Chapter XXIII

 

 

 

Poison is drunk from cups of gold. – Seneca, Thyestes

 

Antioch

 

"Lucian!" Timon’s cry has an otherworldly quality as it reverberates down the passageway leading to Lucian’s chambers. Reclined for dining, he is poised to consume a most succulent bird’s egg. "Lucian!" The voice echoes, still more urgently. Lucian glazes longingly at his beautifully worn copy of Homer. Once again, Odysseus will set sail without him.

The light of Timon’s lamp casts dark fingers along the walls, growing toward him like some night-winged bird meaning to wrap him in colossal talons. Emerging breathless from bowels of the creature, his voice is strangely small beyond the amplifying confines of the passageway. An oil lamp clutched in one hand, he shelters its fragile flame with the other. "The Governor is dead!"

Lucian places the untouched egg gently on the table.

 

* * * * *

 

The officer of the watch glares suspiciously as Lucian approaches the entrance to the Governor’s chambers. "What’s your business here?" He blocks Lucian’s path, looking him up and down as though he carries disease.

"My capacity is official."

"Really? My mother is the fucking Emperor."

Lucian empathizes. A dead governor is a very bad thing for that governor’s personal guard. This man’s concern of the moment is that when the heads begin to roll, his should not be among them. Lucian withdraws a pace and motions to Timon that they should await the arrival of the Reginus Ferox. After several minutes of watching the guard squeezing the life out of the handle of the sword slung over his hip, Lucian decides to try again. "It’s all been arranged, actually. I’m a lawyer. The Frumentarii asked for me to come. I must take possession of certain legal documents." The reference to the Frumentarii has no apparent impact. The guard’s expression shows marginally less certainty, but an incremental increase in hostility. "We’ll wait," Lucian adds unnecessarily.

Reginus Ferox arrives, flanked by two torch-bearing legionaries. Ferox is the centurion of the city Frumentarii detachment. He is all bulk, a man whose head is connected directly to his shoulders without the intermediation of a neck, creating the impression of a bullfrog in uniform, or that the Minotaur has escaped the labyrinth and joined the legions. He greets Lucian and Timon with a nod of recognition and speaks commandingly to his escort. "These two go in. No one else unless I say so." He looks intently at the guard, who seems to wilt under closer inspection. "I’ll interrogate you myself."

Ferox motions for them to accompany him through the archway to the Governor’s chambers. Lucian takes minor delight in offering the guard a pitying look. Once inside he turns to Ferox. "Thank you, centurion. Could you light as many lamps as you can find?" Ferox grunts crossly but does as bidden. The increase in illumination reveals luxurious accommodation, a salon walled in paintings based on scenes from literature. The room is dominated by a representation of the god Apollo communing with the Muses while they observe a battle unfolding upon the earth. On another wall, Clio the muse of history is busy writing with her stylus recording heroic deeds, while her sister Melopomene wields a dagger and sceptre in high tragic fashion. And Calliope the muse of heroic poetry puts the action into verse, while in the distance the Parcae busy themselves cutting short the lives of the fallen.

The floor is white marble inlaid with mosaic scenes of Poseidon and a host of fantastic sea creatures. Libo lies upon a circular bed covered in expensive white silk, his head resting on one arm. The other arm is clutched tight to his abdomen, legs curled up into his chest. Dishes and other objects are strewn about the floor. A wine goblet lies amid a pool of purple liquid splashed across the mosaics. Lucian’s nose catches the scent of vomit and sour wine. "Fetch the Egyptian," he says to Timon, averting his eyes from the dead man. "Tell him we are interested in poisons." Timon hurries away, a stricken expression now seemingly a permanent fixture of his features.

"You suspect poison?" Ferox says, stating the obvious.

Lucian’s instinct to deliver a sarcastic rejoinder is overtaken by a wave of nausea. He flutters a hand in the direction of the pool on the floor. "I am not a physician," he says huskily, trying to keep from retching, "but Libo had no aversion to wine." He knows he should stride over close his friend’s staring eyes but … "The Egyptian will know..." The words tumble out weakly as he takes a seat on a marble bench to regain his composure.

Reginus Ferox regards Lucian with a mixture of sympathy and contempt. His expression says that only a Greek would permit himself such a display. They ignore one another as Lucian’s attention is divided between contemplation of the floor and the nearby corpse. At length he summons up a will, walks carefully to the bed and kneels, looking closely at Libo’s face. Indeed, it is he, and yet—the Libo of this world, full of wit and energy, always ready for the game—that Libo is not to be found here. He closes the dead man’s eyes. "My friend."

He musters a modicum of detachment and once again examines the scene. That Libo was poisoned, he has little doubt. Vomiting is a strong indication, the disorder in the room another. Libo likely thrashed about in his death throes. This would explain the broken vase and other glassware in the corner.

Other rooms adjoin the bedchamber. Lucian takes up an oil lamp and moves to inspect them. In one direction he finds an anteroom used to greet visitors, in the other he encounters a spacious office with a pair comfortable couches and a large chair. A heavy desk dominates the space, fronting a series of pigeonhole shelves containing numerous scrolls. In one section are larger scrolls with the polished wooden handles of imperial documents of state. In the next he finds piles of small parchments, which upon inspection are revealed to be petitions from the citizenry. The rest of the pigeonholes are stuffed with assorted reports from city and imperial officials.

Libo nurtured a reputation as a libertine and gambler, partly to annoy Roman prudes and partly to put his enemies off guard. That he nevertheless had a very disciplined and organized mind is reflected in this inner sanctum. Each collection of documents is labelled and placed in an orderly fashion. Lucian sets down his lamp and flips through them, ‘bequests to the city’, ‘sewer and road repair’, ‘water’, ‘land claims and disputes', 'temples and holy days’. A stream of ink and parchment constituting the lifeblood of a great city. Some, he remarks, seem oddly out of place. Rifled through quickly and not returned to their proper location.

Ferox pokes his head through the archway to the chamber. "I’ve just spoken to the wine taster. He claims to have sampled it with no ill effect, but I’ve put him in custody anyway. Who is this Egyptian?"

"Harnuphis. A physician, and a vendor of medicines and exotic plants. Let him work."

Ferox disappears and Lucian continues his perusal of the inner sanctum. There is much of interest, but nothing pertaining to the military or security—Libo’s major preoccupations as Governor. This suggests such documents are kept elsewhere. He begins to feel around the pigeonholes and the back of the desk.

With no other likely furniture in the room, his attention is drawn to an ornate bust of the Emperor Hadrian atop a heavy pedestal. Commemorating the Emperor’s visit to Antioch in the sixth year of his reign, the classical pose portrays the ruler in the guise of Hercules, the pelt of some unfortunate creature slung over one shoulder. Lucian notes that the Emperor wears a slightly pained expression as though some of the heroic laurels surrounding his head are sticking into his scalp. Libo must have thought it greatly humorous. The bust and the pedestal are covered with a thin layer of dust. Lucian bends to examine the pedestal more closely. Near the base of the statue he observes that the dust has been disturbed. He moves his lamp to the edge of the pedestal and lifts the statue. On so doing a circular centrepiece is revealed rising slowly upwards. In concert with this action the front portion of the pedestal opens downward revealing a cache of documents hidden within.

"Clever Libo," he says quietly. He places the bust on the desk and removes several clusters of parchments from the pedestal’s interior. One is a small bundle of field reports from regional legionary outposts. Herein he reads about sightings of Parthian auxiliaries and raiders. Another collection assembles reports from Libo’s agents. A series written in very bad Greek compels his attention.

"Today the lady P led a party of her actor friends and city notables to the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus to give offerings to the god and then to picnic in the nearby forest. Nothing of special interest happened. Earlier she travelled to nearby Seleucia to give offerings to the god at the great temple on the mountain. She is a regular devotee of the oracle there. Verus does not accompany her on these outings, evidently lacking her piety."

"P for Panthea …" He banishes her image from his mind.

"Loukianos …" A solemn voice calls out from the bedchamber. Lucian thumbs quickly through the remaining letters but discovers nothing further of interest. Returning to the bedchamber he finds Harnuphis bent over Libo’s lifeless corps. Lucian keeps his distance as the Egyptian examines the dead man's eyes and methodically inspects his limbs and fingers. "Your opinion," he says.

"Opinion?" The Egyptian echoes as he turns to inspect the pool of wine staining the mosaic where it fell from Libo’s final glass. Harnuphis is a striking figure in a black robe that falls across one shoulder leaving the other bare and exposing his arm and torso, well-muscled for a man of his years. His nose is hooked where was broken in a fight in his youth. He is completely bald, his eyes highlighted with kohl in the Egyptian fashion. "I think I will experiment."

Harnuphis moves to a side table where he has placed a covered wicker basket. He opens the lid and withdraws a small white mouse. He holds the mouse up to Lucian in one hand. The creature sniffs the air behind twitching whiskers. "A son of Sekhmet.”

"Sekhmet the god?"

"Of what use are gods in such circumstances? Sekhmet was my first.”

“First …”

“Mouse, of course. The mice I use, scores of subsequent generations, are either the sons or daughters of Sekhmet. As you know, white mice are best."

Lucian permits himself a small eye roll. "I’m sure you are never lonely, Harnuphis. How can this particular progeny of Sekhmet assist us?"

"Patience, sceptic master. Observe." He reaches into a pouch hanging from his shoulder and withdraws a tiny metal spoon. Holding the son of Sekhmet in his free hand he kneels next to the pool of spilled wine and dips the bowl of the spoon into it. With the mouse’s head firmly between his thumb and forefinger he forces the liquid down its throat and then balances the rodent on his upturned palm for Lucian to see. Feeling understandably violated, the mouse rubs its head vigorously with its forepaws in reaction to the unpleasant taste of the wine. After a minute of this it is again happily sniffing the air.

"The wine was not poisoned," Harnuphis announces with finality.

"What then?"

"The wine was delivered with goat cheese. The son of Sekmet will enjoy that." Harnuphis offers some of the cheese. The mouse samples it with no ill effect. "Something else perhaps."

Lucian lets him work. "Ferox, you asked the guard about visitors today."

"According to the guard, the Governor had two visitors in his chambers today. A lady and her servant."

"A lady?"

"She was apparently a remarkable beauty. He believes it was the Emperor’s consort, the lady Panthea."

"Who delivered the wine?"

"The servant who accompanied her."

"We will need to interview the servant."

"Agreed."

"Now here is something interesting." Harnuphis is on his hands and knees holding something with a pair of brass pincers. He stands and scrutinized the object by the light of an oil lamp. It is a small cutting of some kind of plant stem. Harnuphis reaches into the basket and once again withdraws a child of Sekhmet. He forces the tip of the stem into the rodent’s reluctant maw. The mouse sniffs and again washes itself furiously. This time, however, the motion of the paws does not subside but increases in speed. Soon the washing motions seem uncoordinated and morphed into violent thrashing. A final paroxysm and the mouse lies curled tightly in a ball, dead in the Egyptian’s hand.

"Alas, son of Sekhmet! He follows his ancestors in the service of truth." With his arm held straight out before him Harnuphis turns slowly to show the mouse to Timon and the centurion, both of whom look as though they have just beheld some terrible witchcraft. He places the tiny corpse gently on the table. "As you just witnessed, the poison acts very quickly on a mouse. His tiny system of blood and organs works at a miraculous rate of speed, and so he dies quickly. The Governor, alas, was not so lucky.

"With a gift of wine and cheese," he continues gravely, "it is appropriate to include a small garnish of fruit, including grapes. The poison was introduced into the grapes. I know not how, but that is the way of it. The evidence lies in this little piece of stem. By its own natural mechanisms the plant stem drew some of the poison from the grapes. It is still very potent. Witness the coming death of the son of Sekhmet."

"Coming death?"

"This is paralysis, but it will die soon enough."

Lucian stares at the helpless rodent in silent horror. "Can you tell what kind of poison?"

The Egyptian considers. "Difficult. Perhaps I will find out, but I think not. I fail to see why it should matter. We know the Governor died of poison. Surely the variety of poison is immaterial at this point?"

"I thought poisons tasted bad. Why wouldn’t Libo have noticed?"

"Perhaps he did. But one typically eats grapes by the handful. Only as they burst in the mouth does one discover the bad grape. By then it may be, as in this unfortunate instance, too late."

"How long?"

"Not long." Harnuphis waves his hand dismissively, "but not as quickly as our little colleague. I think that he would have been incapacitated within less than half an hour. First paralysis—living death. Then death within the hour."

The Egyptian places the grape stems in a small glass vial. "It was very fast acting. Had it not been so, the Governor would have no doubt have cried out for help." He turns to Ferox. "The guard heard nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Evidently he was unable to cry out. Paralysis as a symptom narrows the field somewhat. There is a flower that is named for the town of Jericho, there is an African nut that might do, or maybe the Star of Bethlehem? If it is a hybrid of some variety, we shall never know. There are sorcerers and magi who are known to dabble in such work. What we can be certain of is that if the Governor knew what hit him, he didn’t know it for long."

Timon makes a hand gesture invoking the protection of his gods. Harnuphis casually collects the dying Sekhmet along with his phials and instruments and places them carefully in a satchel which he slings over one shoulder. "By the way," he adds, "there was a note."

"Note?" Lucian and Ferox blurt simultaneously.

"Here it is." He grins like a Nile crocodile, as though keeping this tidbit of information to the end of his performance is a fine joke. "I found it under the bed, where no doubt it fell from his hand after he consumed the grapes." He hands Lucian a small square of fine papyrus.

The basket containing the remaining live sons of Sekhmet in one hand, with the other he takes up a formidable walking staff of reed leaning against the doorframe. "With your permission, master, I bid you farewell. If I learn anything further I will advise you." With a bow he is gone.

Lucian turns over the papyrus. The message is in Greek.

"Despite our disagreements I know your counsel is sound and well meant. Let there be no further discord between us or within our family. Meanwhile, enjoy this pleasure from the imperial cellar."

It is signed Verus.