Argolicus Mysteries: Books 1-4

1. Leaving Rome

1

Leaving Rome

The words were not as cold as the Roman winter air, but they stung Argolicus.

“You see,” Boethius said, leaning toward Argolicus in a confidential manner, “Rome is a closed community. When someone like you whose family lineage is not from one of Rome’s great families and as a newcomer attempts to take on a centuries-old Roman position, you set yourself up for strife. You are wise to retire, go back to your provincial Bruttia, and live as local nobility.”

Argolicus watched from the palatial villa on top of the Caelian Hill gentle snowflakes fall on the city and the forum below. He stood on a balcony where Boethius had led him just minutes before. Behind them loomed a grand study filled with manuscripts and books. Boethius carefully peeled an apple, the skin curling off onto the floor at his feet. Argolicus knew everything Boethius was saying, and they echoed his reasons for leaving. He also knew Boethius, so he waited for him to get to the point.

“The same talents that make you a good judge,” Boethius continued, “hamper your political power. You read people, you consider all possibilities, you listen carefully to all sides, you weigh outcomes. In politics you must make a decision, move quickly, ignore repercussions, and strike.”

Argolicus recognized his political failings and felt the sting of being blocked on more than one occasion by Rome’s powerful families and the prelates of the Church.

“Go back to your home, enjoy your studies.” Boethius said as he cut off a small section of apple. One of the richest men in Rome, Boethius loved books as much as Argolicus, perhaps even more. “I have a parting gift for you.” He bent to the table and lifted a book, handing it to Argolicus.

Argolicus looked down at the small book, almost a pamphlet, but covered in leather.

“I translated it,” Boethius said as he looked down at the book. “Aristotle’s Categories. I know you are one of the few left who read Greek, but I thought you might like it for your collection.”

Truly pleased, Argolicus smiled. “Thank you. I will read it in solitude without the endless sessions of reading Greek aloud.”

“Ah, Nikolaos,” Boethius said, reading Argolicus’ mind, “he is a taskmaster.” Argolicus’ tutor and lifelong companion waited for Argolicus somewhere in the villa.

“He is,” Argolicus said smiling, “but without him, my Greek would suffer.” The two men stood looking out over a wintry Rome.

“I’m wondering,” Boethius said, “Are you going by ship? Or by land?”

“Oh, quickly, by sea. Portus to Squillace.”

“Then I’d ask you for a favor.”

“Yes?”

“I have another copy for a young scholar. I’m wondering if you could deliver it for me. Books are so precious, I dislike just sending them. Plus, you would like the lad. He loves to read and think.”

“Why? Where is he?”

“He lives in Ostia in the old family villa, a large domus in the center of the city. His father is a friend of Symmachus, and I thought…”

Ah, here it was politics. Even as he was leaving Rome one last push.

“Of course, I’ll take it. We were leaving in four days, but I could leave tomorrow and stop to deliver the book. What’s his name?”

“Servius Norbanus Philo. He is the son of Pius.”

Argolicus knew this errand tied him to Roman aristocracy, another wealthy and old family. Servius Norbanus Pius had inherited a shipping business that had grown with the stability of King Theoderic’s rule. In Rome, his home was near Boethius on the Caelian Hill, but one of the reasons for his success was his constant presence in Ostia near the huge shipping center Portus to oversee the shipping business personally. “Philo,” he said. “I shall make sure he receives your gift.”

* * *

Servius Norbanus Philo met Argolicus in his father’s study and office. The young man was lost amid a collection of carved ivory, large enameled plaques, colored glass vases, marble figurines, brass figurines, gold figurines, cast bronze sculptures, tiny enamel boxes, gilt boxes set with gems, silver trinkets, and one elephant tusk displayed on a high shelf. He appeared a very young 17. His dark brown eyes were fringed with long, equally dark lashes. His equally dark hair was cut in the Roman style like a cap around his head, and his olive complexion was sallow with grief and shock. He looked at the book Argolicus had handed to him with a blank stare.

“Boethius is kind,” he said in a deep, rich voice belying his slight stature. “I shall write my thanks.” He looked up from the book. His gaze slid over Nikolaos, Argolicus’ tutor slave, who stood waiting near the entry from the atrium next to a large marble statue of Venus. Finally, he focused on Argolicus. “And you are kind to take time to make a delivery in your period of transition.”

“Boethius has a way of getting his way,” Argolicus said, smiling. “But it was no inconvenience.”

“He does,” Philo said. “I wish I had half of his persuasive talent because, right now, I’d like to ask your help.” He looked as though tears were near.

“My help?”

“Yes. Even I know your reputation. You discover things, you know people, you treat all parties fairly…”

“Philo, I’m flattered by your admiration, but I have left my appointment in Rome. I’m here in Ostia to go home without any title. I have the family estate. I am uncomfortable as it is, intruding on your family when your father was found murdered just this morning. I feel I have no place here.”

“There, you see,” Philo said. “What if Boethius were asking you for the same request? How would he ask you? My father’s been killed, and I need your help. Blood. There was so much blood.” He closed his eyes.

Argolicus thought the boy was not as inept at manipulation as he believed he was.

“Why not use the local Promagistrate. Who knows what this investigation will take?”

“He’s on vacation in the south chasing the warm weather. The family’s left with the local militia. They narrow their activities to apprehension, not investigation.”

Argolicus felt the draw of a puzzle, pulled in a breath, and glanced at Nikolaos. “Where did it happen?”

“Right behind your slave, in the atrium. I was coming to meet him before he got busy. He said I was too young to go to the games in Rome by myself. I wanted to ask him one more time. It’s January, and young people have fun. I wanted to know what it’s like to be free for just a few days.”

Nikolaos was already in the atrium examining the dizzying mosaic pattern on the floor. His middle-aged but lithe body moved as he scanned the expansive floor.

Philo said, “We moved the body and cleaned the floor. He probably won’t find anything.”

“Where is your father’s body now? May I look at it? We can leave my tutor to discover what he will in the atrium,” Argolicus asked, submitting to the pull of the murder and solving the puzzle. As much as Servius Norbanus Pius was a private citizen, his shipping business kept Rome supplied with goods. Murder was a private family matter under the law, but when it affected the public good, then the Promagistrate instigated public legal investigations.

The young man came out from behind the large table covered in papers and trinkets and appeared to grow in stature and age, separated from his father’s large collection. His golden-toned voice resonated among the treasures. “He’s in a cubiculum.”

Philo strode out of the large study, across the atrium, and led Argolicus to a small room on the opposite side. Servius Norbanus Pius was laid out on a table, his body was stripped, and slaves were washing with care.

“Ask them to leave,” Argolicus said. He crossed the room to the body.

“I… I can’t look,” Philo said and rushed from the room.

The body was deep pink on top—face, chest, thighs—and white on the bottom along the back. Blood had settled as Pius lay face down on the ground. Argolicus saw five stab wounds in his chest and a large s***h across the man’s neck. Why didn’t Philo mention how brutal this was? Bruises marked his shoulders and arms, spotting purple against the white skin. Argolicus picked up the right hand. The fingers and wrist were stiff, but he saw scrapes and raw patches around the knuckles, and the right palm was slashed. He moved around the table. The left hand was also marked with scrapes but was clutched tight and closed. Argolicus tried opening the fingers to see what was in the grip, but the fingers were too stiff to move. He stood back for an overview, and a sadness at the human condition overwhelmed him as he looked at the evidence of violence.

When he left the room, he found Philo sitting on the edge of the pool in the atrium. Tiny snowflakes glittered in the light as they fell into the pool. The pale winter light from the open roof overhead highlighted the youth’s body hunkered in dejection. Philo looked up as Argolicus crossed to the pool. “I couldn’t bear to see him...like that. White. And the punctures in his skin. The body looked like my father, but it wasn’t my father. It was a thing.” He stood up to face Argolicus. His face was set and grim, seeming to have lost the sorrow when he first met Argolicus.

“The death was violent,” Argolicus said, still in his sorrow for the human condition. “It is hard to see. I’ve seen more than one. Each time I feel sorrow, guilt, shame for our condition. The first dead body I saw was my father. Although he was not murdered, I remember how I felt. I was about your age.”

Philo’s eyes widened, and he blurted, “He was? The first dead body? Your father?”

“He was. I know how you feel. I will help you until it is time for me to meet the boat. Maybe, by then, the magistrate will arrive.”

Philo looked relieved. “My sister is with my mother. My uncle will be here soon from Portus. My uncle has his own family, but my father was pater familias.” He nodded toward a statue near the back wall of the atrium, a likeness of Pius fully clothed and looking regal. A slave quietly crossed the atrium toward the back bedrooms glancing at Philo.

“I’ll talk to them all later. From the state of his body, it looks as though your father died in the early morning. Did you hear anything?”

“No. My room is upstairs.” Philo nodded toward the back wall of the atrium. “Father’s room is downstairs. There would have to be a lot of noise for me to hear something.”

“Master,” Nikolaos called from the garden. “Master, I have found something.”

Philo and Argolicus hurried to the peristylum. Argolicus saw the main courtyard, the large pool, columns surrounding the pool, and a garden with many bare shrubs and some small plants surrounding the marble courtyard.

“Over here,” called Nikolaos. He stood up in the corner of the room near the other passageway from the atrium. “There’s blood here on the ground and splatters on the marble.”

Philo blurted, “But I found him in the atrium.”

“We’ll look,” Argolicus said as he moved toward Nikolaos. Philo followed with a puzzled frown.

“Here,” Nikolaos said and pointed to the ground.

Argolicus looked down and saw the blood, now mostly dry, splattered on the leaves of a small plant, on the soil in the ground, and splatters on the marble. He looked to the left and saw the hallway to the servant entrance. “Is that locked at night?”

Philo nodded his head. “Yes, the porter locks it and then goes to his room by the vestibule and the front door.”

Argolicus looked at the blood and saw light smears here and there in the atrium passageway where someone had tried to wipe up the blood. “Where did you find your father?”

Philo looked through the passageway to the atrium and pointed. “Straight ahead, by the atrium pool.”

As Argolicus followed his direction, a young woman entered the passageway. The first image that came to his mind was a lioness. Her hair was lighter than Philos, backlit by the light from the atrium ceiling, it shone in gold highlights. Her skin was honeyed. Her lips and cheeks glowed rose like plump peaches. Her blue tunic, laced with gold cords, revealed inviting curves.

“Philo, are you entertaining a guest, now? Mother wants you.”

“Titiana, this is Gaius Vitellius Argolicus. He’s come from Rome to bring a gift from Boethius.”

Titiana smiled. “Let me guess. A book.”