A Point of Law(67)

“Ah, Decius, good. I did not think you would tarry long. Have a seat and help me finish this excellent lunch. You too, Hermes. I bought enough for five men.”

I climbed into the litter and relaxed on the cushions. Hermes remained standing outside. Between Asklepiodes and me lay a platter of flat bread two feet wide, heaped with street-vendor delicacies, the best to be had. I took a skewer of tender quail grilled over charcoal and Hermes picked up a river fish caught that morning and steamed in a wrapping of pickled vine leaves.

“You are being even more generous than usual today, old friend,” I told him. “I will not forget it. Now, what were you able to deduce from Curio’s wounds? Did they tell you something significant about his attackers?”

“There was only one wound,” he said, “and it told me a great deal indeed. Your friend Curio was not attacked. The wound was self-inflicted.”

Hermes pounded me on the back, as I choked on delicious quail meat. Asklepiodes looked upon the effect of his pronouncement with deep satisfaction. There were times when I would have liked to strangle him. He handed me a cup of excellent Falernian, and I forgave him.

“Explain,” I said, when I could speak again.

“When I arrived—and this was only a short time before your own advent upon the scene—Curio lay on that bed, his hands clasped to his bloody head, writhing about like a condemned man being flogged with chains. He and that Syrian quack were astonished and alarmed when I showed up. When I went to examine the wounded man, the Syrian tried to restrain me forcibly. Luckily, my medical specialty being what it is, I know a great deal more about force than he.”

I nodded, remembering his many demonstrations of homicidal technique, some of which had left marks on me for weeks.

“I called for a basin and cloth, something oddly missing from the room, and cleaned Curio’s head. His attitude changed swiftly. He began to make light of the wound and say that Fulvia’s physician was being entirely too excitable, that he was no more than stunned by the blow to his head. Are you aware of something called the ‘coward’s blow?’ ”

“I think I’ve heard it mentioned among the sporting crowd. Something to do with throwing a fight, isn’t it?”

“It comes from the early days of pugilism. In the earliest times, boxers were amateurs—aristocratic athletes like the other contenders in the Olympics and the rest of the Greek games. But, in time, there arose a class of professional pugilists, and people began to bet heavily on the outcome of the fights, even as they do today. Various ruses were developed to rig the outcome, and one of these was the coward’s blow.

“Any scalp wound bleeds freely. The skin is stretched thin as vellum over the skull and is plentifully supplied with blood vessels. There is a spot”—he tapped a place on his own pate, about five inches above his right eyebrow—“which, when nicked, guarantees an especially generous effusion of blood. By prearrangement, one boxer would aim a punch at his opponent’s head. The other would duck in the usual fashion but not quite enough. The tip of one of the caestus spikes would open a cut on that spot, and the blood would flow as from an upended bucket. The prearranged loser would drop as if slain, and the wagers would be paid. As an added bonus, once the place has been spiked a few times, all that is needed to reopen it is a tap, so the ruse can be repeated endlessly, always before a new audience.”

“And this is the wound you found on Curio?” I asked.

“It was done with a dagger, and at the precise angle that would be made by a right-handed man cutting himself, but it was the coward’s blow—a trifling laceration done by a man who knew exactly where to cut for the most dramatic effect.”

I nodded. “I saw the boxer’s marks on his face when I first met him, and just now he said that he was a lifelong enthusiast of the sport. He would know how that cut is delivered. He made a quick recovery when you found him out though. He acted as if he had never thought the wound was serious and he carried it off well.”

“Do you think the lady Fulvia was party to the ruse?” Asklepiodes asked.

I was pondering that one myself. “No, I think not. I would certainly never put such a subterfuge past her, but her outburst in the Forum this morning was genuine. It could not have been faked unless she’s an actress of surpassing merit. I believe Curio left her house this morning before daylight, waited until the janitor shut the door, took out his dagger and cut himself, waited until he was well-soaked with blood, then raised a huge noise, as if he were being murdered. The janitor reopened the door, and Curio staggered back inside. He’d probably made arrangements with the Syrian beforehand to keep the true nature of his wound secret.”