Kelli Stanley - Nox Dormienda

“So where do we start?”

“The inn-”

Venutius came in to clear away the untasted oats, gave the still-full bowls a stricken look, and dragged himself back to the kitchen. We tried not to watch.

“-the innkeeper, the whore-even Lupo. Anyone who came into contact with Maecenas. And I want a look at his room right away.”

Bilicho leaned back in his chair, munching a date, his forehead creased. “It looks like two crimes. One, the Syrian. And two, the temple.”

“Could be. We can’t rule anything out.” I rubbed my eyes. “Here’s what we’ve got. A fat, hairy, and very dead Syrian, freedman to Domitian, part-time spy and full-time sycophant. Carrying a message-probably imperial-to Agricola. It’s gone, taken by somebody. He was also carrying enough cash to buy a small army of his own, and build a homey villa on the side. But nobody took the money. He wasn’t killed in the mithraeum. Maybe he was killed at Lupo’s, and then delivered to the temple. Maybe he’s his own message. He must’ve really had something, if two sets of people are fighting for the credit of murdering him.”

“You sure he wasn’t killed in the temple?”

The bridge of my nose hurt from frowning. “They used sheep or pig blood on the altar. The bastard was already dead-the throat slice was for show. I wish I’d had more time with the body-I should’ve found another wound.”

“Could it’ve been suicide?”

“You mean he kills himself, someone finds the body, steals the document but not the money, and mounts him on the altar like a choice heifer?”

Bilicho grinned. “All right. What about poison?”

I looked at him. I remembered the sickly sweet odor from the Syrian’s mangled neck. For some reason, I didn’t mention it. “Possibly,” I admitted. Then I changed the subject.

“And then there’s the damn message. Why didn’t he deliver it? Imperial messengers-if he was one-are supposed to go straight to the palace. Why was he at Lupo’s?” My elbow knocked over a cup of mulsum , which started to ooze across the table. Bilicho wiped it up with his sleeve before Venutius came in with a towel.

Bilicho was watching me. “You’re as jumpy as a flamen with a scrotum itch.”

“I’ve been jumpier. Let’s figure out the timing. He was killed about four or five hours before I saw him-sometime between the first and third hours of the night. You said he was with a whore.”

“Stricta.” The color rose in Bilicho’s cheeks. I pretended not to notice.

“So he was with Stricta after Gwyna left-”

“-Until Rhodri started the brawl and ran upstairs.”

We looked at each other. Rhodri led us back to the one subject I wanted to avoid. Bilicho leaned back even further in his chair. My eyes met his, a little defiantly. With a barely perceptible shrug, he turned his attention to the food.

He asked: “What do you want me to do?”

“Find out all you can about Rhodri. Where he lives, how he gets his money. He’s got a motive for the murder, and a motive for the mithraeum. He hates the Romans.”

Bilicho smacked his lips loudly on a plum pit, and looked at me with a pitying expression. “Probably not as much as he hated Maecenas-for personal reasons.”

It was my turn to change color.

“Spit it out, Bilicho. She wanted Maecenas dead, now he is, and her boyfriend was right there. That’s as obvious as a middle-aged redhead. Remember-she came to me. To warn Agricola. And she was telling the truth, I’d stake my life on it.”

His face told me I might have to. I ignored it.

“If Rhodri killed the Syrian, why take the document and not the money? And what about the mithraeum? Couldn’t he find an easier way to humiliate the Romans?”

A memory snuck over and hit me from behind.

I said: “Yesterday was the ninth day before the Kalends. That’s the New Year in the Old Faith.”

Bilicho whistled. “I should’ve remembered that. Sure makes it seem like the whole thing was planned. And by a native.”

“But no one knew the Syrian would arrive when he did. You know how ships are in this weather.” I rubbed my neck.

“None of this makes sense. And maybe you’re right, maybe we’re dealing with two crimes. But goddamn it, don’t treat me like a child.” I met his gaze. “I know a suspect when I see one.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen you like this. Over a woman, I mean.”

I smiled sardonically. “It happens, Bilicho. Even to you, it will happen.”

He snorted and ate another date.

* * * * *

I told Venutius I’d eat lunch in town, and asked for a simple dinner that night. He looked depressed, but better a depressed cook than a half-dead master. I was beginning to think he’d make a good poisoner.

It was a feast day due to the solstice, so no salutatio . I asked Bilicho to post a sign directing all cases to Serenus. I had a feeling we’d be busy for the next few days, and Avitus hadn’t notified the vigiles yet. Serenus wouldn’t kill anyone. He wasn’t that talented.

I didn’t own a litter, but a bodyguard was status symbol enough. Draco could come with me, and we’d both dress for the occasion. My mantle was thick and purple with a trim of green grape leaves, and I wore it over something even louder-my toga. The purple stripe flaunted my rank with all the subtlety of a campaign speech. I looked like a pompous ass.

Draco was as giddy as a virgin on her wedding night. His short tunic in grey wool was hemmed with a simple pattern of blue stripes. I let him wear his sword, and an inlaid bronze arm bracelet that showed off his biceps. He looked like the bodyguard of a pompous ass. We were finally ready for the whorehouse.

Some heads turned along the way. Purple stripes didn’t travel those streets-at least not in daylight. Most people were at home, and the city was quiet, except for soldiers, slaves, worshipers of various gods, and the common variety of bath-loiterer.

Draco tried to steer me away from the largest piles of mud and shit, but my ankle boots would never be the same. A few stable flies that had survived the cold were starting to form a queue behind my feet when we finally reached Lupo’s Place, conveniently located at a main crossroads just northeast of the baths and near the center of town. I recognized the building. It was the same inn-cum-tavern-cum-brothel Avitus and I had passed on the way to the mithraeum.

I expected an audience when we walked through the crude door, and was surprised to find it empty. Taverns were always full. Unless they knew something that I didn’t.

A thin-chested man was watching me, his mouth open as he apathetically wiped the bar with a flannel cloth. A drunk hunkered down over a bowl of steaming wine in the corner. He was the only person visible, but I thought I could feel more than two pairs of eyes.

Draco scanned the room, and took a stance. I told him to wait by the door until I was finished, and to pretend to be mute. No one could leave without going through him, and most walls were softer than Draco.

I strode up to Pigeon-Chest. He glanced nervously at the drunk in the corner, and spoke in a thin, cringing voice.

“C-Can I help you to something, sir? Anything in my humble tavern that would satisfy your stomach?” He made a pitiful attempt to appear worldly. “Or perhaps it’s not your stomach that needs satisfying?”

I frowned and he bit off the laugh in his throat. The glint of gold on my finger blinded him for a second, and with my left hand I clinked the coins in my purse.

“You are the innkeeper?” I was as sour as Cato’s mother-in-law.

“Y-yes, sir. I manage the tavern and the inn, the whorehouse is Lupo’s.”

I gingerly sat down on a stool. I was going to hammer the Rome of Domitian down their throats. Bilicho had extracted all the information a native could. But somebody, somewhere, knew more, and it would take a rich, obnoxious Roman to find it.