you never did, and I never got around to mentioning it myself. Yes, it could be a valuable bit of evidence if we ever have the chance to identify him."

"But I already have. Didn't you hear me? I know who it is. When I saw the birthmark last night I knew it reminded me of something, but I couldn't think of what. You kept asking me those either-or questions and it went out of my head. But this morning I woke up remembering.

Does that ever happen to you, Papa?"

"I begin every day with great revelations."

"I'm not joking, Papa. So you don't remember where we've seen that birthmark before? I do!" He seemed very pleased with himself.

"If I've ever seen that birthmark before, you're right, I don't remember. But you think you've seen it?" I said skeptically.

"Yes, I know I have, and if you had been observant, so would you.

It's Forfex!"

"Forfex?" I muttered, trying to place the name.

"The goatherd over on Mount Argentum. The slave of Gnaeus Claudius, the one who took us to see the old silver mine and hurt his head."

"The one who took Catilina, you mean. We only went along as an afterthought." I stared at the birthmark. "No, I don't remember seeing this mark on the back of his hand."

"But I do! I noticed it that day. I remember thinking it looked like a spot of blood, as if he'd pricked himself. When I saw it yesterday I couldn't place the memory, but this morning I woke up remembering. I thought you surely would have noticed, too. You notice everything, Papa."

"Forfex!" I remembered the slave's wheedling manner and the panic that had driven him from the mine, the blood streaming from his head and his master's displeasure. I shook my head doubtfully. "Is there anything else to identify him?" I studied the body. It was roughly of the same age as Forfex, and roughly the same size, and of the right coloration.

The dead flesh before us was so horribly different from the living slave who had taken us up the mountain that I could hardly reconcile the transformation, though the same might be said of any man and the corpse he becomes.

"And the marks on his back, Papa! Do you remember how Gnaeus Claudius began to beat him as we were departing? He's the type of master who would beat his slaves often, don't you think? So it's no surprise to see all those scars on Forfex's back."

- 237 -

"Yes, I remember the beating. But not the birthmark . . . "

"Well, what does it matter, so long as one of us remembers it? The important thing is that now we know who he was, and where his body came from. It's Forfex, and somehow he came here from Gnaeus Claudius's estate."

"If we could only be sure of that . . . "

"But we can be! How could two different men have exactly the same birthmark? It must be Forfex, don't you see?" He smiled at me expectantly, then frowned when he saw the lingering doubt on my face.

"You don't believe me, do you, Papa?"

"No, it's not that . . . "

"You don't trust my memory. You doubt my judgment."

"If you truly remembered the birthmark, why did you not recall it last night?"

"Because last night was—" He sought for the words and could not find them. "Because I didn't, that's all! But I do now."

"Meto, memory changes over time and can't always be trusted—"

"Oh, Papa, you always have a saying for everything." He was quite angry. "If it were Eco telling you this instead of me, you'd believe him in an instant! You wouldn't doubt him at all."

I took a deep breath. "Perhaps." Because Eco is Eco, and you are you, I wanted to say.

"You're jealous!" said Meto.

"What?"

"Yes, because you don't remember it yourself. You never noticed the birthmark at all, you weren't observant enough, but I was. Or else you noticed and then you forgot, but I noticed and I remembered! For once my eyes and my memory are sharper than yours, and you won't admit it!"

This accusation struck me as quite absurd. It only offered more proof, if any were needed, that Meto was still more a boy than a man.

Even so, I felt a slight prickle of unease. What can be worse, for a man of my age, than to begin to doubt his own judgment?

It was possible, of course, that Meto was right—that he had seen the birthmark on Forfex's hand, had forgotten it until this morning, and now had proof of the slave's identity. If that was so, then I would be obliged to demand an explanation from Gnaeus Claudius. But what if Meto was mistaken? What if he had seized upon a false memory and now clung to it out of pride? How far could I press my complaint against Gnaeus based on Meto's memory, which I myself mistrusted?

And if it was Forfex—what then? Had Gnaeus Claudius been responsible for putting Nemo in my stable, as well? Who among the slaves had helped him? Was his motive merely to harass me, to drive me from the farm? What of the link with Catilina's riddle—could it be mere

- 238 -

coincidence? Or was the more inexplicable coincidence that fact that Catilina and Forfex had known and dealt with each other? Even if the body belonged to Forfex, the link might run not to his master but to Catilina—or by extension to Marcus Caelius—or to Cicero . . .

I found my thoughts racing in the same rutted circles they had worn since we discovered Nemo. Had I always been so helpless at thinking things through, and was Meto right to imply that I had become dull and careless? I was not a young man any longer, and while there are those whose minds grow sharper with age, there are plenty of people for whom the opposite is true.

I realized I had been staring intently for several moments at the purple mark on the corpse's hand. I looked up to see that Meto was watching me, his arms tightly crossed, his eyes narrowed, his foot tapping the ground, waiting for me to respond.