The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley
Introduction
Return to the Crime Scene
The stories in this anthology cover over four thousand years of crime. We travel from the Bronze Age of 2300 BC to the eve of the Second World War, passing through ancient Greece and Rome, the Byzantine Empire, medieval Venice and seventh-century Ireland, before heading for Britain and the United States.
All except one of these stories are brand new, written especially for this anthology. This is my fifteenth anthology of historical crime and mystery fiction (for those interested there is a full list on the ‘Also in the series’ page), and this time I wanted to feature longer stories. This allows the author to concentrate on the historical setting, character and mindset of the period, so that not only do these stories present fascinating crimes and puzzles, but you also get to know the people and their world in more detail. There are twelve stories in this volume compared to the usual twenty or twenty-five; they are almost like mini-novels, allowing a greater understanding of the time.
I’ve also broadened the coverage. Rather than focus solely on a mystery and its solution, here we have a broader range of crimes and a wider variety of those trying to solve them. Hence you will find, among others, a young girl in Bronze Age Britain trying to understand whether a series of deaths over a period of time were accidental or deliberate; an icon-painter in ancient Byzantium, suddenly out of work when all icons are banned, who becomes embroiled in a case of deception; a priest-finder trying to track down attempted regicides; Charles Babbage and the young Ada Byron trying to crack a coded message and stop a master criminal; and New York detectives on the lookout for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
Your guides are twelve of the leading writers in historical crime fiction who are about to bring the past alive. Let us return to the scene of the crime.
– Mike Ashley
Archimedes and the Scientific Method
Tom Holt
Tom Holt is best known for his many humorous fantasy novels, which began with Expecting Someone Taller (1987) and include Who’s Afraid of Beowulf? (1988), Paint Your Dragon (1996) and The Portable Door (2003) – the last heralding the start of a series featuring the magic firm of J. Wellington Wells from Gilbert and Sullivan’s light opera The Sorcerer. But Holt is also a scholar of the ancient world and has written a number of historical novels including The Walled Garden (1997), Alexander at the World’s End (1999) and Song for Nero (2003).
The following story, which is the shortest in the anthology and so eases us in gently, features one of the best known of the ancient Greek scientists and mathematicians, Archimedes. He lived in the third century BC in the city of Syracuse, in Sicily, under the patronage of its ruler Hieron II. It is a shame that the one enduring image we all have of Archimedes is of him leaping out of his bath shouting “Eureka”, meaning “I have found it.” But it does encapsulate how Archimedes operated. When presented with a scientific problem he applied his whole self to it using scientific principles, many of which he had propounded. Archimedes unified much scientific theory into a coherent body of thought which allowed him to apply what he regarded as the scientific method. It probably made him the world’s first forensic investigator.
“No,” I told him. “Absolutely not.”
You don’t talk like that to kings, not even if they’re distant cousins, not even if they’re relying on you to build superweapons to fight off an otherwise unbeatable invader, not even if you’re a genius respected throughout the known world. It’s like the army. Disobeying a direct order is the worst thing you can possibly do, because it leads to the breakdown of the machine. You’ve got to have hierarchies, or you get chaos.
He looked at me. “Please,” he said.
He, for the record, was King Hiero the Second of Syracuse; my distant cousin, my patron and my friend. Even so. “No,” I said.
“Forget about the politics,” he said. “Just think of it as an intellectual problem. Come on,” he added, and that little-boy look somehow found its way back on to his face. Amazing, how he can still do that, after the life he’s lived. “You’ll enjoy it, you know you will. It’s a challenge. You like challenges. Isn’t that what it’s all about, finding answers to questions?”
“I’m busy,” I told him. “Really. I’m in the middle of calculating the square root of three. If I stop now—”
“The what of three what?”
“I’ll lose track and have to start all over again. Four years’ work, wasted. I can’t possibly drop that just to help out with some sordid little diplomatic issue.”
One of these days, people tell me, one of these days I’ll get myself into real trouble talking to important people like that. Don’t be so arrogant, people tell me. Who do you think you are, anyhow?
“Archimedes.” He wasn’t looking at me any more. He was staring down at his hands, folded in his lap. It was then I noticed something about him that I’d never realized before. He was getting old. The bones of the huge hands stood out rather more than they used to, and his wrists were getting thin. “No,” I said.
“You never know,” he went on, “it might lead to a great discovery. Like the cattle problem or the thing with the sand. Those were stupid little problems, and look where they ended up. For all you know, it could be your greatest triumph.”
I sighed. You think somebody knows you, and then they say something, and it’s obvious they don’t. “No,” I said. “Sorry, but that’s final. Get one of your smart young soldiers on to it. That Corinthian we had dinner with the other evening; sharp as a razor, that one; I’m sure he’d relish the chance to prove himself. You want someone with energy for a job like this. I’m so lazy these days I can hardly be bothered to get out of bed in the morning.”
He looked at me, and I could see I’d won. I’d left him no alternative but to use threats – do this or it’ll be the worse for you – and he’d decided he didn’t want to go there. In other words, he valued our friendship more than the security of the nation.
“Oh, all right,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
*
The extraordinary thing about human beings is their similarity. We’re so alike. Dogs, cows, pigs, goats, birds come in a dazzling array of different shapes and sizes, while still being recognizable as dogs, cows, pigs, goats, birds. Human beings scarcely vary at all. The height difference between the unusually short and the abnormally tall is trivial compared with other species. The proportions are remarkably constant – the head is always one-eighth of the total length, the width of the outstretched arms is always the same as the length of a single stride, and the stride is so uniform that we can use it as an accurate measurement of distance. Human beings have two basic skin colours, three hair colours, and that’s it. Just think of all the colours chickens come in. It’s a miracle we can ever tell each other apart.
That said, I can’t stand Romans. They’re practically identical to us in size, shape, skin and hair colour, and facial architecture. Quite often you can’t tell a Roman from a Syracusan in the street – no surprise, when you think how long Greeks and Italians have shared Sicily. I’ve known Romans who can speak Greek so well you wouldn’t know they weren’t born here; not, that is, unless you listen to what they actually say.
It’s ridiculous, therefore, to take exception to a subsection of humanity that’s very nearly indistinguishable from my own subsection; particularly foolish when you consider that I’m supposed to be a scientist, governed by logic rather than emotion, and by facts susceptible to proof rather than intuition and prejudice. Still, there it is. I can’t be doing with the bastards, and that’s all there is to it.
Partly, I guess, my dislike stems from the fact that they’re taking over the world, and nobody seems willing or able to stop them. Hiero tried, and he couldn’t do it. They smashed his Carthaginian allies, and he was forced to snuggle up and sign a treaty with the Roman smile and the Roman hobnailed boot. Not sure which of those I detest most, by the way. Probably the smile.
Needless to say, the problem Hiero had just blackmailed me into investigating was all about Romans. One Roman in particular. His name was Quintus Caecilius Naso, diplomatic attaché to the Roman delegation to the court of King Hiero, and what he’d done to make trouble for Syracuse (and perplexity for me) was to turn up, extremely dead, in a large storage jar full of pickled sprats, on the dockside at Ostia, when he should have been alive and healthy in the guest quarters of the royal palace at Syracuse.
Quintus Caecilius Naso – why Romans have to have three names when everybody else manages perfectly well with one is a mystery to me – was, at the time of his death, a thirty-six-year-old army officer, from a noble and distinguished family, serving as part of a delegation engaged in negotiating revisions to the treaty Hiero had been bounced into signing twenty years ago; in other words, he was here to bully my old friend into making yet more concessions, and I know for a fact that Hiero was deeply unhappy about the situation. However, he’d managed to claw back a little ground, and it looked as though there was a reasonable chance of lashing together a compromise and getting rid of the Romans relatively painlessly, when Naso suddenly disappeared.
I never met the man, but by all accounts he wasn’t the disappearing sort. Far too much of him for that. He wasn’t tall, but he was big; a lot of muscle and a lot of fat was how people described him to me, just starting to get thin on top, a square jaw floating on a bullfrog double-chin; incongruously small hands at the end of arms like legs. His party trick was to pick up a flute-girl with one hand, lift her up on his shoulder and take her outside for a relatively short time. He was never drunk and never sober, he stood far too close when he was talking to you, and he had, by all accounts, a bit of a temper.
He was last seen alive at a drinks party held at his house by Agathocles, our chief negotiator. It was a small, low-key affair; three of ours, three Romans, four cooks, two servers, two flute-girls. Agathocles and his two aides drank moderately, as did two of the Romans. Naso got plastered. Since he was the ranking diplomat on the Roman side, very little business was transacted prior to Naso being in no fit state; his two sidekicks clearly felt they lacked the authority to continue when their superior stopped talking boundaries and demilitarized zones and started singing along with the flautists and our three were just plain embarrassed. When Naso grabbed one of the girls – he dropped her, and had to use both hands – and wandered off into the courtyard with her, the rest of the party broke up by unspoken mutual consent and went home. Agathocles went into the inner room to bed. The Romans’ honour guard – a dozen marines from the ship they arrived on – stayed where they were, surrounding the house. Their orders were to escort Naso back to the palace. But Naso didn’t appear, so they stood there all night, assuming he’d fallen asleep somewhere. They were still standing there, at attention, when the sun rose. At this point, Naso’s secretary came bustling up; the great man was due in a meeting, where was he? The guards didn’t have the authority to wake him up, but the secretary did. He went inside, then looked round the courtyard, which didn’t take long. No sign of Naso, or the wretched girl. The secretary then made the guards search Agathocles’ house. Nothing.
The secretary and the guard-sergeant had a quick, panic-stricken conference and decided that Naso must’ve slipped past the guards with the girl – why he should want to do that, neither of them could begin to imagine – and was presumably shacked up with her somewhere, intending to re-emerge in his own good time. This constituted a minor diplomatic insult to us, of course, since the meeting had to be adjourned, and our side came to the conclusion that it was intended as a small act of deliberate rudeness, to put us in our place. If we made a fuss about it, we’d look petty-minded. If we said nothing, we’d be tacitly admitting we deserved to be walked all over. It was just the sort of thing Naso tended to do, and it had always worked well for him in the past.
But Naso didn’t show up; not for three weeks. The atmosphere round the negotiating table quickly went from awkward to dead quiet to furiously angry. What had we done with Caecilius Naso? A senior Roman diplomat doesn’t just vanish into thin air. It really didn’t help that Agathocles had been the host. He’d been doing his job rather well, digging his heels in, matching the Romans gesture for gesture, tantrum for tantrum; angry words had been spoken, tables thumped, and then Agathocles had asked Naso round for drinks and Naso had disappeared. Without him, the talks simply couldn’t continue. Ten days after the disappearance, the Roman garrisons on our borders mobilized and conducted unscheduled manoeuvres, as close to the frontiers as they could get without actually crossing them. Cousin Hiero had his soldiers turn the city upside down, but they found nothing. The Roman diplomats went home without saying goodbye. Their soldiers stayed on the border. Then, just as we were starting to think it couldn’t get any worse, Naso turned up again.
He made his dramatic re-entry when the swinging arm of the crane winching a great big jar of sprats off the bulk freighter snapped, on the main dock at Ostia, in front of about a thousand witnesses. The jar fell on the stone slabs and smashed open, and out flopped Naso. He was still in the full diplomatic dress he’d worn to the party, so it was immediately obvious that he was someone important in the military. He was quickly identified, and a fast courier galley was immediately launched, to tell us the bad news.
*
“Presumably,” Orestes said, “it was the extra weight that snapped the crane. A man’s got to weigh a damn sight more than his own volume in sprats.”
Orestes was the bright young Corinthian I’d proposed as my substitute. Instead, he’d been assigned to me as sidekick-in-chief. He was tall, skinny, gormless-looking and deceptively smart, with a surprisingly scientific cast of mind. “So what?” I said.
He offered me a drink, which I refused, and poured one for himself. My wine, of course. “This whole sprat business,” he said. “It’s got to mean something, it’s too bizarre otherwise.”
“Bizarre, I grant you,” I said. “But meaningful …”
“Has to be.” He nodded firmly. “Abducting and murdering a Roman emissary at a diplomatic function,” he went on, “has got to be a statement of some kind. Bottling him and sending him home must, therefore, be a refinement of that statement.”
“Expressive of contempt, you mean.”
“Must be.” He frowned at his hands. A nail-biter. “That’s not good for us, is it?”
“The crane,” I reminded him.
“What? Oh, right. I was just thinking, the timing of the discovery of the body. If the crane hadn’t broken, the jar would’ve been loaded on a cart and taken to Rome. It had been ordered by—” He looked up his notes. “Philippus Longinus,” he recited, “freedman, dealer and importer in wholesale foodstuffs. Disclaims all knowledge, et cetera. They’ve got him locked up, of course.”
“Greek?”
“Doesn’t say,” Orestes replied, “but he’s a freedman with a half-Greek name, so presumably yes. Loads of Greek merchants in Rome nowadays. Anyhow, in the normal course of business that jar of sprats would’ve stayed in his warehouse for months.” His eyebrows, unusually thick, lowered and squashed together. “Which makes no sense.”
I nodded slowly. “If you’re right about the murder as a statement,” I replied.
“Unless,” Orestes went on, looking up sharply, “whoever did it knew the extra weight would break the crane, in which case—” He looked at me, and sighed. “A bit far-fetched?”
“As wine from Egypt,” I said. “Of course,” I went on, “someone could’ve sawed the beam part-way through.”
“That’s—” He looked at me again. “You’re teasing me,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Fine. In that case, it makes no sense.”
“If,” I reminded him, “we approach the problem from the diplomatic-statement direction, as you seem determined to do.”
He gave me a respectfully sour look. “In the circumstances …”
He had a point, of course. “It would seem logical to assume that it’s something to do with politics and diplomacy,” I conceded.
“Exactly. So we should start from there.” I sighed. “No,” I said. “We should start from the beginning.”
*
We took a walk. On the way there, we discussed various topics – Pythagoras, the nature of light, the origin of the winds – and paused from time to time to let me rest my ankle, which hasn’t been right since I fell down the palace steps. We reached Agathocles’ house just before midday, a time when I was fairly sure he’d be out.
“I’m sorry,” the houseboy confirmed. “He’s at the palace. Can I tell him who called?”
“We’ll wait,” I said firmly.
*
Of course I’d been there before, many times. I knew that Agathocles lived in his father’s old house, and his father had been nobody special, a cheese merchant who was shrewd enough to buy into a grain freighter when the price was right, and then reinvest in land so his son could be a gentleman. I can only suppose Agathocles liked the place; happy childhood memories, or something of the sort. It was a small house, surrounded by a high wall, on the edge of the industrial quarter. If you stood on the street outside the front door, you could smell the tannery round the corner, or the charcoal smoke from the sickle-blade factory, or the scent of drying fish on the racks a hundred yards north. An unkind friend described it as pretentiously unpretentious, and I’m tempted to agree. Inside, you could barely move for statues, fine painted pottery, antique bronze tripods. It looked rather more impressive than it was because the rooms were so small, but even so, the collection represented a substantial amount of money, leaving you in no doubt that the great man lived where he did because he wanted to, not because he couldn’t afford anything better.
It was an old-fashioned house, too; rounded at one end, with two main rooms, for living and sleeping. The upstairs room, more of a storage loft than a gentleman’s chamber, was presumably a legacy of Agathocles’ father’s business activities, a dry and airy place to store cheeses, with a door opening into thin air, like you see in haylofts. The house stood in the middle of a larger-than-usual courtyard, half of which had been laid out as a garden, with trellised vines and fruit trees, herb beds and an ostentatious row of cabbages. The other half, shaded by a short, wide fig tree, was for sitting and talking in, and a very attractive space it made. It was surrounded, as I just told you, by a wall, and the reports said that on the fatal evening, the guards had stood all round the outside of the wall, with a sergeant minding the gate.
“Not good,” Orestes said sadly. “Not good at all.”
I concurred. I could see no way in which anyone could have scaled the wall – coming in or going out – without being seen by the guards, even in the dark; also there were sconces set in the wall for torches, and hooks for lanterns, and the report said that the courtyard had been lit up that night. Well nigh impossible, therefore, for Naso to have slipped out past the guards; equally implausible that anyone else could have climbed in to kill him.
“Bad,” Orestes said.
“Quite. If Naso was killed—”
He looked at me. “If?”
“If,” I repeated, then shrugged. “It must have been one of the people in the house at the time. Agathocles, his two aides, the two Romans, or the domestics. As you say,” I added, “bad for us.”
Orestes walked to the foot of the wall and stood on tiptoe. “Then how did they get rid of the body?” he said.
I smiled. “That,” I said, “is probably the only thing standing between us and war.”
He jumped up, trying to grab the top of the wall. He was a tall man, like I said. He couldn’t do it. “Maybe they hid the body,” he said, “and came back later.”
I shook my head. “Naso’s secretary and the guard-sergeant searched the house,” I reminded him. “And it’s not like there’s many places you could hide a body. I’m morally certain that Naso was off the premises when the house was searched.”
“But the guards were still in place. They’d have noticed.”
“Yes,” I said, and sat down, slowly and carefully, under Agathocles’ rather splendid fig tree. My neck isn’t quite as supple as it used to be, so I couldn’t lean back as far as I’d have liked.
“You think,” Orestes interpreted, “the body was in the tree?”
I smiled at him. “The outer branches overhang the wall,” I said, “And it’s a fact that when people are looking for something, they quite often don’t bother to glance up. But no, I don’t think so. Even if you were standing in the upstairs door—”
“What? You know, I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Which proves my point,” I said smugly. “You didn’t look up. I noticed that door as soon as I walked though the gate, but I don’t think it’s relevant in any way. It’s nowhere near the wall, and it’s too far for anybody, even a really strong man, to throw a dead body from there to the tree.” I frowned, as a thought slipped quietly into my mind, like a cat curling up on your lap. “We ought to take another look inside,” I said. “I believe our problem is that we’ve been searching for what isn’t there rather than paying due attention to what is. Also,” I added, “we suffer from the disadvantage of noble birth and civilized upbringing.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I’ll tell you when I’ve worked it out.”
*
We snooped round the house for a while, ending up in the upstairs room. Nothing obvious had caught my eye; no bloodstains, or tracks in the dust to show where a body had been dragged. I sat down on an ancient cheese press, while Orestes sat at my feet on a big coil of rope, the image of the great philosopher’s respectful disciple. That made me feel like a complete fraud, of course.
“A grown man,” I said, “walks out of a drinking party—”
“Staggers out of a drinking party.”
“True,” I said. “But he was used to being drunk. And he took the flute-girl. What about her, by the way?”
“What about her?”
“Has she turned up? Or has nobody thought to ask?”
Orestes shrugged. “I expect that if she’d been found they’d have held her for questioning.”
That made me frown. Call me squeamish if you like; I don’t like the notion, enshrined in the law of every Greek city, that a slave’s evidence can only be admissible in a court of law if it’s been extracted under torture. It gave the wretched girl an excellent motive for running away, that was for sure – assuming, that is, that she knew that something bad had happened, and she was likely to be wanted as a witness. “Let’s consider that,” I said. “I’m assuming Hiero’s had soldiers out looking for her.”
Orestes grinned. “Fair enough. I wouldn’t imagine it’d be an easy search. For a start, how would they know who to look for?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Explain,” I said.
“One slave-girl looks pretty much like another.”
“But her owner—” I paused. “Who owns her? Do we know?”
Orestes took another look at his notes. “One Syriscus. Freedman, keeps a stable of cooks and female entertainers, hires them out for parties and functions. Quite a large establishment.”
I nodded. “So it’s not certain that Syriscus himself would recognise her. It’d be an overseer or a manager who’d have regular contact with the stock-in-trade.”
“Presumably.”
“And he,” I went on, “gives a description to the patrol sergeants: so high, dark hair, so on and so forth. Probably a description that’d fit half the young women in Syracuse. So the chances of finding her, if she doesn’t want to be found—”
Orestes nodded. “Pity, that,” he said. “Our only possible witness.”
“And if she had seen anything,” I went on, “and if she managed to get outside the wall – if she had the sense she was born with she’d run and keep on running.” I sighed. “She must’ve got out somehow, or she’d have been found. Now we’ve got two inexplicable escapes instead of one.”
“Unless,” Orestes pointed out reasonably, “they escaped together.”
I shook my head. “A joint venture,” I said. “Co-operation in the achievement of a common purpose. I don’t think so. Naso gets drunk and fancies a quick one with the first girl he can lay his hands on. He carries her outside, they do the deed, and then they put their heads together and figure out a way of scaling the wall and evading the guards, something beyond the wit of us two distinguished scientists. And we’re sober. No, I don’t think so at all.”
Orestes nodded. “So?”
“So,” I concluded, “I don’t think Naso got out; I think he was got out by a person or persons unknown. In which case, the girl was got out too.”
“Because she was a witness?”
I shrugged. “Why not just kill her and leave her lying?” I asked. “Come to that, why disappear Naso, rather than just cut his throat and save the bother of moving the corpse over such a discouragingly formidable series of obstacles? And as for the jar of sprats—” I shook my head. “Words fail me,” I said.
Orestes grinned at me. “I think,” he said, “that Naso climbed out and took the girl with him over the wall. No, listen,” he added, as I started to object. “I can’t tell you how he might have done it, but he was a soldier, maybe he was good at silently climbing walls and evading guards. Maybe he thought it’d be a lark. Anyway, he and the girl sneak out somehow. And once he’s outside, roaming around the city, that’s when he’s killed and stuck in the jar, which happens to be the handiest hiding-place at the time.”
“Motive?”
“How about robbery?” Orestes said hopefully. “Nothing political, just everyday commercial crime. You get an honest hard-working footpad who sees this richly dressed drunk weaving his way through the Grand Portico in the middle of the night. Our footpad jumps the drunk, but the drunk’s a soldier and he fights back, so the footpad hits him a bit harder than he’d normally do and kills him. In a panic, he drags the body into a nearby warehouse and dumps it in a suitable jar.”
I was impressed. “Which reminds me,” I said. “Do we know who the jar belonged to? We know who the buyer in Rome was, but how about the seller?”
Orestes consulted his notes. “Stratocles,” he said. “General merchant.”
I nodded. “I know him,” I said. “He’s got a warehouse—” I frowned. “Address?”
Orestes looked up at me. “Just round the corner from here,” he said.
“At last.” I smiled. “Something that actually makes a bit of sense. All right,” I went on, “this robbery hypothesis of yours.”
“It fits all the known facts.”
“It covers them,” I pointed out, “like a drover’s coat. It’s not what you’d call a tailored fit.”
Orestes gave me an ‘all-right, be like that’ look. “It covers the known facts,” he said. “And it has the wonderful merit of being nothing to do with politics and diplomacy, which gets Syracuse off the hook. Also,” he added, with a rather more serious expression, “it’s the only explanation we’ve got, unless we’re prepared to entertain divine intervention.”
I stood up. “Well done,” I said. “You know, I told Hiero you’d be perfectly capable of dealing with this business on your own. But would he listen?”
“Did you really?”
“At any rate,” I said, as I walked to the open door that led to nothing at all and cautiously peered out, “it’s a working hypothesis. Of course, you’ve missed out the one thing that might just possibly prove your case.”
He looked startled. “Have I?”
I grinned and pointed at the coil of rope. “You’re sitting on it,” I said.
His eyes grew round and wide. “Of course,” he said. “Naso threw this rope into the tree!”
I picked the iron clamp off the cheese press. “Possibly using this as an improvised grappling hook.”
“And they climbed along the rope to the tree, and dropped down from the overhanging branch on to the other side of the wall.”
“Having chosen a spot, or a moment, with no guard present. Quite,” I said. “Solved your mystery for you. Of course,” I added, “you haven’t yet explained how the rope and the clamp got back in here, neatly coiled up and put away.”
“Damn,” he said. “Does that spoil my case?”
I smiled at him. “No,” I said. “It makes it interesting.”
*
The next day I thought about my king, my patron and my friend, Hiero of Syracuse, and the Romans. I also thought about war, and truth. Then I sent out for a secretary – I get cramp in my wrist these days if I write much – and dictated a report on the case. It was essentially Orestes’ theory, though I left out the rope and the cheese press, and a few other things. I fleshed it out a bit, for the benefit of any Romans who might read it (I felt sure that some would), with various observations of a scientific nature. Human strength, for example, and the limitations thereof. Agathocles, I pointed out, was a small man, past middle age. Even if he’d been able to murder a seasoned Roman soldier (by attacking him when his back was turned, for example), there was no way he could’ve disposed of the body, not without help. Such help could only have come from the domestics, since his two advisers and the remaining Romans had left the party together. As for the domestics – the cooks – they’d been thoroughly interrogated in the proper manner, were slaves, could hardly speak Greek and had never been to Agathocles’ house before. They left shortly after the guests, and they all agreed that none of them had been out of the others’ sight all evening. It was just possible that Agathocles, having murdered Naso, could have suborned them all – it would’ve had to be all of them – with bribes to help him with the body, but I left it to the common sense of the reader to conclude that it was highly unlikely. If Agathocles had wanted to kill Naso, surely he’d have laid a better plan and made sure he had his helpers in place before the event, rather than relying on recruiting slaves he’d never met before. The same, I more or less implied, held true of the servers, who were also from Syriscus’ agency. As for the flute-girls, including the one carried off by Naso, they could be ruled out straight away, since mere slips of girls wouldn’t have been capable of manhandling Naso’s substantial body. Therefore, I concluded, if Naso hadn’t been removed from the house by anybody else, he must’ve removed himself. That proposition established, the likeliest reconstruction of events, I suggested, was the one set forth in my report.
I concluded by praising the energy and intelligence of my colleague, Orestes of Corinth, in the investigation. I had three copies made and sent one to Hiero as soon as the ink was dry.
*
What, after all, is truth? In a court of law, it’s a narrative of certain events which a majority of the jury believe to be accurate. In science, it’s a hypothesis that fits (or at least covers) all the known facts without contravening any of the established laws of nature. In mathematics, it’s the inevitable product of the component variables. In the subscience of history, it’s the most plausible explanation of the undisputed evidence. In diplomacy, it’s a version acceptable to both parties and incapable of being disproved.
*
Hiero sent my report to Rome, along with a request that the negotiations be resumed. The Romans replied with a new team of negotiators, headed by one Publius Laurentius Scaurus, a man of whom even I had heard.
“It’s an honour,” Scaurus said to me, having backed me into a corner at the official reception, “and a tremendous privilege to meet you. What can I say? You’re my hero. The greatest living philosopher.”
His breath smelt of onions. “Thank you,” I said.
“Your experiment with the golden crown—”
“Actually,” I really didn’t want to hear him sing my praises, “I was rather taken with your latest effort. Mechanical advantage, wasn’t it? The application of balanced forces in opposing vectors?”
He blushed red as a winestain. “You’ve actually read my paper?”
“Of course,” I said. “Excellent work. And it happens to be a field in which I’ve dabbled quite a bit myself.”
“Dabbled,” he repeated. “You’ve only written the most significant monograph on the subject in human history. Your wonderful dictum—”
I raised my hand, not really wanting to hear my wonderful dictum, but he ignored me. “‘Give me a firm place to stand’, you said, ‘and I can move the Earth.’ Inspirational.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t say that.”
“Excuse me?”
“What I said was,” I told him, “something along the lines of ‘if a fellow had a really solid place to stand on and a long enough bit of good, strong wood, there’s no reason I can see why he shouldn’t be able to move something really quite big.’ Not the same thing at all,” I added, smiling. “Actually, I prefer your version. Much neater.”
“Thank you,” he said, frowning. “Of course, my little paper’s really only a series of footnotes to yours. The truly groundbreaking conceptual thinking—”
“You’re here as a negotiator?” I asked. “In place of poor Naso.”
He sighed. “A great man,” he said. “We miss him.”
“You read my report,” I said. “About his disappearance?”
He tried to look surprised. “That was your report? Well, I suppose I should’ve known. Very persuasive, of course, and the evidence presented with such clarity—”
“It was signed,” I said. “Perhaps you didn’t read the first line.”
Eventually someone rescued me, and I hobbled away into a corner and hid behind a couple of tall colonels until we were called in to dinner.
*
On the first day of the negotiations, Scaurus raised the question of his predecessor’s death.
A report had been received, he said, in which King Hiero tried to make out that Naso had been, in effect, responsible for his own death; that he’d crept furtively away from a party held in his honour, somehow evading the guards provided at his own request for his own protection, scrambling over a high wall – which Caecilius Naso could never have done, he pointed out, having been severely wounded in battle in the service of his country, as a result of which he walked with a pronounced limp, something which anybody who had ever met him couldn’t possibly have helped noticing. The report, he went on, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation, was nothing less than an insult to the memory of a loyal and valiant officer, propagated by the very people who had brought about his death, in a callous attempt to disrupt the peace process which the Roman people had worked so hard to bring about.
I was there, at Hiero’s insistence. I got as far as opening my mouth, but then Scaurus started up again.
Fortuitously, he continued, a thorough investigation had been conducted by a team of dedicated Roman public servants, including Naso’s private secretary, the guard commander and a commission of officers of propraetorian rank – one of whom he had the honour to be. He was therefore in a position to prove that Naso was murdered, in cold blood, by a trained assassin acting on the orders of the criminal Agathocles, who in turn was carrying out the direct command of King Hiero himself, with the intention of subverting the peace process. The assassin, one Maurisca, a young woman of exceptional strength and agility, presently in custody in Rome, had been disguised as a flute-girl, in which guise she was introduced to Naso at the party. Naso, plied by his host with wine far stronger than that to which he was accustomed, was enveigled into following the assassin to the upstairs room of the house. There she murdered him. Then, with a view to covering up the crime and allowing Syracuse to evade the proper wrath of the Roman people, she proceeded to dispose of the body.
No doubt (this appalling man went on) the Syracusan delegates had read King Hiero’s so-called report; in which case, they must recall that the upper room of the house was some ten feet from a substantial fig tree, whose branches overhung the outer wall. What the report neglected to mention was the presence in the loft of a number of highly significant artefacts, amongst which: a cheese press of considerable weight – the long, stout handles used to turn the screw of the said press during the whey reduction process; a coil of strong, fine rope. These apparently mundane objects, he thundered, were all that were needed to construct a rudimentary but effective crane, by the use of which the assassin shifted Naso’s lifeless corpse through the open door of the upper room and into the branches of the tree. Thereafter, it was an easy matter for the assassin – previously trained as an acrobatic dancer – to leave the house, enter the courtyard, and, using the rope or a section thereof, lower Naso’s body over the wall, at a distance there from enabling her to escape detection. Continuing, she dropped from the tree to the ground and dragged the body over a paved pathway on which she knew no trace would be left, to some point nearby, where accomplices awaited her with a cart or some similar vehicle. Said accomplices proceeded to dispose of the body by breaking into the nearest warehouse and placing it in a large storage jar, possibly with the intention of returning later and recovering it for more permanent disposal. If that was their intention, presumably they were frustrated in it by the search of the neighbourhood insisted on by the Roman delegation.
And then the obnoxious Scaurus turned round and pointed straight at me, and went on: “You may feel, fellow delegates, that such an operation, such a feat of engineering, would be difficult to achieve. The Syracusans would, no doubt, like you to believe that it would be impossible. No doubt. I believe that the very complexity – I might say the implausibility of the scheme – was a fundamental part of its design. The Syracusans want you to believe that there was no way the body, once dead, could have been removed from that place; therefore, they argue, Naso must have left the house alive, in the manner they describe in the report. But, as we have seen, their explanation is not only highly unlikely, in the light of what we know of Caecilius Naso’s exemplary character, but actually impossible, because of his war wound. We have, of course, the evidence of the assassin herself, obtained and confirmed under torture before a magistrate. But even without her evidence, the matter speaks for itself. Having disproved the purportedly straightforward version offered by the Syracusans, we have no alternative but to conclude that Naso was dead when he left the house; in which case, it is an unavoidable conclusion that some form of mechanical artifice was used to remove him, and that artifice was constructed from the materials later found in the upper room. And if anybody wishes to argue that those materials were inadequate for the purpose, I say this: to any ordinary man – perhaps. To a trained engineer, even – quite possibly. But King Hiero of Syracuse has in his service the greatest living expert, fellow delegates, the world’s foremost authority on the use and application of levers and mechanical advantage; I refer, of course, to the universally acclaimed inventor Archimedes, son of Phidias, who is sitting before me as I speak; the man who once boasted, as I’m sure I need not remind you, ‘Give me a firm place to stand, and I can move the Earth’. Fellow delegates—”
I’m afraid I missed the rest of the speech. Two of Hiero’s men took me politely by the elbows and walked me out of the room, before I could say anything.
*
On my way home, Orestes and I stopped off at Stratocles’ warehouse. It was a huge place, and the nearest uninhabited building to Agathocles’ house. Inside, there were more jars than I’ve ever seen in my life. There were sealed jars, rows and rows of them, ready to be loaded and shipped. There were empty jars, sent back to be washed out and refilled. There were damaged jars waiting to be hauled off and dumped in the bay, and two long lines of half-filled jars, containing the preservative oil but as yet no sprats, standing by to be stoppered and sealed with pitch.
I stood next to one of these – it was about two fingers’ width taller than me – and tried to imagine lifting a dead body high enough to drop inside it. It’d take several men.
“Come on,” Orestes said sadly. “This part of the evidence isn’t in dispute.”
“I guess not,” I said. “I’d still like to know why sprats, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“The body was bound to turn up sooner or later,” I said. “When the jar was opened. I grant you, it was sheer chance that it ended up in Rome. Even so—”
I didn’t finish the sentence because at that point I slipped and nearly ended up on my face. The floor was slick with oil. Someone had tried to blot it up with sawdust, but hadn’t been thorough enough.
Orestes grinned at me. “Archimedes’ principle of the displacement of fluids,” he said. “I read about it at school.”
I gave him a look. “I’m guessing,” I said, “that this is where the body was tipped in, and the displaced oil came gushing out. He was a big man, so there was a lot of spilt oil.”
“Quite,” Orestes said. “So where does that get us?”
I wiped oil off the sole of my sandal with the hem of my gown. “Nowhere,” I said.
*
The next day, Orestes came to see me. I sent word that I didn’t want to talk to anybody. He insisted. I pointed out that I was having a relaxing, well-earned bath, in which I hoped to dissolve every trace of the air I’d been forced to share with Publius Laurentius Scaurus. Orestes came in anyway, and sat down on the floor looking sadly at me and not speaking.
“I told Hiero,” I said. “I didn’t want to get involved.”
“You’re involved all right,” Orestes said. “They’re demanding your extradition.”
I’m not a brave man. I squealed like a pig. “Hiero’ll never agree.”
“No,” Orestes said, “he won’t. And that means there’s going to be a war. Which,” he added, with a faint shrug of his shoulders, “we’ll almost certainly lose, unless you can think of a way of blasting the Roman fleet out of the bay. Pity about that,” he added.
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s not my fault.”
“Nobody said it was,” Orestes replied gloomily. “Still, that’s one thing I never thought I’d see.”
“What?”
“Archimedes,” he said, standing up. “Outsmarted by a Roman.”
He was just about to leave. I called him back. “I don’t suppose,” I said, “you’ve still got your file on Naso.”
He grinned at me. “As a matter of fact,” he said, and pulled out the papers from under his tunic.
I sighed. “Read them to me,” I said. “My eyesight—”
So he read his notes on the life and times of Quintus Caecilius Naso, up to a point where I told him to stop and go back a bit. He read that bit again, and I asked him some questions, which he was luckily able to answer.
“You wouldn’t happen to have,” I said quietly, “anything similar on our friend Scaurus?”
“Wait there,” he said.
*
The bath was getting cold when he came back, but I hadn’t bothered to get out. I’d been too busy thinking; or, rather, bashing helplessly at the locked door of my intuition, behind which I felt sure the answer lay …
“Publius Laurentius Scaurus,” Orestes said, peering owlishly at the paper in his hand. “A member of the influential Laurentii family, once prominent in the Optimate movement, though their influence has been on the wane for the last twenty years or so. Married to the second cousin of the celebrated Aemilius—”
There was a lot more of that sort of thing. I was partly listening, the way an old married man partly listens to his wife. At the same time, my mind was hopping, flapping, until suddenly and quite unexpectedly, it soared.
“Got it!*” I remember shouting. “Here, help me out, I’ve got to see Hiero.”
Which I did, refusing to wait, or see anybody else. I barged my way into the royal presence and told him all about it. Then I said, “Well?”
A pause; then Hiero said, “You’re right.”
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
Hiero nodded slowly. Then he lifted his head and looked at me. “Archimedes,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Why haven’t you got any clothes on?”
*
In contrast to our previous encounters, my third meeting with Scaurus was distinctly low-key. There were just the three of us, in a small garden at the back of the palace. We sat like civilized men under a fine old beech tree, and a boy served wine and honey cakes.
Hiero – he was the third member of the party – wiped his lips delicately on a linen napkin and gave Scaurus a friendly smile. “I asked you here,” he said, “to see if we can’t work something out. Something sensible,” he added. “Just the three of us.”
Scaurus nodded gracefully. “I can’t see why we shouldn’t be able to,” he said. “If you’re prepared to be realistic.”
Hiero nodded. “And since you’re such an admirer of my cousin’s work,” he went on, “I’ve asked him along. I know you’ve had your differences, let’s say, but I feel sure that deep down, both of you men of science, you can really talk to each other. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” Scaurus said. “And you’re right. The very greatest admiration.”
I acknowledged the compliment as best I could. “Maybe,” I said, “we could have a chat about scientific method.”
A slight frown crossed Scaurus’ face. “I’d have thought we had rather more urgent—”
I raised my hand. “Method first,” I said, “then the specifics.”
He shrugged. “If you like.”
“What I admired about that paper of yours,” I went on, “wasn’t the actual conclusions, which are fanciful, or the empirical data, which is deeply flawed. No, what I liked was the approach. Confronted, you said, with various different explanations for an observed phenomenon – all of which fit the facts equally well – logic requires that we choose the explanation that calls for the least number of new assumptions. Is that right?” I asked nicely. “My Latin’s nothing special, but I think that’s what you said.”
He looked at me as if he didn’t like me nearly as much as he used to. “More or less,” he said.
“In other words,” I went on, “the simplest explanation is likely to be the right one.”
“That’s not actually what I—”
“Near enough,” I said firmly, “is good enough. In which case,” I went on, “try this. The simplest explanation for what happened to Naso isn’t that he climbed the wall on his own, or that this mysterious and wonderful flute-girl of yours winched him over the wall on an improvised crane. The simplest explanation,” I said, beaming at him like the rising sun, “is that when he came outside to shag the flute-girl, he found the sergeant of his honour guard waiting for him. The sergeant killed him, and a couple of squaddies lugged him out through the open gate and put him on a cart, to be disposed of later in a nearby warehouse. Well?” I asked him. “Simple enough for you?”
Bless him. He didn’t say a word.
“And why would the sergeant do such a thing?” I continued. “Because he was ordered to, or paid, or both. Who by? Well, that’s a subject for speculation, I grant you. It could have been a member of a rival political faction – let’s see, Naso was well up in the Popular party, just as you’re quite well thought of among the Optimates, aren’t you? Or maybe it was someone who reckoned the best way to make sure there’d be a war would be by manufacturing a serious diplomatic incident. Mind you,” I added, “they’d have to be a Optimate, since the Populars don’t want a war right now. Or it could simply have been the uncle of Naso’s first wife; you know, the one who died in mysterious circumstances, falling down the stairs or something like that, thereby making it possible for Naso to marry that rich and well-connected heiress. Or maybe it was just that someone whose career’s been nothing special lately simply wanted his job. We just don’t know. I’m sure,” I added sweetly, “that once we’ve shared our theories with Naso’s friends in the Populars, they’d have no trouble thinking of someone who answers one of those descriptions. Or maybe all of them, even.”
He gave me a look that would’ve curdled milk. “Have you finished?” he said.
“Yes. Almost,” I added. “I’d just like to give you a new dictum for your collection.”
“Well?”
“Give me a firm place to stand,” I said, “and I can kick your arse from here to Agrigentum.”
*
Later, Orestes asked me, “So why sprats?”
“Ah,” I said, smiling like a happy Socrates. “My guess is, the Romans had chosen poor old Stratocles’ warehouse well in advance as a good place to lose the body. They wouldn’t want it found, not ever, because a disappearance was just as good for breaking up the peace talks as a visible murder, and a body might just’ve given the game away; no rope-marks or anything like that to support the crane theory. There might have been some trifling clue they’d overlooked, but which might’ve been picked up by one of our sharp-as-needles Syracusan investigators. Attention to detail, you see, a typically Roman trait.”
“But?”
I grinned. “But when they got to the warehouse – it was dark, remember, and they wouldn’t have risked a light – they made a slight mistake. They’d been intending to put the corpse in one of the damaged jars we saw there, earmarked for dumping in the bay. Instead, they dumped it in a half-filled jar, which is how come it ended up in Rome.” I shook my head sadly. “Too clever by half,” I said, “and basically just careless.”
*
There was no war. Scaurus went home, and was replaced by a polite old Optimate who explained that the girl Maurisca had confessed that she’d been bribed by the Carthaginians (nice touch, everybody hates the Carthaginians) to tell a parcel of lies in order to get Hiero into trouble. The charges were, therefore, withdrawn, and the negotiations proceeded to a long, drawn out, meaningless conclusion.
And that, I sincerely hope, was the last time I’ll ever have anything to do with the Romans. They may have their stirling qualities, but I don’t like them. They have absolutely no respect, in my opinion, for the scientific method.