Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Young Cosconius looked around, then saw me gesturing from the distinguished group on the gallery. He came up the stair, very stiff and dignified. He was surprised to see Cicero and his entourage, but he masked his perplexity with an expression of gravitas befitting one recently bereaved and seeking high office. He saluted Cicero, ex-consul and the most important man currently residing in Rome.

“I am here on a matter of business,” Cicero said. “I believe your business is with the aedile.”

“I apologize for summoning you here,” I said. “I know that you must be preoccupied with your late father’s obsequies.” When I had last seen him, he had been busy grubbing votes.

“I trust you’ve made progress in finding my father’s murderer,” he said coldly.

“I believe I have.” I looked out over the men training in the yard below. “It’s a chore, arranging for public games. You’ll find that out. I suppose you’ll be exhibiting funeral games for your father?”

He shrugged. “He specified none in his will, which was read this morning. But I may do so when I hold the aedileship.”

Confident little bastard, I thought. I pointed to a pair of men who were contending with sword and shield. One carried the big oblong legionary shield and gladius, the other a small round shield and curved shortsword.

“That’s Celadus with the Thracian weapons,” I said, referring to the latter. “Do you support the Big Shields or the Small Shields?”

“The Big Shields,” he said.

“I’ve always like the Small Shields,” I told him. “Celadus fights Petraites from the School of Ampliatus at next month’s games.” Petraites was a ranking Big Shield fighter of the time. I saw that special gleam come into his eye.

“Are you proposing a wager?”

“A hundred on Celadus, even money?” This was more than reasonable. Petraites had the greater reputation.

“Done,” he said, taking out his tablet and stylus, handing the tablet to me. I gave him mine, then rummaged around in my tunic and toga.

“I’ve lost my stylus. Would you lend me yours?”

He handed it over. “Now, I believe you called me here concerning my father’s murder.”

“Oh yes, I was coming to that. Quintus Cosconius, I charge you with the murder of your father, Senator Aulus Cosconius.”

“You are insane!” he said, his dark face going suddenly pale, as well it might. Of the many cruel punishments on our law books, the one for parricide is one of the worst.

“That is a serious charge, aedile,” Cicero said. “Worse than poisoning, worse than treason, even worse than arson.”

Cosconius pointed a finger at me. “Maybe you aren’t mad. You are just covering up for another of your friend Milo’s crimes.”

“Asklepiodes pronounced that death was the result of a wound inflicted by a thin blade piercing the heart. He found a bit of foreign substance adhering to the wound, which he took to his surgery to study. I thought at first that the weapon was a bodkin such as prostitutes sometimes carry, but this morning it occurred to me that a writing stylus would serve as well, provided it was made of bronze.” I held up the piece of paper Asklepiodes had sent me with its one word: “wax.”

“This confirms it. Aulus Cosconius was stabbed through the heart with a stylus uncleaned by its owner since its last use. A bit of wax still adhered to its tip and was left on the wound.”

Quintus Cosconius snorted. “What of it? Nearly every literate man in Rome carries a stylus.”

“Actually, I didn’t really forget my own stylus today.” I took it out. “You see, the common styli are round or quadrangular. Mine, for instance, is slightly oval in cross-section.” Cicero and his friends drew out their own implements and showed them. All were as I had described. Cicero’s was made of ivory, with a silver scraper.

“Yet Asklepiodes’ examination indicated that the weapon used to kill Aulus Cosconius was triangular. You will note that young Quintus’s implement is of that geometrical form, which is most rare among styli.” I handed it to Cicero.

Then I shook out the tunic the dead man had been wearing. “Note the three parallel streaks of blood. That is where he wiped off the sides of the stylus.”

“A coward’s weapon,” snorted one of Cicero’s companions.

“Young Cosconius here is standing for office,” I pointed out. “He couldn’t afford to be caught bearing arms within the pomerium. But most Romans pack a stylus around. It isn’t much of a weapon, but no one is going to survive having one thrust through his heart.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Cosconius demanded. You could smell the fear coming off him.