Catilina's Riddle (42 page)

"Five days ago," I said, exchanging a glance with Meto. "And last night Clementus told us he heard the splash from the well three or four nights before—that would fit exactly. What was done with Fortex's body?"

"Brought here," said the boy dully. "When it was over, when Forfex lay upon the floor, not moving, the blood and gore from his head all—"

He broke off and swallowed hard.

"Go on."

"The Master's face changed again. I don't think he quite knew what he had done until he had done it, if you know what I mean. His face, the look in his eyes—I've never seen such a look, except in a slave's eyes. As if he were frightened of what he had done. They say there's a goddess who punishes men, even free men, if they go too far. There's a Greek word—" He wrinkled his brow.

"Hubris,"
I said. "Insolence that borders on madness; arrogance that flouts all sense of decency. Hubris is punished by the goddess Nemesis, who brings retribution against the wicked."

"Perhaps in some places," said the boy, "but I don't think that goddess ever comes to this mountain. Even so, for just a moment I think the Master knew he had gone too far. He dropped the whip and trembled.

But then he hardened his jaw. He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. He looked around the room, blinking as if it were too dark for him to see, though the sun was still up. His eyes fell on me, just because I happened to be closest, I think. 'Clean it up!' he said, as if it were a

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mess left on the floor by the goats. 'Clean it up and take what's left of him to the waterfall. Throw him off the cliff and let him join the rest of the bones!' "

"And is that what you did?"

"Yes, only we didn't cast him off the cliff. We carried him down here, to the pond. One of the older slaves said we should strip his body and clean the blood off him, to make him fit to enter Hades. The old slave said a few words over the body, a prayer to some god or other. Even slaves have gods, you know, though I don't think any of them live on this mountain, and certainly not your Nemesis. We carried him across the stream, over to that jumble of boulders there, and laid him in a narrow place between the stones. We covered him with a few large rocks, and then we left. It was beginning to grow dark. No one comes here after dark."

"Poor Forfex!" I said. "To be left among the lemures he dreaded so much. To join their number."

"That's why no one wanted to come here today to search for the bleating kid. They've always been afraid of the old spirits that dwell here, and now there's Forfex as well. How can his lemur rest after such a horrible death? He could never take revenge on the Master; the Master is too powerful. But on another slave, alone and helpless . . ." The boy's voice trailed to a whisper, and he looked across the water at the tumbled boulders and the deep shadows among them. "It must be here now, watching us."

"I think not, if his lemur follows his mortal remains. Come, show us where you put the body."

The boy blanched.

"Come!" I said. "If I'm right—"

Meto cleared his throat.

"If
my son
is right, the body is long gone. Come, show us!" It was a testament to Gnaeus Claudius's cruelty that the boy could be controlled by a harsh voice alone. A less cowed slave would have required a few blows, or at least the threat of violence, to be prodded to his feet by a man who was not his master and then sent skipping across the stones in the stream to revisit a gravesite he believed to be haunted. The young goatherd obeyed, though he began to tremble violently as we climbed the tumbled rocks.

"Just on the other side of that big stone," he said, his voice quavering. He pointed the way, but would go no farther.

Meto and I climbed past him and stood atop the jagged stones. We looked down into the narrow cleft and saw what there was to see.

"The body is gone," I said.

"Gone?" The young goatherd climbed reluctantly after us. He

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stared down into the empty cleft with a look of superstitious dread on his face.

"Not the work of gods or lemures," I assured him. "Men put him here, and it must have been men who took him from this place."

"The same man who killed him!" declared Meto.

I turned my face away from the goatherd and frowned at Meto. We had no proof yet of what he said. More than that, it is unfair to a slave to gossip about his master in his hearing, for he may repeat what you say, to his regret.

Meto scowled back at me. He had been right about Forfex, after all, despite my doubts. Just to be certain, he asked the slave, "Was there a marking of some sort on one of Forfex's hands?"

"A marking? You mean the little purple birthmark on the back of his left hand?"

Meto's face was suffused with triumph.

"But where has the body gone?" said the slave.

"You needn't know, at least not now," I said. "You shouldn't know.

You've braved enough danger already, simply talking to us and telling us how Forfex met his end. I should reward you, but I have nothing to give you.

"There's nothing you could give me," he said. "The Master lets us keep nothing for ourselves. The man who wanted to see the mine gave Forfex a few coins, but the Master found them and took them all away."

"This man who saw the mine-—has he been back since?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. I never saw him. I was tending a flock on the far side of the mountain when he came." He narrowed his eyes. "They say there were others with him. Was it you?"

"I've managed so far not to answer any of your questions," I said, smiling. "I don't think I shall start now. The less you know, the better for you. You should forget that we were ever here."

"Like lemures in the mist," he said.

"If you wish."

"There
is
one other question we should ask," said Meto. "When you put Forfex's body in this rocky place, what had become of his head?"

"Beaten to a pulp. I told you that," said the slave, turning pale again. "Yes, but was it still attached to his body?"

"Of course."

"Not cut away? Being so badly mangled, perhaps—"

"The body was all in one piece!" protested the goatherd, his voice shaking.

"No need to press the matter," I said to Meto, laying my hand on

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his arm. "Tell us: was there another death among the goatherds, about a month ago?" I asked, thinking of Nemo.

The boy shook his head.

"Among your master's other slaves, then?"

"No. One of the kitchen slaves died of a fever, but that was well over a year ago. There's been only one death since then, and that was Forfex."

We descended the tumbled rocks strewn with bones and crossed the stream. The young goatherd went on his way, while Meto and I rested for a bit before pressing on. The shady glen was a beautiful place, even if despoiled and made fearsome by the presence of so much death and suffering. Not a bad resting place, I thought, for the lemures of dead slaves, who must have been far more miserable in life, toiling beneath the hot sun or burrowing into the dank, stony earth.

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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S I X

e should confront him directly," said Meto as we made our way down the mountain path.

"I agree."

"We know now beyond any doubt that the body w in the well was Forfex. We know that Gnaeus killed Forfex. And we know that he doesn't like us one bit.

He thought he was going to inherit the farm from Lucius Claudius, didn't he? Therefore, motive: to spoil the well and try to drive us away."

"There are a few gaps in your logic," I observed wryly, negotiating a steep step and bending back a whiplike branch.

"Such as?"

"Why was the head of Forfex removed?"

"So that we wouldn't attribute the act to Gnaeus. He knew that we had met Forfex and might recognize him despite his injuries, and thus might surmise where he came from. Gnaeus is the worst kind of coward, skulking about and afraid to own up to his actions. He cut off the head so we wouldn't know where the anonymous body came from.

He didn't count on my sharp eyes recognizing the birthmark on the back of Forfex's hand, did he?"

"No, the culprit did not. But why did Gnaeus order the slaves to dispose of the body at the waterfall if he intended to use it elsewhere?"

I looked over my shoulder. Meto shrugged. "The idea didn't occur to him until later. Obviously he didn't kill Forfex just so he could drop his body down our well; the murder wasn't premeditated, and neither was the outrage against us. But once he had the body at hand, it struck him that he could make use of it."

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"The young goatherd said nothing of being ordered to retrieve the body."

"The goatherd didn't know anything about Catilina, either. Surely Gnaeus has other slaves more suitable for doing what was done with poor Forfex's corpse."

"And what about Nemo?"

"That must have been Gnaeus's doing as well. He put Nemo in our stable to frighten us, but it didn't frighten us enough. So he tried the same cowardly trick again, only this time he did something truly dangerous, polluting the well. What a despicable man!"

"But where did Nemo come from? The goatherd told us that there have been no other deaths on the mountain."

"Who knows? Perhaps Gnaeus waylaid a wandering freedman, or murdered a visitor from Rome."

"A stranger, you mean. A stranger to us."

"Yes."

"Then why was Nemo's head removed? You postulate that the head of Forfex was removed to conceal his identity. That makes sense. But what of Nemo? Who was he and why was his head cut off?"

Meto was silent. For several moments the only sounds I heard were the crackling of branches, the scraping of our feet on the rough, uneven path, and my own labored breathing. "I don't have an answer for that,"

Meto finally admitted. "But does it matter about Nemo? We know now where Forfex came from, and that's the key. Gnaeus Claudius is the culprit. He should be whipped. He should be tried for murder, if there were any justice. But there's no law against a man killing his own slave, is there? I suppose the best we can do is take legal action against him for polluting our well."

"Hard to prove, since we have no witnesses."

"But, Papa, the circumstances are obvious!"

"A court will require more than circumstantial evidence."

"Then we'll have to find a witness. He could hardly have done it without the collusion of at least one of our own slaves, could he? Whichever of the slaves it was who turned on us, he must be made to talk!"

"How much force would you have me use against the slaves? I've already questioned them, and you saw the result. There are many masters who would use indiscriminate torture to obtain the truth. Aratus himself suggests I do so."

"I wouldn't have you do that, Papa."

"Torture is inevitable where slaves and the law are concerned.

Suppose we do find a witness among our slaves. A Roman court will not accept the testimony of any slave unless it's extracted under torture.

Would you have me force such a thing on another man, even of a slave who plotted against us? And what if one of the slaves merely saw the

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act and is otherwise guiltless? Still, he would have to be tortured in order to bear witness. No wonder the slaves are so reluctant to speak. If they admit to being witnesses, it's like volunteering to be tortured."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"But they have, I assure you. Given your premise, the best witnesses would be the slaves of Gnaeus Claudius himself, such as our young goatherd friend. But there again the law defeats us. No man's slave can testify in court without his permission, and thus no slave can be made to testify against his master."

"What if you could get Cicero to represent us? He's so clever and powerful, perhaps he could find a way—"

"Please, I want no more debts to Cicero. Besides, I don't imagine that our esteemed consul has time to trifle with such a matter now or for a long time to come."

We reached the clearing behind the boulder. We untied our horses and led them through the narrow cleft between the old oak and the rock, onto the grassy, shaded verge. Over on the road a group of slaves trudged wearily past, linked neck to neck by a stout rope and driven along by a team of overseers on horseback. The slaves were either naked or covered with the merest scraps of cloth. For shoes they wore bits of leather tied to their feet. Neither slaves nor drivers took any notice of us. We stood in the shade, waiting for them to pass.

I turned to Meto and said in a whisper, "Your argument against Gnaeus Claudius is clear enough, even if it does have lapses. Even so, my thoughts keep returning to Catilina."

"You misjudge him, Papa!" whispered Meto, with surprising vehemence.

"Consider his connection with Forfex. Consider the coincidence of the headless corpses and his riddle of the headless body. Consider also that Nemo appeared just after Caelius first proposed that I play host to Catilina, as if to intimidate me into agreeing. Now Caelius and Cicero have again insisted that I open my door to Catilina, I have protested, and Forfex appears in our well. Catilina is a desperate man—"

"Why blame Catilina? Or Caelius or Cicero, for that matter? You've been on the wrong scent all along, Papa. You said just now that no court would accept circumstantial evidence as proof, yet you've let coincidence rob you of your better judgment and blind you to the obvious. Gnaeus Claudius is the culprit. He must think he's very clever, laughing at us behind our backs. If we confront him directly, I'll wager that he admits his guilt out of sheer vanity and spite."

"You may be right," I admitted. "We shall give him the chance today."

The last of the roped slaves, a man with skin like leather and hair like matted straw, passed before us, and as he did he tripped on a stone

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in the road. He fell briefly to his knees, tugging at the rope around his neck and sending a ripple of distress up the line. An overseer quickly doubled back and struck at the man with a whip until he gained his footing and plodded on.