The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“It covers them,” I pointed out, “like a drover’s coat. It’s not what you’d call a tailored fit.”

Orestes gave me an ‘all-right, be like that’ look. “It covers the known facts,” he said. “And it has the wonderful merit of being nothing to do with politics and diplomacy, which gets Syracuse off the hook. Also,” he added, with a rather more serious expression, “it’s the only explanation we’ve got, unless we’re prepared to entertain divine intervention.”

I stood up. “Well done,” I said. “You know, I told Hiero you’d be perfectly capable of dealing with this business on your own. But would he listen?”

“Did you really?”

“At any rate,” I said, as I walked to the open door that led to nothing at all and cautiously peered out, “it’s a working hypothesis. Of course, you’ve missed out the one thing that might just possibly prove your case.”

He looked startled. “Have I?”

I grinned and pointed at the coil of rope. “You’re sitting on it,” I said.

His eyes grew round and wide. “Of course,” he said. “Naso threw this rope into the tree!”

I picked the iron clamp off the cheese press. “Possibly using this as an improvised grappling hook.”

“And they climbed along the rope to the tree, and dropped down from the overhanging branch on to the other side of the wall.”

“Having chosen a spot, or a moment, with no guard present. Quite,” I said. “Solved your mystery for you. Of course,” I added, “you haven’t yet explained how the rope and the clamp got back in here, neatly coiled up and put away.”

“Damn,” he said. “Does that spoil my case?”

I smiled at him. “No,” I said. “It makes it interesting.”

* * *

The next day I thought about my king, my patron and my friend, Hiero of Syracuse, and the Romans. I also thought about war, and truth. Then I sent out for a secretary — I get cramp in my wrist these days if I write much — and dictated a report on the case. It was essentially Orestes’ theory, though I left out the rope and the cheese press, and a few other things. I fleshed it out a bit, for the benefit of any Romans who might read it (I felt sure that some would), with various observations of a scientific nature. Human strength, for example, and the limitations thereof. Agathocles, I pointed out, was a small man, past middle age. Even if he’d been able to murder a seasoned Roman soldier (by attacking him when his back was turned, for example), there was no way he could’ve disposed of the body, not without help. Such help could only have come from the domestics, since his two advisers and the remaining Romans had left the party together. As for the domestics — the cooks — they’d been thoroughly interrogated in the proper manner, were slaves, could hardly speak Greek and had never been to Agathocles’ house before. They left shortly after the guests, and they all agreed that none of them had been out of the others’ sight all evening. It was just possible that Agathocles, having murdered Naso, could have suborned them all — it would’ve had to be all of them — with bribes to help him with the body, but I left it to the common sense of the reader to conclude that it was highly unlikely. If Agathocles had wanted to kill Naso, surely he’d have laid a better plan and made sure he had his helpers in place before the event, rather than relying on recruiting slaves he’d never met before. The same, I more or less implied, held true of the servers, who were also from Syriscus’ agency. As for the flute-girls, including the one carried off by Naso, they could be ruled out straight away, since mere slips of girls wouldn’t have been capable of manhandling Naso’s substantial body. Therefore, I concluded, if Naso hadn’t been removed from the house by anybody else, he must’ve removed himself. That proposition established, the likeliest reconstruction of events, I suggested, was the one set forth in my report.

I concluded by praising the energy and intelligence of my colleague, Orestes of Corinth, in the investigation. I had three copies made and sent one to Hiero as soon as the ink was dry.

* * *

What, after all, is truth? In a court of law, it’s a narrative of certain events which a majority of the jury believe to be accurate. In science, it’s a hypothesis that fits (or at least covers) all the known facts without contravening any of the established laws of nature. In mathematics, it’s the inevitable product of the component variables. In the subscience of history, it’s the most plausible explanation of the undisputed evidence. In diplomacy, it’s a version acceptable to both parties and incapable of being disproved.

* * *

Hiero sent my report to Rome, along with a request that the negotiations be resumed. The Romans replied with a new team of negotiators, headed by one Publius Laurentius Scaurus, a man of whom even I had heard.

“It’s an honour,” Scaurus said to me, having backed me into a corner at the official reception, “and a tremendous privilege to meet you. What can I say? You’re my hero. The greatest living philosopher.”