The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“What I admired about that paper of yours,” I went on, “wasn’t the actual conclusions, which are fanciful, or the empirical data, which is deeply flawed. No, what I liked was the approach. Confronted, you said, with various different explanations for an observed phenomenon — all of which fit the facts equally well — logic requires that we choose the explanation that calls for the least number of new assumptions. Is that right?” I asked nicely. “My Latin’s nothing special, but I think that’s what you said.”

He looked at me as if he didn’t like me nearly as much as he used to. “More or less,” he said.

“In other words,” I went on, “the simplest explanation is likely to be the right one.”

“That’s not actually what I — ”

“Near enough,” I said firmly, “is good enough. In which case,” I went on, “try this. The simplest explanation for what happened to Naso isn’t that he climbed the wall on his own, or that this mysterious and wonderful flute-girl of yours winched him over the wall on an improvised crane. The simplest explanation,” I said, beaming at him like the rising sun, “is that when he came outside to shag the flute-girl, he found the sergeant of his honour guard waiting for him. The sergeant killed him, and a couple of squaddies lugged him out through the open gate and put him on a cart, to be disposed of later in a nearby warehouse. Well?” I asked him. “Simple enough for you?”

Bless him. He didn’t say a word.

“And why would the sergeant do such a thing?” I continued. “Because he was ordered to, or paid, or both. Who by? Well, that’s a subject for speculation, I grant you. It could have been a member of a rival political faction — let’s see, Naso was well up in the Popular party, just as you’re quite well thought of among the Optimates, aren’t you? Or maybe it was someone who reckoned the best way to make sure there’d be a war would be by manufacturing a serious diplomatic incident. Mind you,” I added, “they’d have to be a Optimate, since the Populars don’t want a war right now. Or it could simply have been the uncle of Naso’s first wife; you know, the one who died in mysterious circumstances, falling down the stairs or something like that, thereby making it possible for Naso to marry that rich and well-connected heiress. Or maybe it was just that someone whose career’s been nothing special lately simply wanted his job. We just don’t know. I’m sure,” I added sweetly, “that once we’ve shared our theories with Naso’s friends in the Populars, they’d have no trouble thinking of someone who answers one of those descriptions. Or maybe all of them, even.”

He gave me a look that would’ve curdled milk. “Have you finished?” he said.

“Yes. Almost,” I added. “I’d just like to give you a new dictum for your collection.”

“Well?”

“Give me a firm place to stand,” I said, “and I can kick your arse from here to Agrigentum.”

* * *

Later, Orestes asked me, “So why sprats?”

“Ah,” I said, smiling like a happy Socrates. “My guess is, the Romans had chosen poor old Stratocles’ warehouse well in advance as a good place to lose the body. They wouldn’t want it found, not ever, because a disappearance was just as good for breaking up the peace talks as a visible murder, and a body might just’ve given the game away; no rope-marks or anything like that to support the crane theory. There might have been some trifling clue they’d overlooked, but which might’ve been picked up by one of our sharp-as-needles Syracusan investigators. Attention to detail, you see, a typically Roman trait.”

“But?”

I grinned. “But when they got to the warehouse — it was dark, remember, and they wouldn’t have risked a light — they made a slight mistake. They’d been intending to put the corpse in one of the damaged jars we saw there, earmarked for dumping in the bay. Instead, they dumped it in a half-filled jar, which is how come it ended up in Rome.” I shook my head sadly. “Too clever by half,” I said, “and basically just careless.”

* * *

There was no war. Scaurus went home, and was replaced by a polite old Optimate who explained that the girl Maurisca had confessed that she’d been bribed by the Carthaginians (nice touch, everybody hates the Carthaginians) to tell a parcel of lies in order to get Hiero into trouble. The charges were, therefore, withdrawn, and the negotiations proceeded to a long, drawn out, meaningless conclusion.

And that, I sincerely hope, was the last time I’ll ever have anything to do with the Romans. They may have their stirling qualities, but I don’t like them. They have absolutely no respect, in my opinion, for the scientific method.

Something to do with Diana

STEVEN SAYLOR