Murder In-Absentia Read online

  Assaph Mehr

  Murder in-absentia

  Purple Toga Publications

  Copyright (c) Assaph Mehr 2015

  If you downloaded this book without purchase from a pirating site, please read it with the author’s compliments. If you enjoy it, please consider purchasing a legal copy to support the author in writing further books.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Purple Toga Publications, Sydney, Australia.

  ISBN 978-0-9944493-0-6

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry : (ebook)

  Creator: Mehr, Assaph, author.

  Title: Murder in-absentia / Assaph Mehr.

  ISBN: 9780994449306 (ebook)

  Series: Mehr, Assaph. Felix the Fox ; 1.

  Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.

  Fantasy fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  Dedicated to my lovely wife Julia,

  without whom this book would never be,

  and Felix would still be just a tabby cat.

  Foreword

  This book is born of love of both fantasy and ancient Rome, with a hardboiled detective thrown in.

  I have always been fascinated by ancient history and in particular Rome, from the time I was in primary school and first got my hands on Asterix. This exacerbated when my parents took me on a trip to Italy — I whinged horribly when they dragged me to “yet another church with baby angels on the ceiling”, yet was happy to skip all day around ancient ruins. Life took a few twists and turns, but a few years ago I randomly picked a copy of Lindsay Davis’ Marcus Didius Falco novels in a used book fair. I fell in love with Rome all over again, this time from the view-point of a cynical adult.

  The backdrop for this novel is the city of Egretia. It is a fantasy setting as I did not wish to be constrained to a particular period in Roman history, with its associated people and troubles. Instead the setting borrows heavily from a thousand years of Roman republic and empire eras as well as other exotic places of the period, such as Alexandria. I have appropriated many Latin terms, used and abused them for this fantasy world. Most I hope can be understood from the text, but a glossary and some notes at the end should help elucidate.

  Lastly I want to offer my thanks to the people who encouraged and helped me with this book. First and foremost my wife and inspiration Julia. My friends and family who acted as editors — Ramit Mehr and her husband Eric Klein, and my friends Alex Abrate, Boaz Karni and Lipakshi and Rakesh Das. This novel would not have been as good without you.

  I hope you enjoy reading this novel as much as I did writing it.

  Assaph Mehr

  May 2015

  Sydney, Australia

  MAPS

  High resolution maps — as well as an expanded glossary, short stories and more — can be found at egretia.com.

  SCROLL I - CAESO

  Chapter I

  Walking through the dense wood I could hardly see the ground, for the faint moonlight did not penetrate the canopy of trees and a thick white mist was curling around my legs, obscuring roots. I tripped and fell, got up, walked on. Vague glimpses in rare breaks amidst branches offered me faint stars that were not enough to show me direction. Before me, around me, behind me, between the trees, all I saw was the fog. I kept walking, avoiding branches and roots, drawn inexorably towards my unwanted destination.

  The clearing.

  I slowed as I walked out from between the trees, taking careful steps across the moonlit grass. At the clearing’s edges, out of the corner of my eye I saw what I thought was moonlight reflecting in eyes, as the sheen of purple-black fur, but whenever I turned I saw only grey-white mist and leaves.

  I edged to the middle of the clearing. The grass looked like brittle shards of silver in this light.

  In front of me loomed a well. I knew there my destination lay, the reason for my being here.

  I walked over to it. I placed my hands on the stones of its sill, and turned my head to look up to the stars. I stared at them and they blinked back at me coldly.

  I steeled myself to face the well. Face what was inside it. That was why I was drawn here. To make me confront the thing down its depths.

  I didn’t want to, but I had to. I circled the well, so that I would not obstruct the moonlight, let it shine on its contents.

  I turned my gaze down and saw the armless, legless body floating in the well, face down. As I was looking at it, it bobbed and flipped around and I could see the bloated and decomposed flesh, the scars marring the marble breast, its face deformed, the stare in its vacant right eye, the maggots eating away the left eye-socket and through the cheek, and even through all the ravages and the filtered moonlight I recognised her…

  I am certain the neighbours heard my scream as I sat up in bed.

  “Dascha!” I cried, “Dascha you old crone, where are you when I need you?”

  No use. Deaf as a dead donkey when she sleeps, that one. I should have sold her years ago, however no one would pay me for that useless old bat. Besides, she was the last living reminder I had of my father.

  I got up in search of water to wash my face. Not being one to insist on social graces, I stumbled naked out of my sleeping cubicle and into the peristyle garden. I shoved my head under the cool fountain waters. Head cleared of cobwebs, I looked up and saw the rampant faun grinning madly at me as it peed fresh water down on me. That statue at the top of the fountain was the work of a nameless artist, and rightly so. The upper body of a man, the legs of a goat, a mad look in his eyes, set above a leering grin. The right hand holding high a lyre, the left clutching at a member that would make Priapus envious. My father’s impeccably horrendous taste in interior decor.

  Day had dawned. Dascha must have gone down to the markets, for fresh bread and produce for the day. I went to the kitchen, raided it for some old crusts and went to my study. I looked at my desk and saw the open scroll of Nikander cataloguing and establishing a taxonomy of venomous monsters, a plate with leftovers of last night’s chicken in fish sauce on one side and an empty wine goblet on the other holding it open. Those must have been responsible for my night terrors and I was in no mood to pursue them further, even in the daylight.

  I decided instead to immerse myself in the memoirs of Plautus. His life, according to him, was even more farcical than his plays. Nothing high-brow about him, all foreign kings and concubines, indigestion and inebriation.

  * * *

  Dascha ambled into my study, bringing me out of my reverie. “A visitor, domine,” she announced with her croaky voice. “Of the paying kind.”

  It was mid-morning by then, the sounds of the city in full swing around me. Dascha must have returned from her shopping and busied herself with the sundries of household maintenance while I was reading. Most people have a door slave, a large burly type to intimidate potential visitors and deter the less savoury element of society from making a forced entry. I had Dascha. This has proved sufficient on three counts — first, I had no money to pay for a proper door slave. Second, with Dascha giving her one-eye-squinting stare, naught but the most stout of heart would do anything except mumble and move away. Third, with my line of business a crone is akin to good credentials. Even a fake crone.

  “Well show him into my study, and then come help me into my toga,” I said.
r />   When I walked back into my study, dressed appropriately to do business, I saw before me a fidgety young man. He looked apprehensively over his shoulder, as Dascha was eyeing him with a slight mad drool.

  “Dascha, bring us some wine and cold water,” I dismissed her. I walked around my desk and sat in my backless chair, indicating to my guest to do the same in the client’s chair in front.

  “My dominus would like to hire your services”, he began as soon as he sat down. “The matter is private and urgent, and my master will be willing to pay for your time. If you would come with me, I will take you to him right now.”

  I looked him over. Dressed in a plain tunic made of good fabric, with a circular embroidery outlining a fish and an amphora on the left side of his chest. Healthy looking. Soft hands. A scribe or secretary, wearing his master’s insignia.

  “So what does one of our esteemed rhones want from me?” He didn’t register any surprise, so my guess must have been correct.

  “I have only been asked to fetch you, Felix the Fox. Dominus did not authorise me to discuss details, however the matter is important. My master will pay well.” He can afford to, I thought, being one of the fifteen rhones elected this year.

  Dascha appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with a silver jug of wine and a jug of cold water. She set it on my desk, and I offered my visitor the refreshments.

  “Well watered, if you please,” he replied, resignedly.

  “There are some things we need to discuss before I will accept your master’s summons. Let’s start with your name and your master’s name.”

  “My name is Typheus, and I serve his most excellent Marcus Quinctius Corpio, Rhonus Piscium.”

  “And what does the Rhone of Fish need from me? Surely he has access to all the resources of the Collegium Mercatorum, and one would hazard to those of the other collegia as well.”

  “That, as I explained, you will have to hear from my master’s lips alone.”

  “What can you tell me then, to satisfy my curiosity and assure me I will not be wasting my time?” Not that I had better plans for the day, but I could smell good money coming my way.

  “Really, the matter is of utmost important to my dominus. It is personal and does not concern his position of Rhone of Fish. It is also urgent.” He looked like he didn’t get much sleep last night. “Please come,” he pleaded.

  “Very well, I will go with you if you agree to my terms.” I quoted him double my usual rate and added “plus expenses.” He acknowledged it without a blink.

  “Let’s go”, I said, finishing my wine and wishing I had tripled my rates.

  * * *

  We took the alley down from my house to the Road of Unsavoury Smells, or as it is more commonly known, the Street of Cheese Makers. My house, you see, lies on the Meridionali, the Southern of the two arms of Vergu that make the Bay of Egretia. Not the more fashionable Septentrionali, the Northern arm, or the ludicrously rich slopes of Vergu itself, but still high enough from the docks and meat markets on the bay shores to be considered decent.

  Typheus walked ahead in a brisk pace, taking me further down the hill and angling towards the Forum at the head of the bay. He walked confidently through the warren of alleys that lead down to the water, rather than go the long way by the Vicus Petrosa, the main road that runs along the ridge of the Meridionali behind my house.

  We reached the shores of the bay and walked along the embankment, with its wharves and storehouses, towards the Forum Egretium.

  “So tell me Typheus, what kind of man is your master?”

  “A good man, quicker of mind than of temper. And right now, a very distraught man, one whom I would gladly see served well.”

  “And the place we are going to?”

  “His domus.”

  Not the talkative type. Or maybe just loyal, which is why he was entrusted with the errand of fetching me.

  When we reached the head of the bay, with its official navy wharves, and instead of heading towards the Forum we turned right and continued to walk next to the water, passing between the wharves and the Collegium Mercatorum. We were heading towards the Septentrionali, rather than up the slopes of Mons Vergu. Most rhones, even the lesser rhones like Corpio, would be rich enough to own houses on the high slopes, above the Forum. Some, however, preferred not to remain too close to their colleagues, or keep close to the business districts, or even just remain in their quiet ancestral houses.

  We went past the Emporium Iunius and climbed up the Septentrionali, joining the Vicus Caprificus to walk along the ridge of the hill that runs throughout the Northern arm of the bay. The neighbourhood changed gradually as we ascended, from wharves and silos and porticos of merchants and artisans, to mansions of increasing size. The further up we went, the longer the distances between side alleys and doorways, and the less features on the walls facing the street.

  This being early in the month of Avrilis right after the spring equinox, and the day still young, I did not mind the walk. It gave me both plenty of fresh air and a chance to think about what business might a rhone have for such as me.

  I tried again.

  “How is the Rhone’s health these day?”

  “His excellency is a man in his prime, and in excellent health.”

  “And his business?” I added, “This past winter has been mild, no storms to speak of.”

  “His business is prosperous, as always. The new season cuttlefish are now in the market, the people are happy, and his year in public office is off to a good start.”

  “A personal matter then.”

  “A most personal one indeed.”

  “His wife…?”

  “My mistress has been dead these past seven years” he said with a stony face. “Please, let us just get to my master, and he will explain the matter to your satisfaction.”

  I gave up, and resolved to enjoy the walk and the view.

  * * *

  We reached Corpio’s domus. It was located past the crest of Septentrionali on the cliffs side, away from the noise and smells of the markets around the lower shores of the bay. On a clear day like today, from up here one can see the whole city — the bay with the Port of Egretia and its wharves, surrounded by rising slopes of red tiles on the other side and going up the mountain; to the north one could see the wide blue sea. Almost as importantly, from up here one cannot see the squalor and misery of lower Egretia, or smell the cramped humanity with its life of markets, cooking and refuse that lie beyond the crest of the Meridionali away from the bay.

  His mansion presented an unassuming facade to the street. A blank wall, painted in muted russet colours. A large oaken door with brass knobs and lashes was set deep in the wall, flanked by tall cypresses on both sides. A tile painted with the family crest of fish and amphora was set into the wall next to the door. Typheus knocked politely and a small slit opened up and closed a second later. The heavy door swung inwards.

  “Please wait here,” said Typheus, “as I go and announce you to my master.”

  I remained as told in the vestibule. Through the open doorway, I could see a large atrium flanked with columns inside the house, with corridors and doorways running further in. The natural light filtered through the open roof and shimmered on the shallow pool filled with goldfish and embedded mosaics depicting sea life. The columns around were painted turquoise, and the reflected light dancing upon them gave a feeling of an underwater grotto. This must be his ancient family home, I decided, as the effect was too refined to be anything less.

  Typheus returned. “Follow me please,” he said, and led me through the house to his master’s study, gestured me inside and then followed me in and closed the door.

  Though I knew of him, as I followed the forum gossip about all our elected rhones, this was the first time I have encountered Corpio in person. It pays to keep abreast of the movers and shakers, though I find it best to stay out of their way or risk getting crushed in their politics.

  Corpio was in his early fifties, a larg
e and healthy man, getting soft around the middle. Long nose, high cheekbones, the bronzed skin of his face and arms showing signs of much wind and sunlight, as did his sun-bleached blond hair. His eyes were bluish-green, now shot with red as if he had been rubbing them. He must have spent much time in his youth on ships out at sea, but has since gone soft from spending more of days on land for his public career.

  “Come in and sit down please,” He indicated a chair in front of his desk, into which I lowered myself. “I have knowledge of your reputation, Felix, and more importantly I have knowledge of your discreetness. Both are of the utmost importance to me at this time. Do we have an understanding?”

  I nodded my assent. It was my experience that when men who rise high in society open like this, the details will come only on their terms.

  “This is a personal matter, one where I have need of your special skills. It does not concern the other rhones, nor the Senate. Whatever you may find, you are to report to me and only me.”

  I nodded and returned his steady gaze. “This matter concerns my youngest son, Caeso.” There was a catch in his voice as he said his son’s name. He stared at me and blinked several times. I remained silent, letting him collect himself. “My son is dead. He was found last night in most unusual circumstances, which I require you to investigate.”

  “Before we discuss the specifics of his death, Rhone, would you please tell me about your son’s life?”

  “Very well. My son… my youngest son Caeso… he was not like his elder brother Marcus, never found his sea legs and was never interested in our family’s business and traditions. And yet he was his late mother’s little darling. I tried to bring him up to be a man as befitting his heritage, bought him the best tutors and exposed him early to our life. Unfortunately, he hadn’t showed any interest in that. Always more interested in wines and poets, never anything respectable. Nothing kept his attention for more than a season, and yet he was gregarious, full of life and vigour, out and about with his friends.