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

“True,” he said, nodding sheepishly. “But Cornelia will fault you for not capturing the imposter. She’ll refuse to pay the full fee.”

“I don’t care about the fee.”

“I’ll make up the difference,” said Lucius.

I laid my hand on his shoulder. “What is rarer than a camel in Gaul?” Lucius wrinkled his brow. I laughed. “An honest man in Rome.”

Lucius shrugged off the compliment with typical chagrin. “I still don’t understand how you knew the identity of the imposter.”

“I told you that I visited the house on the Caelian Hill this morning. What I didn’t tell you was that the old slavewoman across the street revealed to me that Furius not only had a sister, but that this sister was the same age — his twin — and bore a striking resemblance to him.”

“Ah! They must have been close, and her slightly softer features make her look younger than Furius.”

“Who must have been quite handsome. Even through her horrid makeup...” I sighed. “Also, when I followed Furius’s widow to market, I was struck by her purchase of a quantity of calf s blood. She also gathered a spray of juniper berries, which the little girl carried for her.”

“Berries?”

“The cankers pasted on Furia’s face — juniper berries cut in half. The blood was for matting her hair and daubing on her neck. As for the rest of her appearance, her ghastly makeup and costuming, you and I can only guess at the ingenuity of a household of women united toward a single goal. Furia has been in seclusion for months, which explains the almost uncanny paleness of her flesh — and the fact that she was able to cut off her hair without anyone taking notice.”

I shook my head. “A remarkable woman. I wonder why she never married? The turmoil and confusion of the civil war, I suppose, and the death of her brothers ruined her prospects forever. Misery is like a pebble cast into a pond, sending out a wave that spreads and spreads.”

I headed home that night weary and wistful. There are days when one sees too much of the world’s wickedness, and only a long sleep in the safe seclusion of one’s home can restore an appetite for life. I thought of Bethesda and Eco, and tried to push the face of Furia from my thoughts. The last thing on my mind was the haunted soldier and his legion of lemures, and yet I was destined to encounter them all before I reached my house.

I passed by the wall of his garden, smelled the familiar tang of burning leaves, but thought no more about the soldier until I heard the little wooden door open behind me and the voice of his old retainer crying out my name.

“Thank the gods you’ve finally returned!” he whispered hoarsely. He seemed to be in the grip of a strange malady or spell, for even though the door allowed him more room to stand, he remained oddly bent, his eyes gleamed dully, and his jaw was slack. “The master has sent messenger after messenger to your door — always they are told you are out, that your return is expected at any moment. But when the lemures come, time stops. Please, come! Save the master — save us all!”

From beyond the wall I heard the sound of moaning, not from one man but from many. I heard a woman shriek, and the sound of furniture overturned. What madness was taking place within the house?

“Please, help us! The lemures, the lemures!” The old slave made a face of such horror that I started back and turned to make my escape. My house was only a few steps up the pathway. But I turned back. I reached inside my tunic and felt for the handle of my dagger before I thought how little use a dagger would be to deal with those already dead.

It took no small amount of courage to step through the little door. My heart pounded like a hammer in my chest.

The air within was dank and smoky. After the brief drizzle a clammy cold had descended upon the hills of Rome, such as holds down plumes of smoke and makes the air unwholesome and stagnant. I breathed in an acrid breath and coughed.

The soldier came running from within the house. He tripped and staggered forward on his knees, wrapped his arms around my waist and looked up at me in abject terror. “There!” He pointed back toward the house. “They pursue me! Gods have mercy — the boy without a head, the soldier with his belly cut open, all the others!”

I peered into the hazy darkness, but saw nothing except a bit of whorling smoke. I suddenly felt dizzy and lightheaded. It was because I had not eaten all day, I told myself; I should have been less proud and presumed upon Cornelia’s hospitality for a meal. Then, while I watched, the whorl of smoke began to expand and change shape. A face emerged from the murky darkness — a boy’s face, twisted with agony.

“See!” cried the soldier. “See how the poor lad holds his own head in his fist, like Perseus holding the head of the Gorgon! See how he stares, blaming me!”