The Temple Murder

By Gordon Walton

The murder of a moneylender is for many people the answer to a pray. For others it is a means to an end! With the stroke of a dagger all debts are paid, or are they?

For Centurion Carinus the death of one man sets in motion a chain of events, that will see him embroiled in a power struggle with men who will not hesitate to kill anyone in their quest for power.

Can one man stop them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467894104

Gordon Walton

Gordon Walton lives in the town of Consett, about fourteen miles from the Cathedral city of Durham. Since his school days he has been fascinated by ancient military history, and in particular the Roman empire. From 1982 to 1985 he attended night school at Durham University, and was taught by the eminent Roman historian Dr. Brian Dobson. The knowledge that people like Dr. Dobson have passed on to Gordon, fuelled his passion for Roman Britain. This passion has now taken solid form in his Centurion Carinus novels, set in Northern Britain in the mid fourth century A.D.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The street was swathed in deep shadows as the last remnants of daylight faded. Already the first flickering lamps had appeared in some of the windows in the houses, the yellowish light they shed like beacons of sanctuary in a sea of gloom as night approached. Under the entrance to the temple with its pediment supported by four massive columns, the two men drew back into the shadows and waited.

Across the street from the temple in the doorway of a closed shop, Priscus pulled the shabby woollen cloak tighter around himself against the chill of the late September night. The sound of laughter from the bar down the street drew his attention momentarily, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything that day. The few coins he’d managed to beg sufficing only too buy a few cups of cheap wine. As if too remind him his stomach groaned. He made a mental note that whatever money he could beg, or steal tomorrow, would be spent on food and not just drink.

The sound of footsteps approaching made Priscus forget his troubles and turn too look. The solitary figure of a man walked slowly up the centre of the street. He was quite tall, and well dressed in a full length robe over which a hooded cape was worn, hiding the features of the man. And even though he couldn’t see them, Priscus knew well the sound made by the expensive leather sandals on the cobbled road. A man of weaIth then out late at night without any servants for protection, on streets that could be dangerous.

Much too Priscus’s surprise the mysterious figure stopped in front of the temple opposite. The man looked up at the elaborate facade of the temple dedicated to the God Serapis. He seemed hesitant, uncertain even. Did he really wish too pray too the God at this hour. As if in answer to the beggar’s question out of the shadows behind one of the columns a second figure appeared. This man beckoned with the wave of a hand, and Priscus heard the name ‘Garilianus’ spoken. The hooded man looked around the street. Satisfied that it was deserted he began to climb the steps up to the temple. The beggar watched intently until the two men disappeared from his view, behind the columns and under the cover of the pediment with its imprenetrable shadows.

Priscus shrugged. Something illegal and underhand was being arranged there and no mistake. Still, it wasn’t his concern. He sat down on the shop doorstep and rearranged the cloak around his slight frame. Then leaned his head back against the door to try and induce sleep. The minutes passed and the beggar began to feel drowsy.

The sudden and startling shout of alarm however, brought Priscus bolt upright. At the top of the temple steps, two men fought. One had a dagger held high in his right hand. His opponent grasped at the dagger, at the same time trying to avoid the lethal blade. There was no doubt it was the two men the beggar had seen minutes before.

Priscus sprang to his feet, his weariness temporarily forgotten. He was on the verge of shouting or running for help, when a third man he had not seen earlier emerged from the temple shadows. This newcomer seemed as surprised and shocked at the life and death struggle as Priscus. And he shouted at the two men to stop. He was ignored. The confrontation went on until the dagger broke free of its restraining hold. At the same time the man wearing the hooded cape lost his footing on the top step. Priscus stared in shocked disbelief at what happened next. It seemed to take so long, like a scene from a play at the theatre: The man tottering on the top step, then the hood falling back off his head, the dagger arcing over to plunge into the stranger’s chest, and then a body falling backward with flailing arms, hitting the steps and rolling down several before coming to rest face down.

Murderer and accomplice anxiously descended the temple steps. Looking down at the body, and then around the street, Priscus watched, mesmerized, as the two men hesitated only a few seconds to look at the prone figure. Then they were hurrying down the remaining steps and crossing the street.

The beggar heard a brief snatch of their conversation as they passed. ‘That wasn’t necessary … He wouldn’t have said anything.’ It was the smaller of the two who spoke. The other younger-looking man made no reply. On they walked, away from the scene of their crime, until the gathering gloom swallowed them as if they had never existed. Priscus emerged from his dramatic viewpoint, and nervously crossed the street to the base of the temple steps.

The voice of self-preservation in his head told him to run and forget what he’d seen and heard. He ignored his own thoughts of caution and climbed up to the body. Who turned out to be a man in his middle years, his greying hair and beard neatly trimmed. Priscus laid a hand lightly on the corpse and shook it gently. There was no response; this man’s spirit was now with his ancestors, as a large patch of blood dripping from one step to another below the body confirmed. Priscus turned to leave, as he did so his foot caught something. Metallic, by the sound it made. The beggar stepped back to look. There on the step was a ring. He picked it up. It was silver, made in the form of a snake, worn by many people as a talisman to ward off evil. It hadn’t worked this time for its owner, who now had no need of it. Priscus slipped it on his finger; at the same instant he heard the first shout.

He turned startled to look. Standing in front of the open bar door across the street were four men. They pointed at Priscus and began to shout. Other revellers drawn by the commotion spilled out of the bar. Fear crept through the beggar’s body, but this was soon replaced by stark terror when he realised what it was they were shouting at him. Murderer, they were calling him a murderer. Priscus couldn’t believe it, this could not be happening. He’d lived by his wits on the streets of Eburacum long enough though, to know it was pointless to try and argue with a drunken mob.

The next instant he was jumping down the steps two at a time. Reaching the street level at the same time the baying mob set off in hot pursuit after him. Priscus skidded around the side of the temple glad of the night’s dark shroud to help him. Behind he could hear the shouts and curses of the pursuing crowd. The beggar lengthened his stride his heart pounding in his chest. At the same time he thought of the ring on his finger. He hoped with all his might that the little silver talisman, would work a bit harder for its new master than it had for its old. Now would be a very good time for it to work its magic.

As if in answer to his prayers the huge outline of the public baths took shape before Priscus. A safe haven if ever there was one. And one he knew so well with all its many hiding places. Priscus took heart and put in an extra spurt, to put distance between himself and his flagging pursuers.

CHAPTER TWO

The water splashed over the dried crimson patches on the steps, changing the life blood to liquid once again. A second later the young man was scrubbing vigorously with a brush at the stains. All evidence of the crime must be washed away. No mark should remain to defile the holy place. People in the street looked across at the young temple devotee at his work. Most of the locals in the area now knew of the night’s dramatic events, the last sign of which was now being washed away. The passers-by would shake their heads and mumble under their breath, but they wouldn’t stop or linger. Bad luck, like a disease, could be caught if you weren’t careful. And the God Serapis would surely take revenge on those responsible for the sacrilege.

The young man was sweeping away the last of the water when suddenly a shadow fell across his work. He turned, startled, his eyes blinking as he looked momentarily into the weak autumn sunshine. Standing over him was the tall figure of a soldier. Not just any soldier, though, but a very well-dressed and equipped senior centurion. The officer wore a fabulous bronze helmet far superior in quality and design than anything issued to most soldiers. The wide cheek guards, browpeek, and deep flange at the back of the skull protector, encased nearly all the head and neck. Only a very small area of the face was left exposed for any would be attacker. And two swords, the centurion wore two swords. The standard long-blade Spatha hung across his left hip, suspended from a wide leather baldric with pierced mounts. And high on the officer’s right side he wore a short and now rare infantry Gladius.

The young man looked down at the scrubbed steps and then back at the soldier. The deep blue eyes of the centurion staring down forced him to speak. ‘I was told to remove it Centurion!’ he said defensively. Carinus nodded ‘I’m sure you were’ came the reply. ‘You didn’t by any chance find anything before you started your work?’ ‘Like what, Centurion?’ Carinus shrugged, ‘anything, sometimes people lose or drop things in a fight or struggle.’ ‘No Centurion. I saw nothing, I’m sorry.’ The officer forced a smile ‘Never mind. It was just a thought.’ He looked up at the temple and frowned, as he read part of the inscription on the lower pediment which boldly proclaimed Serapis the Bountiful. There was irony. Serapis, Carinus knew, was a God of Egyptian origin, the God of Fertility no less. Only last night he was the harbourer of death for one man.

Carinus turned and looked back across the street at the bar. ‘They gave chase,’ said the temple steps cleaner, reading the centurion’s thoughts. ‘But they lost the murderer near the public bath.’ The soldier nodded. A lot of people got lost near the baths, at all times of the day and night. It was a national pasttime.

The bar owner and his clientele weren’t much help. No, they hadn’t seen the actual murder take place. But some of them had heard the shouts outside, and had gone to investigate. A man was standing over the body, who else could he be but the murderer. What did he look like? Well he was small and skinny. With short cropped hair, he wore a cloak and was fleet of foot. And once near the baths he lost his pursuers easily.

That was a description that could fit any number of men in the civillian Colonia south of the river. But the fact that he could elude the pursuing mob so easily probably meant he was one of the street people. Beggars, thieves, casual labourers and yes, even murderers. It also meant he’d he hard to find. If not damn near impossible. Carinus sighed. Why the hell did he always get these cases to investigate?

By mid-morning, the hustle and bustle of daily life in Eburacum was in full flow. And that meant noise, lots of it. Shopkeepers and peddlers of every description shouted and called to passers-by, extolling the virtues of the product they had to sell. Here jewellery and trinkets for sale, there fruit and vegetables offered. The deep voice of a butcher telling how fresh his meat was. A cutler saying you could shave with one of his knives. And in return, the shoppers haggled for bargains. Such was life in the city. Carinus strode on purposely through this human melee, ignoring as best he could the sights and sounds that afflicted his senses.

Eventually he left the marketplace behind and moved into a quieter, more exclusive part of the city. Around the centurion now, were the well built town houses of the wealthier citizens of Eburacum: The men who ran the civil Colonia, their wealth gaining them status as members of the council. Or even magistrates to administer justice, among their numbers, several ex-legionnares. Violent death on the streets amongst this select group of people was relatively rare. When it did happen however, the repercussions were that much greater. It also brought about the intervention of the military to investigate, and if possible catch the perpetrator of such an act. Which explained why Carinus now stared at one of the houses.

It was, or rather had been up until last night, the residence of Claudius Garilianus prior to his untimely death at the temple of Serapis. Branches of fir had already been fixed to the main house door, to warn passers-by that there had been a death in the house. Garilianus was well-off financially, but it was the way he had accrued his wealth that might be a pointer to the manner of his death. Garilianus was a moneylender. Carinus could well imagine many people in the city, not being unduly disturbed at the news of the lenders death. Quite the opposite, in fact. His sudden demise could be the answer to a prayer. Maybe Garilianus’s killer had been one of his clients. If that was the case, the moneylender had taken a terrible risk in going to meet the man, unaccompanied and with night falling. That would appear to be totally out of character for a man in his profession. The centurion shook his head. As usual, there were too many questions and not enough answers. He stepped up to the elaborately-carved wood doors, which stood out on what was a pretty featureless side of the house. This effect was intended though, the house being designed on a Mediterranean plan with an internal courtyard, the rooms arranged around and looking into the court.

The door was opened quickly to Carinus’s knock. An aged man-servant bidding him to enter, as if army officers were regular callers at the house. After giving his name and rank, and asking to see the lady of the house, the officer was shown into a small room to wait.

The room turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. The walls were painted to imitate panelling. The floor was a brightly-coloured mosaic, with four different scenes depicting the seasons. With this in mind and the cooler days of autumn a fact, a small charcoal brazier stood in one corner of the room, its gentle warmth filling the space. The only furniture was a two seater couch and a whicker chair. A single window, with clear glass sufficed to give natural light. Carinus crossed to it.

The view was of a large central garden: Lawn for the most part, a place of solitude and peace where the individual could retreat to away from the outside world. Around the central garden area was built a colonnaded ambulatory so that exercise could be taken no matter what the weather. The faintest of sounds made Carinus turn away from the window, to see the room door open.

The lady Flavia, now widow, was a woman of about thirty five years of age. Slim of figure, with dark brown eyes to match her hair. Her round face was devoid of make up, the eyes a little reddened.

‘Centurion Carinus.’ He nodded. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you at this time, so soon.’ ‘That’s alright Centurion. I understand.’ Flavia moved across to the couch, the only sound was from the rustle of her full length tunic, a deep blue in colour. Once seated, she said in a voice that was low but even in tone, ‘Ask what questions you wish, Centurion.’ It was pointless to ask whether Garilianus had enemies. Money lenders had those by the dozen.

‘Last night when your husband went out, did he by any chance mention who he was going to see and why?’ Flavia shook her head. ‘No. That is, he did not tell me the true reason.’ She hesitated, her hands clasped together. ‘When Claudius said he was going out at such an hour, and with no escort, he could see I was apprehensive. But he laughed and said I was not to worry, that he wouldn’t be long. It was just a meeting with some city councillors.’ Carinus nodded. No council meetings were held at that hour of the day that was fast becoming night. So why tell such a blatant lie? If it