John, however, had already heard enough and was on his way up the stairs to examine the brazier in Cupitas' room.

It had already been emptied of ashes.

He strode into his room next door. There had been no reason for him to examine his surroundings when he'd thrown off his covers that morning, or so he'd thought. Cold as he was, he had been in a hurry to get downstairs to the relatively warmer room. Now he took a more careful look around. On the floorboards, near the door, he spotted something.

He picked up a long, pointed leaf.

He frowned, trying to remember all of Procopios' words, not just those concerning Antonina. This time he didn't need Makarios' assistance. The general's counsel had stated that he didn't want Belisarius to be blamed for the trader's death. There were some who blamed the Romans for every woe, he'd said.

John put his hand on the door and pushed it. Like Cupitas' door, it did not fit well, leaving a gap along the bottom. Unlike Cupitas, John had not thought to block the opening. He didn't like cold, but having lived in tents as a young mercenary he took a fatalistic view towards draughts.

He examined the outside of the door. Stuck to a splinter at the lower edge, he found a couple of threads, the brilliant red of freshly spilt blood.

By the time he had paid a quick visit to the inn's cellar, night was creeping into the city like a black fog. John hardly heard Makarios' ramblings as he passed by on his way out of the inn.

He now knew that Cupitas had, indeed, been murdered but the reason rendered his investigation more ironic than he had imagined.

Now, however, he felt it would be wise to make another examination of the trader's wares to make certain he had overlooked nothing in his rather cursory inspection earlier.

He did not wish to give Procopios any opportunity to point out oversights to Belisarius and an inventory of the trader's stock in trade had best be included in his report.

The interior of the shabby outbuilding was dark. Just enough twilight filtered in to show that Cupitas' crates and sacks remained as John had left them. He picked up the sack of supposed relics.

As he straightened, a shadow came flying through the open doorway. Instinctively John ducked, dropping the sack and grabbing for his blade. He glimpsed the axe embedded in a crate and leapt backwards, knocking a precarious pile of crates sideways. Several fell to the straw-covered floor with an echoing crash.

For an instant it sounded as if the whole Goth army was pounding on the city gates. John drew further back and squinted towards the man holding a lantern and standing in the doorway.

"No wonder you rose to hold such a high position at court, Lord Chamberlain," Titus remarked. "You're a very clever man. I've been watching you. You've worked it all out, haven't you?"

John remained silent.

The innkeeper sighed sorrowfully. "If only you had been clever enough not to deliver that letter to General Belisarius! It was certainly no coincidence my poor Tullia was ordered away with all the others practically an hour after you arrived. It was at Justinian's orders, wasn't it? Yes, I know it is unfair you must die," the innkeeper continued. "Your masters should pay the price too, but heaven has placed only you within my reach. Perhaps in due course it will see fit to grant me the general and the emperor."

"So you wanted me dead because I delivered Justinian's message to Belisarius?" John replied softly. "I was not responsible for the orders I carried, Titus. I'm not even certain Justinian ordered Belisarius to send the women away with the slaves and children. Besides, why do you suppose your wife has come to harm?" He shifted his feet, readying himself to leap forward to grapple with the innkeeper. His toe touched something and he glanced swiftly down.

A hand rested against his boot.

The desiccated hand of Joseph.

"I must have been unforgivably careless," Titus rambled on. "Was some remnant of that old wall hanging left on your door? That's why you were in the cellar examining it just now, isn't it? And doubtless you deduced immediately that I'd used it to block the space beneath your door, to ensure smoke stayed in the room. Unfortunately Cupitas stole the wood Fronto delivered to your room."

Again the man sighed. "Cupitas never would respect other people's property. What he wanted, he took. Unless that fool of a servant delivered it to the wrong room . . ."

"Fronto did his duty, Titus. I saw a leaf on the floor of my room."

"Ah. Did you recognize it? It was special wood, Lord Chamberlain, cut from the rosebay Tullia loved. Oleander, some call it. Every part of it is a deadly poison, even its smoke."

John, still gauging the situation, continued talking, noting that doubtless his inhalation of the smoke in Cupitas' room had been the cause of his feeling unwell earlier that day.

"If only you'd breathed more deeply of it!" Titus snapped. "I didn't want to count on getting rid of you by suffocation alone. Besides, it would have been fitting for one involved in destroying Tullia to have been killed by her rosebay, don't you think?"

"If you had succeeded, Tullia would have come back to find you had been executed," John pointed out.

"If I was caught. If she returns." Titus swung the lantern, sending light swimming across the cluttered room. "How should I handle the task now, do you think? Ah, I have it. A guest might be waylaid, stabbed by thieves and his body tossed into the river. That wouldn't raise an eyebrow, even if anyone saw you floating downriver."

John heard a light scrabbling, accompanied by a strangled whining. Were they manifestations of the shade Fronto had described?

Titus however apparently noticed nothing unusual, since he continued taunting John. "On the other hand, perhaps a fire would be best. No need to haul a body to the river and risk being seen on the way. Especially as I do believe this straw will burn very well if I throw this lantern . . ."

As Titus raised the lantern to suit action to threat, a shadow moved amid the toppled crates. John kicked the hand resting against his boot. It bounced across the floor, like an ungainly spider, landing at the innkeeper's feet.

A snarling demon flew out of the darkness after it.

Titus screamed as massive jaws clamped on his ankle. In a panic, he dropped his lantern and pummelled the attacker as the pair was propelled out into what remained of the inn's garden.

By the time the guests had raced out to help John put out the smouldering straw, Titus' throat had been ripped open.

The black demon leapt at Constantine as soon as he appeared. The auxiliary let out a bellowing laugh. "My prayers have been answered, Lord Chamberlain! I was looking for my axe and instead have found Achilles!"

Two days later John and Constantine stood talking with Procopios in front of Mount Olympus. "Cupitas must have muzzled Achilles, crated him and locked him in there to await the cooking pot," Constantine said. "When John knocked some of the crates over, that freed him. So it was Achilles that Fronto heard scrabbling and whimpering. He thought it was a shade. Though I suppose his error is not surprising, since he tells me that the last Roman emperor ruling in the west was strangled to death at this very inn!" Constantine reached down to pat his canine friend's massive head affectionately.

Procopios raised an eyebrow and then smiled. "I always thought Romulus Augustulus was pensioned off, but that makes a much livelier tale. In fact, it's almost as entertaining as how John solved this mysterious murder."

John shrugged. "An ironic story, certainly. Consider, Procopios. If I hadn't been sent to Rome there would have been no mystery to solve, because Titus would not have killed Cupitas while trying to murder me."

"Oh, someone would have killed Cupitas eventually," Procopios replied confidently. "But let's be off and leave Fronto to manage the inn. Perhaps when Damian hears what happened he'll come back and give him a hand until Tullia returns. Not a holy hand, of course!"

John took his leave of Constantine.

"So you're going to try to leave Rome the next time the Goths attack?" the auxiliary asked.

"They can't be everywhere at the same time," John pointed out. "I'll slip out through some unchallenged part of the defences while they are fighting elsewhere along the walls."

"I see you are determined to attempt to return to Constantinople, Lord Chamberlain," Procopios put in. "Before you go, then, let me tell you that Belisarius directed me to convey his appreciation to you for the great service you have rendered him."

John observed that given current conditions in Rome it was heartening that the great general concerned himself with the death of an ordinary trader in an obscure inn.

Procopios laughed. "I'm not referring to that! What pleased him mightily was the gift you found for Antonina. She's been wearing it on a gold chain ever since you sent it and now she too can't wait to get back to Constantinople to display it at court. After all, not even Empress Theodora possesses a finger from a genuine Praxiteles Aphrodite!"

The Lost Eagle by Peter Tremayne Our final story features Sister Fidelma, an Irish princess and a qualified ddlaigh, or advocate, of the law courts of Ireland under the ancient Brehon Law system. Fidelma has appeared in a series of novels, starting with Absolution by Murder (1994), plus a collection of short stories, Hemlock at Vespers (2000). We have moved on another century from the previous story, but elements of the Roman world still remain, especially through the growing power of the Papacy. Here we see how the old and new worlds of Rome come together in the city of Canterbury in Saxon Britain.

"This is Deacon Platonius Lepidus, Sister Fidelma. He is a visitor from Rome and he wishes a word with you."

Fidelma looked up in surprise as the stranger was shown into the scriptorum of the abbey. She was a stranger in the abbey herself - the abbey of Augustine. Augustine was the former prior of St Andrews in Rome who had died here scarcely sixty years ago, having been sent as missionary to the King of the Cantware. It was now the focal point of the Jutish Christian community in the centre of the burg of Cantware. Fidelma was waiting for Brother Eadulf to finish some business with the Archbishop Theodore. The religieux who had announced the Deacon's presence had withdrawn from the library shutting the door behind him. As Fidelma rose uncertainly the Deacon came forwards to the table where she had been seated.

Platonius Lepidus looked every inch of what she knew to be a Roman aristocrat; there was arrogance about him in spite of his religious robes. She had been on a pilgrimage to Rome and knew that his aristocratic rank would immediately be recognisable there. He was tall, with dark hair and swarthy of complexion. His greeting and smile was pleasant enough.

"The Venerable Gelasius told me that you had rendered him a singular service when you were in Rome, Sister. When I heard that you were here in Cantwareburg, I felt compelled to make your acquaintance."

"How is the Venerable Gelasius?" she rejoined at once for she had warm memories of the harassed official in the Lateran Palace where the Bishop of Rome resided.

"He is well and would have sent his personal felicitations had he known that I would be meeting with you. The scriptor has informed me that you are on a visit with Brother Eadulf, whom the Venerable Gelasius also remembers fondly. I was also informed that you are both soon to leave for a place called Seaxmund's Ham."

"You are correctly informed, Deacon Lepidus," Fidelma replied with gravity.

"Let us sit awhile and talk, Sister Fidelma," the Deacon said, applying action to the word and inviting her to do the same with a gesture of his hand. "I am afraid that I also have a selfish interest in making your acquaintance. I need your help."

Fidelma seated herself with an expression of curiosity.

"I will help if it is a matter that is within my power, Deacon Lepidus."

"Do you know much about the history of this land?"

"Of the kingdom of these Jutes? Only a little. I know that the Jutes drove out the original inhabitants of Kent scarcely two centuries ago."

The Deacon shook his head swiftly.

"I meant knowledge of this land before the Jutes came here. Before they drove the Britons out. The time when it was called Britannia and a province of Rome. You know that in the days of the great Roman Empire our legions occupied and governed this land for several centuries?"

Fidelma bowed her head in amused affirmation at the slight tone of pride in his voice.

"I do know something of that history," she replied softly.

"One of the legions that comprised the garrison here was called the Ninth Hispania. It was an elite legion. You might have heard of it?"

"If my memory serves me right, this elite legion was reduced by a Queen of the Britons called Boudicca," Fidel-ma smiled with irony. "Something like six thousand foot soldiers and almost an equal number of auxiliaries were killed when she ambushed them. I have read your historian, Tacitus, who wrote about the battle."

"The Britons were lucky," snapped Deacon Lepidus in sudden irritation. Clearly his pride was patriotic even though the incident was an ancient one. It had happened a full six centuries before.

"Or Queen Boudicca was the better general," Fidelma murmured quietly. "As I recall, the legion was cut to pieces and its commander, Petillius Cerialis, barely escaped to the shelter of his fortress with some of his cavalry. I think that there were only five hundred survivors out of the thousands of troops."

For a moment Lepidus looked annoyed and then he shrugged.

"It is clear that you have read Tacitus, Sister. The Venerable Gelasius was fulsome in his praise of your knowledge. The Legion, however, saved its eagle and was then brought back to fighting strength. Cerealis, in fact, went on to become Governor of the province in recognition of his ability. You know what the eagle symbolizes for a Roman legion?"

"The eagle is the standard of each Roman legion, thought to be divinely blessed by being bestowed personally by the hand of the emperor who was then thought to be divine. If the eagle fell into enemy hands, then the disgrace was such that the entire legion had to be disbanded," replied Fidelma.

"Exactly so," agreed the Deacon in satisfaction. "The Ninth Legion survived and served the emperors well. It pacified the northern part of this island, which was peopled by a fierce tribal confederation called the Brigantes . . ."

The man's voice was enthused and Fidelma, who disliked militarism, found herself frowning.

"All this is ancient history, Deacon Lepidus," she interrupted pointedly. "I am not sure why you are recalling it nor what advice you seek from me."

Deacon Lepidus made a quick gesture of apology.

"I shall come to that immediately. Did you know that the Ninth Legion disappeared while on active service among the Britons?"

"I did not know. I have read only Tacitus and some of Suetonius, neither of who mention that."

"They would not have been alive to record the event for it happened some sixty or seventy years later. My ancestor, the Legate Platonius Lepidus, was the officer in command of the Ninth Legion, at this time. He was commanding it when it vanished."

Fidelma began to realize why the Deacon was interested in ancient history but not why he was raising the subject.

"So, your ancestor disappeared with six thousand men or more?"

"He did. He and the eagle of the Ninth Hispania vanished as well as the men. There were rumours that the Legion had disgraced itself and was disbanded. Other stories say that it was sent to fight against the Parthans and eliminated. Yet other stories say that it had lost its eagle and all record of it was then stricken from the books. A few claimed that the legion was marched north across the great wall built by the Emperor Hadrian to protect the northern border of this province from the unconquered country of the Caledonii. You see, all the record books are now destroyed and so we have no knowledge of what happened . . ."

"It happened a long time ago," observed Fidelma patiently. "What is it that you want of me?"

"It happened well over five hundred years ago," Deacon Lepidus agreed. He was silent for a moment or so as if preoccupied with some thoughts. Then he stirred, as if making up his mind. "The fate of my ancestor, the eagle and the legion has become a matter of contention within our family. It is a matter that pride bids us attempt to resolve the mystery."

"After so long?" Fidelma could not help but sound sceptical.

The deacon smiled disarmingly.

"The truth is that I am writing a history of the Ninth Legion and want to insert into that history the facts of what their fate was and also exonerate the name of my ancestor. He has been blamed for the loss and even now the aristocracy of Rome does not readily forget this besmirching of the good name of our family."

"Ah." That Fidelma could understand. "But I cannot see how I might help you? I am not of this country and the area in which this legion disappeared, the land of the Brigantes, has been occupied for over one hundred years by the Angles, so any local traditions will have vanished when their culture and traditions replaced those of the Britons."

"But you are an adept at solving mysteries," pressed Deacon Lepidus. "The Venerable Gelasius has told me of how you solved the murders at the Lateran Palace."

"What do you expect from me?"

The deacon gave an almost conspiratorial glance around him and leaned forwards.

"The name Lepidus is well known in Rome. We are a princely family. We descend from Marcus Aemilius Lepidus who was a member of the great Julius Caesar's council and formed the triumvirate to govern Rome with Mark Anthony and Octavian Caesar." He halted, perhaps realizing that the history of his family in ancient Rome was of little importance to her. He went on: "Some months ago a merchant arrived seeking our family villa. He had been trading between here and Frankia."

"Trading between here and Frankia? How then did this merchant get to Rome?"

Deacon Lepidus absently placed a hand inside his robe.

"The merchant brought with him a piece of ancient vellum that he had acquired. He thought it valuable enough to come to Rome and seek out our family. He sold it to my father because it bore a name on it."

"The name of Lepidus, undoubtedly," Fidelma smiled trying not to sound sarcastic.

"The name of the Legate Platonius Lepidus," affirmed the other significantly. "The name of my ancestor who commanded the Ninth Hispania Legion at the time of its disappearance." He paused dramatically. "The merchant bargained for a good price for that vellum."

"He obviously expected it, having travelled all the way from these shores to Rome to sell it," murmured Fidelma.

"The vellum was worth much to me and my family," agreed Deacon Lepidus.

"And will you now produce this vellum?" asked Fidelma. When a suspicious frown crossed Lepidus' face, she added: "I presume, because you placed your hand inside your robe when you spoke of it, the vellum reposes there?"

Deacon Lepidus drew forth the piece of fine burnished calves' skin.

"The original is now in my family archive in Rome but I have made a precise copy of what was written on that ancient vellum."

Fidelma reached out a hand.