“How did you deduce that, Gordianus?”
“The way Zoticus and I slept that night—we were tired from the long day and the heat, but not that tired. It wasn’t natural. Some sort of drug was put in our food or wine. Something that made us sleep like dead men. The innkeeper did it.”
Marcus gave me a shrewd look.
“And he did the same thing to Titus Tullius and his party,” I said. “He put something in their wine that sent them into a deep sleep—so deep that not one of them woke while you killed them at your leisure. Why didn’t you kill Zoticus and me, as well?”
“I’m a soldier, Gordianus. I kill from necessity, not for enjoyment. Clearly, your interest in the ruins was historical, or in the case of your old tutor, sentimental. A Roman pup wandering amid the rubble and a doddering Greek declaiming poetry posed no threat to me. I told Gnaeus to drug you so that you’d sleep through the killing; I saw no need to kill you as well. It seems I made a mistake—which I now intend to rectify.”
He deftly swung one leg over his horse and dismounted, keeping the drawn sword in his hand. He tightened his grip on the hilt, making ready to use it.
I backed away and tried to stall him with more questions. “The witch’s curse—the lead tablet among the bodies—was it a forgery?”
He laughed. “Can you believe the coincidence? Gnaeus and I found it when we searched Tullius’s room after the killing. We couldn’t believe our luck—a genuine curse tablet, scary enough to make Lucius faint and even old Menenius lose all common sense.”
“But who made the tablet?”
“Ismene, I’m sure. Lucius always said she was a witch. I took the lead tablet downstairs and hid it among the bodies. It was perfect, that Lucius should be the one to find it. And the way you read it aloud, with that tremor in your voice—like an actor on a stage! Even I had to shudder. ‘Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name!’” Marcus laughed so hard he stopped in his tracks. But he was still holding the sword.
“Lucius said something about other soldiers who died, in their sleep,” I said. “He blamed witchcraft.”
Marcus shrugged. “That was my doing. Aulus figured out what I was up to, and demanded a share. So I poisoned him. A month later, Tiberius did the same. Lucius was sure they died by witchcraft and told everyone so. No suspicion ever fell on me.”
“If poison worked before, why didn’t you poison Tullius and the rest?” I said, desperate to keep stalling him.
He shook his head. “That would have required a great deal of poison. No, it was quicker and easier and more reliable to give them all a sleeping draft, and then use this.” He slashed the air with his sword, so close that a gust of warm air blew against my nose.
While I ran through every question I could think of, I had been looking for something to throw at him. I was surrounded by rubble, yet all the stones and bits of wood were either too big or too small to use as a weapon. Marcus saw my consternation and smiled. He said he killed for necessity, not enjoyment, but the look on his face told another story.
I staggered back, weak from heat and thirst. My heart pounded so hard I thought my chest would burst. Amid the oily spots that swam before my eyes, I glimpsed ghostly faces—the dead of Corinth, making ready to welcome me.
I heard a strange whistling noise.
Marcus abruptly dropped his sword. His jaw went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the ground.
I stood dumbfounded, then looked up to see Ismene. She seemed to have materialized from thin air.
“How did you do that?” I whispered. “You killed him without even touching him. You were nowhere near him.”
She gave me a withering look. “First of all, he’s probably not dead. Feel the pulse at his wrist.”
I did so. “You’re right, he’s only unconscious.”
“And not likely to stay that way long. I’d tie him up, if I were you.”
“With what?”
She rolled her eyes. “Use the leather reins from his horse.”
“Ah, yes, of course. It’s the heat—I can’t seem to think straight. But I still don’t understand how you did that. Was it a spell?”
“Feel the back of his head.”
I did so. “There’s a big lump. What sort of spell—”
“Really, young man! Did your father never teach you to use a sling?” She held up a bit of cloth. “Witchcraft achieves many things, but as long as there’s an egg-sized stone handy, I don’t need Ufer of the Mighty Name to bring a man down.”
I finished tying Marcus’s ankles and wrists. “You’re very resourceful,” I said. “Are you really a witch?”
“Titus Tullius and his friends are all dead, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but that was because—”
“If you don’t like my answers, don’t ask me questions.”
I thought about this, and decided to show her more respect. “The handwriting on the tablet at the inn was the same as the handwriting on the tablet I read in the room on the Slope of Sisyphus. You wrote both curses. That’s your witch’s den, isn’t it?”
