Steven Saylor - The Seven Wonders

I frowned. “Overheard? When did you hear Tullius and the others talking?”

“Yesterday, as they went about their business here in the ruins. They clucked like hens the whole time-and had no idea I was watching and listening. I can thank my training for that. Quintus Menenius may be one of the stupidest men the gods ever made, but he did teach me a thing or two about stealth and surveillance. That sort of thing comes in handy if you want to scavenge treasures from an area that’s off-limits, and keep anyone else from doing so.” He shook his head. “Titus Tullius and his friends thought they could come here, loot to their hearts’ content, and run off with the spoils, and no one would lift a finger to stop them. What fools!”

“Why didn’t you simply report them to Menenius? Wouldn’t he have arrested them?”

“Menenius would have clicked his tongue, given them a stern lecture, and sent them on their way-then barred all visitors to the ruins, posted guards night and day, and sent a full report to the Senate asking for further instructions. My treasure stores would have been discovered. My little operation would have come to an end. I’d have nothing to show for all my hard work.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Scavenging the ruins? For months. Almost since the first day I was posted to this gods-forsaken place. I couldn’t believe no one else had thought of doing the same thing. The locals are all too superstitious to go nosing about the ruins, and so are most of the Roman soldiers. That silly Lucius keeps the others frightened half to death with his stories about witches and ghosts. I encourage him at every turn, of course. Meanwhile, I come here as often as I safely can, and go treasure hunting. Usually I find nothing. Sometimes I find a ring or a stray coin. And every so often I make a real discovery, like a cameo from a brooch, untouched by the flames and in perfect condition. Or a bag of coins that must have been buried by some wealthy Corinthian, thinking he could come back later and claim it. I hide the things I find. There’s no safe way to smuggle them out without someone noticing, and nowhere in this gods-forsaken place to spend the money or sell the precious stones, so my treasures just keep accumulating. How Tullius and his friends were lucky enough to stumble on this particular hiding place, I can’t imagine.”

“Lucky? Surely it was misfortune that led them here.”

Marcus laughed. “Yes, since I observed them doing it. I couldn’t report them, because that would ruin my own scheme. And I had no intention of letting them come back here the next day, and the day after that, plundering the treasures I’ve worked so hard to accumulate. Ugh, this thing is hot!” He took off his helmet and tossed it on a soft patch of ground, then combed his fingers through sweat-soaked tufts of blond hair streaked with gray.

“So you got rid of them,” I said. My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. I was so dizzy I thought I might fall. “Did you kill every one of them, all by yourself?”

“I certainly did. With this.” He pulled his short sword from its scabbard. “Had a terrible time cleaning all the blood off afterward.”

“But how did you manage it? Why didn’t they resist? No, wait-I think I know. You’re not alone in this scheme. The innkeeper is in it with you.”

“How did you deduce that, Gordianus?”

“The way Zoticus and I slept that night-we were tired from the long day and the heat, but not that tired. It wasn’t natural. Some sort of drug was put in our food or wine. Something that made us sleep like dead men. The innkeeper did it.”

Marcus gave me a shrewd look.

“And he did the same thing to Titus Tullius and his party,” I said. “He put something in their wine that sent them into a deep sleep-so deep that not one of them woke while you killed them at your leisure. Why didn’t you kill Zoticus and me, as well?”

“I’m a soldier, Gordianus. I kill from necessity, not for enjoyment. Clearly, your interest in the ruins was historical, or in the case of your old tutor, sentimental. A Roman pup wandering amid the rubble and a doddering Greek declaiming poetry posed no threat to me. I told Gnaeus to drug you so that you’d sleep through the killing; I saw no need to kill you as well. It seems I made a mistake-which I now intend to rectify.”

He deftly swung one leg over his horse and dismounted, keeping the drawn sword in his hand. He tightened his grip on the hilt, making ready to use it.

I backed away and tried to stall him with more questions. “The witch’s curse-the lead tablet among the bodies-was it a forgery?”

He laughed. “Can you believe the coincidence? Gnaeus and I found it when we searched Tullius’s room after the killing. We couldn’t believe our luck-a genuine curse tablet, scary enough to make Lucius faint and even old Menenius lose all common sense.”

“But who made the tablet?”

“Ismene, I’m sure. Lucius always said she was a witch. I took the lead tablet downstairs and hid it among the bodies. It was perfect, that Lucius should be the one to find it. And the way you read it aloud, with that tremor in your voice-like an actor on a stage! Even I had to shudder. ‘Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name!’” Marcus laughed so hard he stopped in his tracks. But he was still holding the sword.

“Lucius said something about other soldiers who died, in their sleep,” I said. “He blamed witchcraft.”

Marcus shrugged. “That was my doing. Aulus figured out what I was up to, and demanded a share. So I poisoned him. A month later, Tiberius did the same. Lucius was sure they died by witchcraft and told everyone so. No suspicion ever fell on me.”

“If poison worked before, why didn’t you poison Tullius and the rest?” I said, desperate to keep stalling him.

He shook his head. “That would have required a great deal of poison. No, it was quicker and easier and more reliable to give them all a sleeping draft, and then use this.” He slashed the air with his sword, so close that a gust of warm air blew against my nose.

While I ran through every question I could think of, I had been looking for something to throw at him. I was surrounded by rubble, yet all the stones and bits of wood were either too big or too small to use as a weapon. Marcus saw my consternation and smiled. He said he killed for necessity, not enjoyment, but the look on his face told another story.

I staggered back, weak from heat and thirst. My heart pounded so hard I thought my chest would burst. Amid the oily spots that swam before my eyes, I glimpsed ghostly faces-the dead of Corinth, making ready to welcome me.

I heard a strange whistling noise.

Marcus abruptly dropped his sword. His jaw went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the ground.

I stood dumbfounded, then looked up to see Ismene. She seemed to have materialized from thin air.

“How did you do that?” I whispered. “You killed him without even touching him. You were nowhere near him.”

She gave me a withering look. “First of all, he’s probably not dead. Feel the pulse at his wrist.”

I did so. “You’re right, he’s only unconscious.”

“And not likely to stay that way long. I’d tie him up, if I were you.”

“With what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Use the leather reins from his horse.”

“Ah, yes, of course. It’s the heat-I can’t seem to think straight. But I still don’t understand how you did that. Was it a spell?”

“Feel the back of his head.”

I did so. “There’s a big lump. What sort of spell-”

“Really, young man! Did your father never teach you to use a sling?” She held up a bit of cloth. “Witchcraft achieves many things, but as long as there’s an egg-sized stone handy, I don’t need Ufer of the Mighty Name to bring a man down.”