The River God's Vengeance(68)

“A very logical system,” I commended. I studied the brazier. “Did this hold a fire that evening?”

“Certainly. I’ve said it was cold. But you saw the fire buckets standing outside the doors. I always—”

“Please,” I said, gesturing for silence, “I’ve told you I’m not here enforcing the fire regulations. Your precautions are exemplary. Asklepiodes, how did you find the victim?”

“Breathing his last. He had been stabbed beneath the ribs on the left side, consistent with a right-handed assailant. As near as I could discern by candlelight, the weapon had been a straight, double-edged dagger. The wound was approximately five inches long, slightly curved as the blade followed the contour of the rib cage. Viscera, also lacerated, protruded from the wound. It was certain death for any man.”

“But not immediate,” I commented.

“No, a man may linger for days with such a wound, depending upon which internal blood vessels have been severed. I saw immediately that his bleeding was severe. His toga was soaked—”

“He was still wearing his toga?”

“Yes, he was fully dressed.”

I took another look at the door, swung it on its hinges. It was set almost in the center of the wall, with about three feet of space on each side of it. This room had no window opening onto the balcony outside. I decided that the room had told me all that it was going to.

“Let’s go,” I said. As we descended into the courtyard, I asked, “Do you remember any other distinguished persons being here that night?”

Andromeda shook her head. “The killing pretty much drove everything else from my mind.”

“And you?” I asked Asklepiodes.

“I had been entertaining some friends from the Museum in Alexandria. They were on a visit to Rome, staying at the Egyptian Embassy. I am sure if there had been any Romans of distinction present, I would have pointed them out to my colleagues.”

“So much for that, then. Andromeda, please describe Galatea.”

“A pretty girl, but then all of mine are. About sixteen, dark hair, brown eyes. She’d only been here for a couple of days. She wasn’t from Rome, but she wasn’t from very far away either, to judge by her accent. A small town girl. I get a lot of those.”

“Were there any other disappearances at that time?”

“What do you mean?” Andromeda asked.

“Was there any other member of your staff here that night that you never saw again afterward?”

She looked at Asklepiodes. “What’s your friend getting at?”

He smiled happily. “Just bear with him. It often makes sense after a while. Like Socrates, he comes at the truth by asking questions rather than making pronouncements.”

“As you will. Now that I think of it, there was a bouncer I’d hired about the time I took Galatea on. He said his name was Antaeus and that he was from the south and had come up to Rome to fight in the big Games. He was a huge brute, like most of them, and wore a heavy beard, the way citizens hardly ever do.”

“And he disappeared after the murder as well?”

“Right. This is always part-time work for the funeral fighters. The only reason I noticed he’d gone was when he didn’t show up to collect a few night’s wages. I never connected it with the killing, though. These boys usually work during the day as bullies for one of the gang leaders, so they end up dead or laid up with wounds pretty often and I don’t take much notice.”

By this time, we were at the courtyard entrance to the tunnel. “Andromeda, you have been of great assistance to me in this matter, and I hope to see more of you in the future.”

She smiled fetchingly, something she did well, since she did it for a living. “Aedile, you will always be welcome in the Labyrinth whether in or out of office.”

She left and Asklepiodes started to go, but I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just another moment of your time, my friend.”

“Assuredly, as much of it as you wish.”

We began to stroll through the tunnel, Hermes close behind us. “There are a couple of matters I thought our hostess had no need to hear. She mentioned that Lucilius babbled something she couldn’t understand. Could you make anything out?”

“I cannot be certain. He seemed to be in the delirium that often precedes death and not in his best voice. It sounded to me like he was saying ‘?lthy dog, filthy dog.’ His teeth were tightly gritted, but that much was clear.”

“Are you certain he was using the masculine form?” I asked, thinking that the man might have been calling the treacherous whore a bitch.

“Yes, the word was masculine.”