It was a small room, a room from which Caelius could see everything that happened, or at least a body being dragged downstairs and a man getting scared and hiding in a room, and another man running into him. There were peepholes facing the hallway, peepholes to watch the whores through in the adjacent room. He’d seen Narbo use the knife. He’d seen the other man, too, had spoken to him and made him angry. If the rooms in between this one and Maecenas’ were empty, he could’ve seen everything.
Right now, he wasn’t seeing much. He was lying on his side on the floor, and his throat had been slit, and not by an expert.
The rattling sound didn’t bother me much. I wanted to watch him die. People usually paid for the privilege. And standing in the corner, holding a bloody knife, was Lupo, the giant, Lupo, the slave Caelius hid behind. He looked down at him, his eyes glazed, and watched his master’s blood drain.
I walked toward Caelius. I thought of Urien, and Gwyna, and I stood there, staring into his eyes. They knew better than to beg, but they did anyway. Then I thought of Galla. And I was glad it was slow, and messy.
Then I thought of Bilicho.
I knelt by the bastard, and propped him up. I said: “This is for myself, Caelius. You’re not worth mercy.”
I wrapped his open throat with a mantle still lying on the ground. He must’ve worn it when he killed Urien. He’d lost too much blood; I wouldn’t be able to save him, even if I could make myself. The rattling gasps were getting weaker.
“You’re on the way to hell, Caelius. You’ll get a senator’s seat for the games, finally-the ones that last forever. Maybe you’ll even be a main act.”
I leaned closer to his face. All I could smell was blood.
“Don’t drag along the innocent. Show some pity for once in your worthless, goddamn life. Maybe you’ll get a little yourself. I can’t give you any. You’re not good enough, and neither am I.”
The gasps were shorter now. The mantle was turning red. It wouldn’t be long.
“It’s your last chance. Save yourself a day’s worth of pain. Who did this to you? I know it wasn’t Lupo. He wouldn’t have been so sloppy.”
His eyes burned into mine. He still had a little fire left over for hate. But fear, fear of that dark place Romans see when they can’t sleep at night, the place of childhood nightmares and grown-up pain, crept behind them. He couldn’t talk, so he did what he could.
Grunting with pain and effort, he forced his fingers to crawl, groping toward a coin on the floor. It was a gold aureus, like the ones I’d found on Maecenas. They grasped it, and he closed his eyes, spent, and then opened them again. They were getting glassy. Then he opened his palm, the coin sweaty, and looked at me as if the doors were shutting at last. There were no peepholes in hell.
I closed his eyes. Lupo was still staring down, holding the knife, when I heard heavy breathing behind me, and running footsteps, and Mollius was there. The doors were shutting on all of us.
The vigil was out of breath. “My God, Arcturus. What happened?”
“Not what you think. I didn’t kill him. Neither did Lupo.” I stood up, and gently removed the knife from the big man’s hand. It was a short, thin blade of exquisite workmanship. Expensive. A collector’s piece.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“I was at your house. To tell you the curfew was lifted.” He was staring at Caelius still holding the coin in his palm.
“Where was Bilicho?”
“Out somewhere. Then the old man came by-he was going from house to house, I thought he was a beggar. Draco recognized him, and he told us Urien had been killed and you’d gone to see Caelius Prato.”
“Caelius killed Urien.”
“How do you know?”
“Ask the old man. Urien sent Caelius a message to come see him, he did, and that’s the last Meuric saw Urien alive. Then Caelius came back here, met someone who can afford beautiful daggers, demanded more money, got it for a few seconds, and then collected a little interest.”
Pigeon-Chest was standing behind the door, his jaw open.
“You there. Come in here.”
He obeyed.
“Your master is dead.”
He was silent for a few minutes, his puffy chest heaving. Then he looked up. “I’m glad he’s dead.” He and Lupo met each other’s eyes for a moment.
“Did you see anything?”
He shook his head. “He left this morning when the old man came, and was nervous-like when he got back. Paced up and down, up and down, in this room. Told me to go downstairs and stay there.”
“Any other slaves? Girls downstairs?”
“Only three left. He’s been selling them off for labor. Wanted a whole new group next year-he’s been boasting about making the place into a real palace.”
“Anyone else?”
“Just me and Grotius. The one who runs the bar. We keep to ourselves and do what he says. He’s got ways to make you hurt.” The little man shivered.
“Did anyone else come in?”
He thought a minute. “No one by the front way. Except you. But before that, I heard him go down the backstairs. I think he came up with someone else, because I heard him raise his voice a little.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“No. He sounded scared.” He said it with amazement. The slave killer had been scared of something.
“Then it was quiet again. Then Lupo said he was going upstairs to ask him.” He turned toward the big man, who looked small huddled in the corner, staring at his reflection in the puddle of blood.
“Why did you come upstairs, Lupo? What did you want to ask him?”
He spoke heavily. “To sell me. But I saw man leaving-down back stairs. Very quiet. So I knock. No answer. Then I open door.” His eyes kept getting pulled back to Caelius’ half-sawn throat.
“Could you see the face of the man who left?”
He shook his massive head, and blinked his one eye. “It was covered. Dark cloak, very fine.”
“Why did you pick up the knife?”
“Don’t know.”
Mollius spoke quietly. “I’m going to have to report this, Arcturus.”
“They’ll arrest Lupo.”
“I know.”
The giant was still staring dumbly at the body. It was strange to see something you’d dreamed of doing happen, done by someone else.
“Do what you have to do, Mollius. We’ll all do what we have to do.”
He reddened for a moment, studied me, and turned on his heel and left. A shrill whistle was starting to escape from somewhere inside Pigeon-Chest.
“But if he’s arrested, they’ll kill all of us! All of us!”
“Did you ever see him speak to a thin, dark soldier? A legionary?”
He was wringing his hands together and starting to yelp. “They’ll kill us, they’ll torture us!”
I slapped him across the face, and he quieted down. “Did you see such a soldier?”
“I-I think so.”
“He liked to wear a bright gold pin and a green scarf.”
“Y-yes. I know the one. He’s been here, off and on, for a few months. And-and the night before the Syrian came, he-the Master-told me to take a message to the soldier. To come here.”
“That was when?”
“Last day of the Saturnalia. We had a big party.”
“Did you go to the fort?”
He nodded.
“Did the soldier come?”
“He got here late, but we still had lots of people because of the festival. He talked to the Master for a long time. Then he came back the next day, and was here when the Syrian arrived. He went straight upstairs to see him. I don’t know how long he stayed.”
“Did you give that end room to the Syrian on purpose?”
“The M-Master told me to. And all the rooms in between this one and it, he told me to keep empty.”
The peepholes. Every room would have them. “Did you see him again? The soldier.”
“No. I didn’t see him that-that night. I-I cleaned up the room, though, afterward. He told us to tell anyone who asked that the Syrian had left. And-and he hit Stricta. I think he was angry, because she saw something that night, but she never told us.”