Obelisk Page 12

  Armstrong said, ‘I do apologise for hoiking you out of your bed like that. Had to force my way in to make sure the summons got through to you. And I know you were up until the small hours with those ecclesiastical types.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ she admitted. ‘And coping with all that theological language does make the brain spin …’

  The Romans were in London for the formal announcement of the engagement of Princess Alice to Gavrilo. The marriage was essentially political, a way to unite the British Bourbon dynasty to the house of Caesar Nedjelko XXVI Princip, a Serbian line of emperors who had ruled in Constantinople for more than a century. The British government, ever eager to maintain a balance of power on the continent, had used the occasion to host a summit conference of the great powers, notably the French and the Ottomans, territorial rivals of the Romans in central Europe and Mesopotamia, and the Americans, locked in their own perpetual rivalry with the French over their long border with the Louisiana Territory. The churches had been communing too, and while the temporal leaders had been gathered at St James’s, the Archbishop of Canterbury had used Lambeth Palace to host delegations from the Vatican and the patriarchate of Constantinople to discuss theological issues and ecumenical ventures.

  Imogen murmured, ‘It was a long evening. Compared to the princes at St James’s, the prelates might be long-winded, but they enjoy their wine just as much.’ And a good few of them had roving eyes and wandering hands, she and the other girls had found.

  Armstrong laughed. ‘Well, I’m afraid you have another long day ahead of you today, Miss Brodsworth. Only a few of us are being summoned back to St James’s. He asked for you specifically.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The prefect, Marcus Helvidius. He was impressed by your language skills, and your sobriety. I think he believes you will be an asset today.’

  Thinking of the prefect, she blushed again.

  They were crossing Lambeth Bridge now, and they both turned to see the centrepiece of the Roman presence in London. Drawn up at a quay not far from the shimmering sandstone cliff that was the Palace of Westminster, the Roman ship that had brought Gavrilo here was a quireme. With her rows of oars she might not have looked out of place in the imperial fleets of two millennia before. But smokestacks thrust out of a forest of masts, and rows of gun ports were like little dark windows in the hull.

  Having crossed the bridge the convoy turned right and sped up Millbank towards Westminster Abbey and Parliament Square.

  ‘That ship’s a remarkable sight, isn’t she?’ Imogen breathed.

  ‘Oh, yes. But she’s more than a floating hotel, you know. And this morning, after the fuss yesterday – well, look what she’s disgorged.’

  The convoy drove up Horse Guards Parade, past the government buildings, and turned into the Mall. And Imogen saw that a row of massive vehicles had been drawn up here, great blocks of steel that towered over the automobiles speeding past. Mounted on caterpillar tracks, with gun nozzles peering from every crevice, these were the vehicles of war the Romans called testudos, and the standards of the 314th Legion Siberian fluttered over their ugly flanks.

  ‘A statement of strength,’ Armstrong muttered. ‘Given that we let their prince be assassinated we could hardly refuse, though nobody’s happy about it. After all, it’s hardly our fault; this unfortunate incident just happened to have occurred on our territory, that’s all.’

  Of course there was an implicit assumption in what he said that the assassin had not been British. She wondered what basis he had for believing that. But she did not question him, knowing nothing yet of the case.

  More soldiers had set up a perimeter of sandbags and barbed wire around St James’s Palace. Imogen and Armstrong were made to wait while a sergeant checked papers and telephoned his headquarters, and photographers wearing Roman insignia took their pictures. Armstrong accepted this delay laconically; he lit up another cigarette.

  Inside the palace, Marcus Helvidius was waiting for them. He was conferring with a Roman senator, representatives of the French and Ottomans, British commanders – and a stout, bristling man dressed in a drab black morning suit who Imogen, feeling faintly bewildered, recognised as the British Foreign Secretary, David Lloyd George. They were speaking in broken Latin, their only common tongue.

  When Imogen entered with Armstrong, Marcus turned to her. ‘Miss Brodsworth. Thank you for coming.’ He spoke Greek. He was a prefect of the 314th Legion, which, supplementing the Praetorian Guard, had been given responsibility for the security of Gavrilo during this expedition. Yesterday he had worn an archaic ceremonial costume of plumed helmet, cloak, breastplate, short tunic and laced-up boots; this morning he was dressed more functionally in an olive-green coverall, though the number and standard of his legion had been sewn into the breast. Aged perhaps thirty, he was a heavy-set, powerful man with thick dark hair; his look was more Slavic than Latin, she thought. But his blue eyes were clear, his jaw strong.

  She glanced around, and replied in Greek, ‘Am I the only interpreter you’ve called?’

  ‘My decision,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘It’s not seven hours since Gavrilo was murdered. I think it’s best if we involve as few people as possible until we know what we’re dealing with. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘It seems sensible. But why me?’ The party yesterday had included senior academics from the great universities, experts in all the languages of the empire: Greek, Latin, Serbian, Georgian, Russian, German. ‘I’m just a schoolteacher, you know. I was only attached because it was thought best that Princess Alice should be accompanied by somebody closer to her own age—’

  ‘You are too modest,’ said the Roman. ‘I saw how you handled that most difficult of charges, a Princess Royal! You are evidently able, and sensible, Miss Brodsworth. I think you will be a great help today.’

  He smiled at her, and she thought she would melt. But he wanted her only for her sobriety, she reminded herself. ‘I’ll do my best, I’m sure.’

  Armstrong coughed. ‘Now, the only Greek I have is what they managed to beat into me at Harrow, Miss Brodsworth, and I think I can follow, but you’d better start earning your corn.’

  Imogen glanced at the party. The Foreign Secretary was waiting for her with a face like thunder. As she hastened over and slipped into her role, she seemed to become invisible to them – all save Marcus, who smiled at her again.

  Marcus led the party through a part of the palace Imogen hadn’t seen before. One particularly grand chamber had to be the Hall of the Ambassadors, with its famous ceiling depicting a vision of an austere Protestant heaven, painted by Michelangelo under the patronage of Henry VIII, who had built the palace in the first place. Imogen wondered how many other commoners had ever got to see it.

  Marcus said, ‘As it happens, Gavrilo received only a few visitors yesterday evening, in a small reception room at the back of the palace. Exchanging gifts and so forth. In fact, he spent much of the day aboard the ship. He did receive Princess Alice during the day, but in the evening was rather unwell.’

  They all took this with straight faces. The rumours circulating among the interpreters was that Gavrilo, who had served on the Chinese front, had come back with an unhealthy liking for opium. He had spent the evening indulging with his companions and a few guests, including Jack Dempsey, the famous American-born gladiator, who had put on a show of mock combat against the empire’s finest.

  ‘Of course, that makes our task easier,’ Marcus went on. ‘Since only a small number of people had access to the prince, we have a small number of suspects to consider.’ Imogen, attuned by now to diplomatic niceties, chose to translate ‘suspects’ as the more neutral word ‘personages’. Armstrong caught her eye and gave her an approving nod.

  They came at last to the reception room where Gavrilo had, from eleven in the evening onwards, grudgingly greeted his handful of visitors. More Romans took their pictures, the flash
es dazzling, and British soldiers and police stood by uncomfortably among the legionaries.

  Imogen was shocked by the state of the room. The portraits on the walls were scorched and blistered, the heavy wallpaper blackened; the moulded plaster of the ceiling was cracked, and at the very centre of the room a thick pile carpet was as scorched as if it had been used as a hearth. Many of the fittings had been soaked, by the water that must have been used to put out the fire that had blazed here. Over that scorched patch of carpet a chair had evidently been blown to bits; Imogen recognised scattered fragments, an arm, a seat cushion, a carved leg. The cushion was stained with a brown pigment – blood, perhaps.

  The party poked around the mess. The Foreign Secretary pressed a handkerchief to his face. There was a prevailing smell of smoke and soot, and a heavy underlying iron smell that reminded Imogen of a butcher’s shop.

  Marcus was at her side. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘Then you’re stronger than me,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve seen war – I’ve fought in the east. One never gets used to the smell of dried blood.’

  ‘This is where Gavrilo died?’

  He pointed. ‘He sat in that chair. He was blown apart in the explosion; he probably died instantly. The body has been taken away – returned to his ship.’

  ‘Was he alone in here?’

  ‘Alone save for his own companions, and one of our legionaries. Their injuries were minor. They reacted well, actually; they raised the alarm, got rid of the fires.’

  ‘But what caused all this? Was it a bomb?’

  ‘You can see it here, Miss Brodsworth,’ Armstrong said in his Harrovian Greek. He pointed to a metal tube on the floor. ‘Don’t touch it – Scotland Yard, you know.’

  It seemed to be a primitive weapon, an iron lance, perhaps. At its tip, bound with cord, were the remains of a rolled-up tube of paper, perhaps two feet long. The paper tube was blackened, blown apart, like a failed firework. And scattered around the lance were bits of joinery, the remnants of a smashed wooden box.

  ‘Ironically,’ Marcus said, ‘the force of the explosion preserved the remnants of the fire-lance itself, even the paper tube; the fire was blown towards the walls. But poor Gavrilo was not spared, of course.’

  Imogen inspected the weapon. ‘A “fire-lance”?’

  ‘A very early gunpowder weapon,’ Armstrong said. ‘Actually of Roman design. In battle you would carry a small iron box of glowing tinder to light the tube. Flames would shoot out, perhaps covering ten, twelve, fifteen feet.’

  ‘It’s a flamethrower, then.’

  Marcus said, ‘This particular specimen was captured during our war with the Seljuk Turks, over eight hundred years ago. It was a gift, presented in a display case – a Roman weapon captured by the Turks and returned centuries later. You can see the remnants of the case, reduced to matchwood. It appears Gavrilo was pleased with the gift, and was cradling it, box and all, when it detonated.’

  ‘But how could it have exploded?’

  ‘Well, it was rigged,’ said Marcus. ‘Aside from the gunpowder in the lance itself, there was a simple fuse, and a trigger mechanism like a flintlock attached to a clockwork timer, all concealed in the body of the presentation box.’ He pointed, and she could just make out an intricate mechanism amid the wreckage.

  She nodded. ‘So that’s how he died. But who’s responsible? Who gave him this gift?’

  ‘Ah,’ Armstrong said. ‘That’s where it gets tricky … It was a gift from Vizier Osman Pasa.’ Who was, Imogen knew, a senior official of the Ottoman government. ‘So this appears to be the murder of a Roman prince, by an Ottoman assassin, carried out right here on British soil.’ He shook his head. ‘Shocking business.’

  Imogen frowned. ‘The Ottomans I’ve met haven’t been fools, Major. Would Vizier Pasa really implicate himself so obviously? And do the Ottomans actually want conflict with the Romans right now? I’ve read that on the contrary—’

  Armstrong snorted. ‘I doubt very much that whatever racy stuff you read in the penny papers has much relation to a complicated diplomatic reality, Miss Brodsworth.’

  Offended, she withdrew. ‘Yes, Major.’

  But Marcus would have none of it. ‘No, no. You have a good point, Miss Brodsworth. We must not jump to conclusions. Gavrilo was a scion of an imperial house two thousand years old, and here we are at the meeting point of empires. It’s hardly likely that anything about his death would be simple, is it? What would you suggest we do, Miss Brodsworth?’

  Armstrong was starting to get agitated. He stubbed out his latest cigarette and protested, ‘Now look here, prefect, Miss Brodsworth is an able translator, but a mere slip of a girl who …’

  Marcus wasn’t listening. He kept his eyes on Imogen until the Major fell silent.

  Imogen smiled at Marcus, flattered. ‘Well, you need to find out who had access to the prince. One of them was the murderer – or more than one – that seems clear. When you know who the suspects are, you can begin to eliminate them, one by one.’

  ‘Eminent common sense,’ said Marcus. ‘But I disagree on one point.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You said “you”. You meant “we”. I want you to work with me on this, Miss Brodsworth.’

  Armstrong seemed outraged. ‘Oh, now look here, this is all—’

  ‘Just for a period of grace. The police can continue their work in parallel. Miss Brodsworth is surely right, Major. We need to establish the truth of this incident before we start murdering each other’s populations over it. Fresh eyes, untainted by diplomatic calculation, British eyes at that, might help a great deal. And we do need an interpreter, too, of course.’ He turned back to Imogen. ‘You spoke of who had access to Gavrilo. That at least is easy to establish.’ He glanced at the photographers. ‘A thorough lot, we Romans. We keep a record of everything …’

  It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. As the relevant photographs were assembled, hastily developed overnight, Imogen took the opportunity to have a breakfast of pastries and Brazilian coffee.

  Aside from the prince’s companions and guards, only four men had been admitted to the reception room last night while Gavrilo held his bleary court. ‘The prince was in such a delicate temper,’ Marcus said carefully, ‘that it was decided to restrict the interview to representatives of the three great powers, other than the Romans: the British, the French and the Ottomans.’

  So the Americans, the Spanish, and the German and Italian princelings had all been left kicking their heels. ‘That must have pleased the others.’

  ‘But at least they are not under suspicion. Well, the photographs match the testimonies,’ Marcus said.

  Imogen stared at the grainy plates. There was a fresh chemical smell about them. She studied the Romans first: legionaries in traditional costumes, though armed with automatic weapons; a handful of the prince’s companions in stylish American-fashion modern dress; senators and other ministers in togas. Gavrilo had himself worn a toga, and a wreath of laurels on his head.

  ‘I know none of these people,’ Imogen said.

  ‘I think we can rule them out as suspects,’ Marcus said rather grimly. ‘They’re all now in the hands of the Praetorian Guard.’ This traditional bodyguard of the Caesars had evolved into a secret police. ‘After several hours we can be sure they’ve nothing to reveal. Why, the very threat of being handed over to the Praetorians is enough to keep any Roman in line, believe me.’ If he harboured any fear of what might be done to him as punishment for his failure to protect Gavrilo, he showed no sign of it.

  Imogen studied the photographs of the visitors. Here was Vizier Osman Pasa carrying the fateful wooden case containing the fire-lance, and Prince Philippe, second son of the French king come to greet the second son of Caesar, and the Foreign Secretary representing the British government – and Lloyd George had Armstrong at his si
de. Even as he had been admitted to the Roman’s presence, Imogen saw, Armstrong had been smoking his customary cigarette.

  ‘I’m surprised you were there, Major,’ Imogen said.

  ‘I do have a responsibility for security,’ Armstrong said. ‘In this case it was actually the Foreign Secretary’s welfare I was concerned with, for you’ll notice we had no British soldiers in the chamber at that time.’

  Marcus studied another photograph, which showed the visitors submitting to searches by helmet-clad legionaries. ‘You’re still smoking in this picture, Major. They left you your cigarette! Few Romans smoke, you know.’

  ‘Well, I know that. In fact, I only lit up to annoy the Frenchies, if you must know.’ His schoolboy Greek was studded with English: “Frenchies”.

  He was referring to a rivalry that dated back to Napoleonic times, when the French emperor, confronting the Romans in Europe and locked in war with the British, had refused to sell the Louisiana Territory to the new United States. A century later, as if in spite, the French refused any imports of tobacco products from the former English colonies, and very few Europeans smoked.

  ‘Well.’ Marcus lined up four photographs of the Foreign Secretary, the Major, the vizier and the French prince. ‘Our suspects.’

  ‘I do find it hard to suspect the Foreign Secretary,’ Imogen admitted.

  Marcus referred to a sheaf of documents. ‘I have testimony from the prince’s companions and the legionaries. It was after all these men left the prince’s presence that the explosion went off. It was indeed the fire-lance that killed Gavrilo, and all the witnesses confirm that it was the vizier who brought it in personally. Though of course that is not proof that he knew of its lethal adjustments.’

  The Major sat back, hands behind his head. ‘It all seems clear enough to me.’

  Marcus ignored him. ‘What now, Miss Brodsworth?’

  ‘We should interview our suspects. I would start with the man who brought in the fire-lance in the first place.’