Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

At that moment Meto came running through the open doorway. 'There you are!' he said. ‘Where did you hide it, you little harpy?'

Diana suddenly burst into tears and hid her face in her hands. I squatted down and put my arm around her. Meto looked abashed. I handed him the little bronze soldier.

'She took it,' he said haltingly. 'I didn't start it. Just because I have better things to do than play hide-and-seek with her all morning, that's no excuse for her to take my things.'

'Diana,' I said, holding her by the shoulders and speaking softly, 'I have a job for you to do. It's very simple, but it's important I want you to go and fetch your mother. Don't say a word about why, especially if there are any of her slaves about. Just say that: I want her to come here to the stable right away, alone. Can you do that for me?'

The crying stopped as abruptly as it had begun. 'I think so.' 'Good. Now run along. Be quick!'

Meto looked at me in consternation. 'But I didn't do anything! All right, I called her a harpy — but can I help it if she's such a cry baby? She took my game piece, and she knows that's wrong.'

'Meto, be quiet. Something terrible has occurred.'

He drew an exasperated breath, thinkingI was about to lecture him; then he saw how serious I looked and wrinkled his brow.

'Meto, you've seen dead men before. You're about to see another.' I led him to the empty stall.

Be careful in choosing your own vulgar exclamations, for your children will say them back to you. 'Numa's balls!' he whispered hoarsely, his voice abruptly breaking.

'Not old King Numa, I think. Better to call him Nemo — Nobody — though a body is not what he's missing. But Nemo it will be, until we find a better name for him.'

'But what is he doing here? Where did he come from? Is he one of the slaves?'

'Not one of our slaves, of that I'm pretty certain. Look at his build and colouration, Meto. You know the slaves as well as I do. Could this body belong to any of them?'

He bit his lower lip. 'I see what you mean, Papa. This man was tall and rather heavy about the middle, and hairy.'

I nodded. 'See the hair on the back of his hands, how thick it is? Of our slaves, only Remus has hands like that, and Remus is a much smaller man. A younger man as well; see the grey hairs mixed in with the black, especially on Nemo's chest?'

'But then how did he get here? And who did this to him?'

'Who killed him, you mean? Or who cut off his head?'

'It's the same thing, isn't it?'

'Not necessarily. We can't be sure that he died from having his head cut off.'

'Papa, I should think that anyone would die if you cut off his head!'

'Are you baiting your father, Meto, or merely being obtuse?' I sighed. 'I see no wounds to the front of his body, do you? Here, do you think you can help me roll him over?'

'Of course,' he said, but I saw him swallow hard as he stooped to take hold of one of the legs while I reached under the corpse's shoulders. He gave a shudder as his hands touched the clammy flesh. So did I.

I grunted and stepped back, brushing straw from my hands. 'No apparent wounds to the back, either. And yet it isn't easy to murder a man by cutting off his head — think about it. You have to have some way to hold him still. Perhaps they cut his throat, or strangled him first. That would be hard to tell, since it won't be easy to find any bruises on his neck amid the gore.'

While I knelt to have a closer look, Meto stepped discreetly back and covered his mouth with one hand. He had turned considerably paler, though he was still several shades darker than the corpse, which was as white as a fish's belly.

'He wasn't killed this morning, that's for sure,' I said.

'How can you tell?'

"The body is cold and stiff, and all its colour is gone. It takes time for that to happen. Physicians say that the lungs are like bellows, heating the blood. Even after they stop working, the body stays warm for quite some time, like a coal slowly losing its heat. Also, look at the wound itself See how the blood is clotted and the wound gone dry. The fresher the wound, the more it would seep. This cut must be at least a day old to have dried so completely. See, there's not even any blood on the straw below. And yet he can't have been dead for too long, because even in this heat the body has not begun to smell too strongly. Here, Meto, step closer. Observe the wound with me.'

He obeyed, but with considerable hesitation. 'What else can we observe from the wound itself?' I said.

He shrugged and made a face.

'Observe how cleanly the cutting was done. A very sharp, very broad blade, I should think, and accomplished with what appears to have been a single blow, the way that chickens are decapitated on a chopping block. There are no signs of hacking or sawing. Indeed, I can even see traces of the blade's particular grain, the way one can see the serrations of a knife after it has sliced through a roast. The subsequent outpouring of blood should have obscured all such details, don't you think? I wonder, could the cutting have been done after the blood had already dried within the body? If so, the decapitation had nothing to do with the cause of death. Now why would anyone decapitate a dead body and then hide it in plain sight in my stable?'

I felt a flash of anger, a fury at being violated, but I swallowed hard and suppressed it. So long as I could simply play an old familiar role — examining a corpse for clues, dispassionately studying a situation — I knew I could keep a level head. I felt incredibly attentive and alert, and everything around me had taken on a preternatural clarity — the smell of straw and horse dung, the heat of the day, the swirling motes of dust captured in bars of sunlight. Yet at the same time a part of me had gone numb.

I stepped back. 'What else can we tell about him? You say he looks rather heavy about the middle, Meto, but to me he also looks rather gaunt in the chest and limbs and buttocks, like a heavy man who has suddenly lost weight. He looks unwell'

'Papa — the man is dead!' Meto rolled his eyes.

I sighed and found myself missing my elder son, who would already have grasped all that I had observed and been far ahead of me. But then, Eco had begun his life as a child of the streets and had learned to use his wits of necessity long before I adopted him. Meto had been born a slave in a rich man's villa and had always been rewarded more for cleverness than cunning. I only hoped he would grow into a decent farmer, for a Finder he would never be.

Still, I persevered. 'What can we tell of his place in the world, Meto? Slave or free?'

Meto studied the body from head to foot. 'He's not wearing an iron ring,' he offered.

'Indeed he is not. But that really tells us nothing. A citizen's iron ring is easily removed, and the opposite — to slip such a ring onto a slave's finger — would have been just as easy. Nemo might be a patrician for all we know, whose gold ring has been pilfered. However, sometimes an iron ring does leave a stain or a band of paler flesh on its wearer's finger. I see none, do you?'

Meto shook his head.

'Still, inconclusive. Certainly he wasn't the field slave of some cruel master — there are no shackle marks on his wrists or ankles, no scars on his back from being whipped, no brand marks on his flesh. All in all he looks well taken care of) and not used to hard labour. See, there are no heavy calluses on his hands or feet, and his fingernails and toenails are well groomed. Nor did he spend much time outside — his skin is not much darkened by the sun. If only we had his head, we could tell much more…'

There was a sudden rustling behind us. I gave a start, but it was only Diana running towards us through the straw. A moment later Bethesda appeared in the doorway. Bright sunlight silhouetted the stray tendrils of her coiffed hair and the long, loose stola belted beneath her breasts and again at her waist. She paused in the doorway and then walked resolutely forwards like a woman expecting the worst. When she saw the body her nostrils dilated, her eyes grew wide, and she pressed her lips together until all the colour was gone from them She clutched at her stola and stamped her foot. Bethesda's manner is often imperious or brusque, but I have seldom seen her truly angry. It was a sight to make even the staunchest Roman turn to jelly.