Unless he was drunk or angry or on campaign, he talked like someone out of Livius. Agricola hungered for a place in the history books-and preferably not as a victim of imperial enmity. Unfortunately for the general, the era of the self-made man was over. He sounded about a hundred years too late.
“Who found the body?”
Meditor stirred in irritation. Maybe something had bitten him. And then crawled off and died. “The governor is asking the questions, Favonianus.”
I grinned at him nastily. “The governor, Meditor, may not know the questions to ask.”
Avitus spoke up. “The senior officers of the temple. The governor, Saturninus, Marcus Tettius Felix, the speculator, and I.”
Felix-how could I forget an executioner named Felix?
“What time?”
“Dusk.”
“Have his clothes been found?”
“They were wadded up and thrown back in the grave where we buried him.” Avitus cleared his throat, and glanced nervously at Agricola. “The first time.”
“Who called in Meditor and Serenus?”
Agricola was getting impatient. “I did, Arcturus. Our men were waiting for us, we couldn’t continue with the ceremony, and trying to hush this up would only make it worse.” He turned slightly toward Avitus. “Avitus told us about the night before. Secrecy won’t do a damn bit of good. If someone’s playing games with me, I want him to know I know about it.”
“You don’t have to worry about advertisement with Meditor on the case.”
The praefectus grew red. “Look here, Favonianus-”
I continued like he wasn’t there. It wasn’t too difficult. “I’m trying to find out, gentlemen, who knows what and how much, and how much of what I tell you-and yes, I’ve got some information about the Syrian, and he is a threat, governor, even more so dead than alive-how much of what I say will be out in the streets before midday.”
The firelight gleamed on Saturninus’ teeth. He didn’t like Meditor, either. Agricola’s mouth twitched. I knew how to talk to him, how to snap him out of his governor-speech. I much preferred to deal with the general.
“This is a confidential and private conference. All of you are here because I think you need to be. Nothing-I mean, nothing-will be public knowledge.”
I shook my head. “No offense, governor, but who is in charge of this investigation? Avitus, Meditor or me?”
Agricola leaned back in his chair and studied me, frowning, his brow furrowed.
“What does that have to do with anything, Arcturus? I don’t give a good goddamn who is in charge of it, as long as it’s over, done and our temple is back to normal.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s more complicated than your temple.” I felt their eyes on me, Meditor’s screwed up in suspicion.
“I’ve been working since last night on this. And keeping things quiet is about the only advantage I have. I can’t risk Meditor or his men sniffing around, tramping on witnesses and stirring up shit until Londinium stinks with it.”
Meditor exploded. “Just who the hell do you think-”
“Easy, Junius,” Agricola interrupted him. “I want the vigiles to take root in Londinium, but your men aren’t exactly known for their subtlety.”
The governor turned toward me. “All right, Arcturus,” he said slowly. “As of this moment you’re in charge of solving this … whatever it is. But I want results. And I want them quickly. And the time for you to tell us what you know is now.”
I didn’t argue. “The naked man was a Syrian by the name of Vibius Maecenas. He was a freedman of Caesar’s, and was sent out here with an imperial document for you.”
The beneficarius was straining forward, two bright spots in his cheeks. He knew I’d kept something back, and he wasn’t happy about it. “How do you know?” he asked.
“I found a signet ring with his initials, and a fragment of a document in his palm. I didn’t tell you about it last night, Avitus, because I wanted time to confirm the facts.”
His eyes were little slits of anger. “Initials aren’t the same as a full name.”
“Let me finish. There was no seal box on the document, but what was left of it looked like an official dispatch. No cord, either, someone had opened it and read it-at the very least Maecenas, since it was torn out of his hand. I recognized the initials because someone came to me yesterday afternoon to warn me that Maecenas was arriving. To set you up, governor.”
Agricola grasped the arms of his chair. “What? I don’t believe it!” Saturninus started muttering under his breath, and Meditor backed against the hearth.
I held up a hand. “I wasn’t sure whether I believed it or not, either. But I talked to a few people, people who knew Maecenas, and even people in the inn where he was staying, and there was a rumor-apparently fed by Maecenas himself-that the papers were orders for you to step down.”
Agricola’s ruddy face turned white. His greatest fear. “Orders? To leave?”
“The little bastard! Of course he wants to get rid of the governor-no stomach for a real soldier-just an ass for every long prick in the Empire!” Saturninus roared like a rampaging bear, and his hands were grasping air, searching for something to break.
Meditor was quiet. It wouldn’t take him long to find out who had called on me and in what inn Maecenas had stayed. And Agricola putting me in charge would give me about a five minute headstart before the vigiles started to make my life miserable and make the mystery of Maecenas impossible to solve. Careful couldn’t begin to describe what I had to be.
“The Syrian’s behavior wasn’t exactly routine. He arrived the night before last, from Dubris. He never showed at the palace?”
Agricola shook his head. “My secretaries would’ve informed me immediately if a messenger from the Emperor were here. And my spies should’ve told me days ago.” He shot a glance at Avitus, his normally generous lips thin and tight.
“Maecenas was killed either in his rooms or on his way to the temple. He was stabbed in the back, probably with a pugio or something similar, by someone who knew where to stab and had the strength to do it right. I don’t know yet whether the murderer is the same person who took the papers, or the same person who stuck him on top of your altar. Or dug him up before dawn.”
I looked into Agricola’s eyes and held them up. “If word gets out about why he was here and how he died, all kinds of rumors will start to fly, and it will only be a matter of time before they get to the Emperor’s ears. His informers are always hungry, aren’t they?”
Agricola nodded slowly. The knots and blisters on his hardened, soldier’s hands stood out, red and raw, and he clenched the basket chair again.
“We have about seven days. I’ll need to get an answer out for the Emperor by the New Year, on the fastest ship we’ve got. Avitus, find out about the Syrian and why no one saw this coming. The last message I received from the Emperor was a pleasant one, right before Saturnalia. He wanted to know how my plans for spring were progressing. Last I heard-” he again looked at Avitus “-he was still quite happy over his triumph, and was thinking of renaming one of the months ‘Germanicus.’”
Saturninus snorted. “Exiled Domitia because she won’t moan when she’s-”
“Be still.” Agricola slowly unclenched his fingers from the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have no reason to think Domitian thinks ill of me. I’ve heard no rumors, received no reports. He craves salutations and glory, and I’ve promised to give them to him.”
He looked at me. “If this Syrian is who you say he is, I have to explain to the Emperor why he was killed, no matter what news he was bringing me.” His gaze covered everyone in turn. “If we don’t handle this properly, I’m facing exile or death.”
Agricola’s words-low, quiet, emotionless-froze any warmth in the room. “Saturninus, call up Priscus from wherever he is. I want him here-he should know what’s going on.”