The Venus Throw (21 page)

“Did Dio cry out?”

“No one heard him if he did.”

“Would you have heard him?”

“I was sleeping, as I said, but I should think a scream would have awakened me. The walls aren’t that thick. On other nights I was able to hear—well, never mind.”

“You were about to say something?”

“This is the room.” Coponius pushed open a door and gestured for me to enter.

It was a small room, sparsely furnished with a sleeping couch, a chair, and a couple of small tables. A carpet covered
the floor. Metal hooks were mounted in the walls for hanging clothing and lamps.

“How did the assassins get in?” I said.

“Through that window, by the couch. The shutters were drawn and latched, I’m sure. Dio would have seen to that, if only to shut out the cold. The latch has been repaired, but you can still see where the wood was splintered when the shutters were forced open.”

“Was the old latch made of bronze, like this one?”

“This is the very same latch, hammered straight by a smith and reattached in a different place.”

“This seems to be a rather strong latch. I should think that forcing it from the outside would have made some noise.”

“I suppose.”

“A considerable noise.”

“It couldn’t have been that loud—”

“Perhaps not a loud enough noise to awaken you in the next room, or even to be heard by your watchman at the front door, but surely loud enough for Dio to hear if he was lying on this couch.”

“You might think so, yes. But as I told you, no one heard Dio cry out. I suppose he was a very sound sleeper. Or perhaps the breaking of the latch didn’t make as much noise as you seem to think.”

“We could argue the point forever,” I said. “Or shall we make an empirical test?”

“Do you mean—?”

“If you’ll let me.”

Coponius shrugged. “Go on.”

I unlatched the window and stepped through it, into the courtyard beyond, which was surrounded by a high wall. Inside the room, Coponius latched the shutters. I pushed on them, testing their strength, and realized it would take a considerable effort to force them open. I looked around and spotted a loose stone. Clutching it in my fist, I struck a hard
blow against the shutters. With a sound of splintering wood the shutters flew open and the metal latch went flying across the room and landed on the carpet.

I climbed through the window. “Tell me, was the broken latch found across the room like that, lying on the floor?”

“Why, yes. I’m sure of it. I remember, because when I came into this room I stepped on the latch and cut my bare foot.”

“Then we can assume that the shutters were forced open with at least as much force on that night, and must have made as much noise. I would say that was noisy enough to wake anyone in this room.”

“Yes,” Coponius agreed, fretfully tapping his forefinger against his lips.

“And yet, Dio didn’t cry out.”

“Perhaps he was awakened from a deep sleep, unable to comprehend. Or perhaps he comprehended only too well and was paralyzed with fright.”

“Perhaps. Was his throat cut?”

“No. All the wounds were in his chest.”

“How many wounds?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. Quite a few.”

“There must have been a great deal of blood.”

“Some blood, yes.”

“A struggling man, stabbed repeatedly in the chest—the room must have been covered with blood.”

Coponius wrinkled his brow. “When we came in the room, it was very dark, of course. The slaves held lamps. Shadows swung all about. I remember seeing blood—I don’t know how much. Does it matter?”

“Probably not. You don’t still have the sleeping tunic Dio was wearing, or the cushions he was sleeping on?”

“Of course not. They were burned.”

I looked around the room, imagining Dio on the couch, silent, terrified, being stabbed repeatedly in the chest. Somehow
the image did not make sense. “Your watchman finally did hear something, and came to investigate.”

“Yes.”

“Would you let me speak to him?”

“Of course.” Coponius summoned the slave, a sturdy young Greek named Philo, who looked keen enough. I asked him exactly what he had heard on the night that Dio
died
.

“A noise, coming from this room.”

“What kind of noise?”

“A banging kind of noise.”

“Not a scream, or a moan?”

“No.”

“Splintering wood, cracked hinges?”

“No, more like something being knocked onto the floor.”

“When we came in,” Coponius interjected, “everything was in disarray. The tables were upended, the chair on its side. The scrolls Dio kept by his bedside were scattered about.”

“When you heard the banging noise,” I said to Philo, “how quickly did you come?”

“Right away. I heard more noises while I was running down the hallway.”

“How did you know where the noises were coming from?”

“As I got closer I could tell that they were coming from inside this room.”

“So you tried to open the door?”

The slave hesitated. “Not right away.”

“Because you were frightened?”

“No . . .”

“No? I would have been. It takes nerve to open a door with strange sounds coming from the other side, especially in the middle of the night.”

“I wasn’t scared. Excited in a way, my heart beating fast, but not scared.”

“Then why didn’t you try to open the door, Philo?”

“I called out Dio’s name instead.”

“Did he answer?”

“No. There was another banging noise.”

“Then you tried the door?”

“Not right away . . .”

“What were you waiting for?”

“For them to finish!” Philo said, exasperated.

“To finish killing Dio?”

“Of course not! For Dio to finish his business, if that’s what he was up to.” The slave made a face and looked away. “The master knows what I mean.”

I looked at Coponius, who looked back at me blandly and pursed his lips. “Philo means that such noises could have meant something besides . . . danger.”

“Danger to Dio, anyway,” said Philo under his breath.

“That’s enough, Philo,” said Coponius sharply. “Get back to whatever you were doing.”

The slave left us. I turned to Coponius. “These noises—”

He sighed. “Shortly after Dio came to stay here, he—how shall I say this?—he appropriated one of my slaves for his own use.”

I nodded. “The last slave he owned had died tasting his food.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Coponius shook his head. “He was a troubled man, in great distress. If ever a man needed something to take his mind off his problems, it was Dio. There was a young serving girl who caught his eye. He decided to make use of her. For his pleasure. He used her almost every night.”

“With your permission?”

“I was never asked, actually. It was presumptuous of Dio to simply take what he wanted, to be sure, but under the circumstances I decided I would be a selfish host if I withheld the use of a slave from a guest, especially since I had no plans to use the girl myself, at least not in that way.”

“I see. Then Philo thought he might simply be hearing the sounds of Dio using the girl.”

“Exactly.”

“All the bumping and thumping—surely you heard it, too.”

“Eventually it woke me. At first, I made the same assumption that Philo made. ‘At it again!’ I thought. I shut my eyes and tried to get back to sleep.”

“Did Dio always make so much noise?”

“Not always.”

“What on earth would he do to the girl?”

“I hardly see how that’s any of your business, Gordianus. I’ve been indiscreet in telling you as much as I have. May Dio’s shade forgive me. I begin to grow tired of this interview—”

“But eventually Philo realized that something was terribly wrong,” I said, pressing on.

“Yes. When the bumps and knocks stopped, things got a bit too quiet. He called out Dio’s name, louder and louder—I could hear him calling, so Dio should have been able to. I could also hear him rattling Dio’s door, which was locked, of course. I got up then and told Philo to fetch some others. They brought torches and together managed to break down the door. Inside we found the shutters open, the room a mess . . . and Dio dead on his couch.”

“And the slave girl?”

“She wasn’t in the room at all, as it turned out. She was in the slaves’ sleeping quarters.”

I walked to the window and peered out. “How did the assassins get onto the terrace in the first place? It seems to be surrounded by a high wall.”

“They must have scaled it. They couldn’t have come in the front because of Philo, and the side walls were set flush against the houses on either side. The wall enclosing the little courtyard out back runs along a little alley. There’s a
gate in the wall, but it was securely locked. They had to have climbed over from the alley.”

I nodded. “It’s a high wall—too high for a man to climb without help, I should think.”

“Do you want to test that as well?” Coponius raised an eyebrow.

“No. I think we can assume that there were at least two assassins, to help each other over the wall. Did your neighbors see anything?”

“None of my neighbors can see into the courtyard behind the house. The alley is practically unused. I doubt that anyone could have seen anything, unless they happened to be standing on a rooftop, which would have been unlikely on a chilly Januarius night. Besides, if anyone had seen something, I’d have been told. I’m on good terms with my neighbors. They were all quite upset by the murder.”

I walked about the room, idly tapping my forefinger against the metal hooks set into the walls. “So the slave girl wasn’t with Dio when the murder occurred?”

“As I told you, she was asleep in the slave quarters.”

“Could I talk to her?”

Coponius shook his head. “Not possible.”

“Why not?”

“I sold her to a slave dealer here in the city.”

“Was there something wrong with her?”

Coponius hesitated. “After the use Dio made of her, she was no longer suitable to serve in my house.”

“You don’t mean she was crippled?”

“Of course not. Oh, a few strap marks and bruises, perhaps, but nothing that wouldn’t fade with time. Possibly a scar or two, but nothing that would show unless she was naked. Nevertheless, she was damaged property. It simply wouldn’t do to keep her in the household; much better to pass her on. I’m sure some other master will find her suitable—perhaps even find her value enhanced by the instruction Dio gave her.” He shrugged. “I never intended for the girl to
become a pleasure slave, but it must have been the will of the Fates.”

“Or of Dio.” My mouth was dry.

“The subject is distasteful to me,” said Coponius. “Indeed, this whole conversation has begun to tire me. I should think that you’ve already found out more than you need to know.”

“More than I intended to, anyway.”

“Then perhaps you should be going. Here, I’ll summon a slave to show you out.” He clapped his hands.

The slave who came running was Philo. Coponius didn’t notice. Having dismissed me, his mood abruptly darkened. He didn’t even bid me farewell as he walked to the window and gazed out at the sunny courtyard, idly fingering the newly broken latch with one hand.

In the foyer I put my hand on Philo’s shoulder and drew him aside. “The slave girl we were talking about—what’s her name?”

“Zotica. But she’s not here anymore.”

“I know. Your master sold her to a dealer. You wouldn’t know which dealer, would you?”

The slave hesitated, scrutinizing me. He peered up the hallway and bit his lip. “The master sold her to a man down on the street of the Scythemakers,” he finally said. “I don’t know his name.”

I nodded. “Let me make sure I understand: when you broke into his room and found him dead, Dio was alone. Zotica wasn’t with him.”

“That’s right.”

“What about earlier that night?”

He looked at me and then peered up the hallway again. “Oh, all right, why not tell you? She’s gone now, anyway, the poor child. Yes, Zotica was with Dio earlier that night. He came in wearing that ridiculous outfit, dressed up in a stola, if you can believe it, and in a foul mood, even fouler than usual. He snapped his fingers at Zotica and told her to
come tend to him in his room. ‘To help him take off his makeup,’ quipped one of the other serving girls. ‘No, just to help him take off!” said one of the others. They were always men to Zotica because she was the youngest, and the prettiest, but I think they were also glad that Dio had settled on using her instead of them.”

“So Dio went to his room and took the girl with him.”

“Yes, but later he must have sent her away.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The rest of the household had gone to bed. I was standing watch at the front door. I heard something in the hallway and went to have a look. It was Zotica walking up the hall, away from Dio’s room. She was naked, clutching her gown and hiding her face in her hands, sobbing.”

“Clutching her gown? Why wasn’t she wearing it?”

“Why do you think? I figured the old man had ripped it off of her and tom it too badly to wear. I asked her what was wrong, but she just shook her head and ran toward the slave quarters. I figured he’d finished with her early, and been even rougher than usual.”

“How long was this before the noise you heard later, when the assassins came?”

“Oh, quite a while before.”

“But when you heard those noises and went to investigate, you told me you thought they might have been the sounds of Dio and Zotica . . .”

He shrugged. “I thought she might have slipped back into his room. But she hadn’t. When we were breaking down the door to Dio’s room, Zotica was off in the slave quarters with the other girls. There’s no question about that. She woke some of the slaves with her weeping when she came in, then kept them awake with her sobbing, even when they threatened to beat her. There’s no doubt that she was with the other slaves when Dio was stabbed.”

“Still, I should dearly like to have a talk with her. Tell
me, when you broke into the room, what exactly did you see?”

Philo was thoughtful. “Chair and tables overturned. Window shutters open. Dio on the couch, dead.”