Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

“Furius was the original owner of this house. Titus and Cornelia acquired it when he was executed for his crimes against Sulla and the state.”

“I begin to see...”

“Perhaps you do. Furius and his family were on the wrong side of the civil war, political enemies of Sulla’s. When Sulla achieved absolute power and compelled the Senate to appoint him dictator, he purged the Republic of his foes. The proscriptions—”

“Names posted on lists in the Forum; yes, I remember only too well.”

“Once a man was proscribed, anyone could hunt him down and bring his head to Sulla for a bounty. I don’t have to remind you of the bloodbath, you were here; you saw the heads mounted on spikes outside the Senate.”

“And Furius’s head was among them?”

“Yes. He was proscribed, arrested, and beheaded. You ask if Cornelia is certain that Furius is dead? Yes, because she saw his head on a spike, with blood oozing from the neck. Meanwhile, his property was confiscated and put up for public auction—”

“But the auctions were not always public,” I said. “Sulla’s friends usually had first choice of the finest farms and villas.”

“As did Sulla’s relations,” added Lucius, wincing. “Yes, I’m afraid that when Furius was caught and beheaded, Titus and Cornelia didn’t hesitate to contact Sulla immediately and put their mark on this house. Cornelia had always coveted it; why pass up the opportunity to possess it, and for a song?” He lowered his voice. “The rumor is that they placed the only bid, for the unbelievable sum of a thousand sesterces!”

“The price of a mediocre Egyptian rug,” I said. “Quite a bargain.”

“If Cornelia has a flaw, it’s her avarice. In that, she’s hardly alone. Greed is the great vice of our age.”

“But not the only vice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me, Lucius, was this Furius really such a great enemy of our late, lamented dictator? Was he such a terrible threat to the security of the state and to Sulla’s personal safety that he truly belonged on the proscription lists?”

“I don’t understand.”

“There were those who ended up on the lists because they were too rich for their own good, because they possessed things that others coveted.”

Lucius frowned. “Gordianus, what I’ve already told you is scandalous enough, and I’ll ask you not to repeat it. I don’t know what further implication you may have drawn, and I don’t care to know. I think we should drop the matter.”

Friend he may be, but Lucius is also of patrician blood; the cords that bind the rich together are made of gold, and are stronger than iron.

I made my way homeward, pondering the strange and fatal haunting of Titus and his wife. I had forgotten completely about the soldier until I heard him hissing at me from his garden wall.

“Yes, yes! You said you’d come back to help me, and here you are. Come inside!” He disappeared, and a moment later a little wooden door in the wall opened inward. I stooped and stepped inside to find myself in a garden open to the sky, surrounded by a colonnade. The scent of burning leaves filled my nostrils; an elderly slave was gathering leaves with a rake, arranging them in piles about a small brazier in the center of the garden.

The soldier smiled at me crookedly. I judged him to be not much older than myself, despite his bald head and the grey hairs that bristled from his eyebrows. The dark circles beneath his eyes marked him as a man who badly needed sleep and a respite from worry. He hobbled past me and pulled up a chair for me to sit on.

“Tell me, neighbor, did you grow up in the countryside?” he said. His voice cracked slightly, as if pleasant discourse was a strain to him.

“No, I was born in Rome.”

“Ah. I grew up near Arpinum myself. I only mention it because I saw you staring at the leaves and the fire. I know how city folk dread fires and shun them except for heat and cooking. It’s a country habit, burning leaves. Dangerous, but I’m careful. The smell reminds me of my boyhood. As does this garden.”

I looked up at the tall, denuded trees that loomed in stark silhouette against the cloudy sky. Among them were some cypresses and yews that still wore their shaggy, grey-green coats. A weirdly twisted little tree, hardly more than a bush, stood in the corner, surrounded by a carpet of round, yellow leaves. The old slave walked slowly toward the bush and began to rake its leaves in among the others.

“Have you lived in this house long?” I asked.

“For three years. I cashed in the farm Sulla gave me and bought this place. I retired before the fighting was finished. My leg was crippled, and another wound made my sword arm useless. My shoulder still hurts me now and again, especially at this time of year, when the weather turns cold. This is a bad time of year, all around.” He grimaced, whether at a phantom pain in his shoulder or at phantoms in the air I could not tell.

“When did you first see the lemures?” I asked. Since the man insisted on taking my time, there was no point in being subtle.

“Just after I moved into this house.”