“Nero? You think that inscription might refer to Nero?”
Bronson shook his head. “I doubt it, though that does fit better with Jeremy’s estimated date. He suggested that the initials probably referred to a consul or senator. Just say for a moment that the inscription was prepared on Nero’s orders—wouldn’t it be more likely to read ‘PO NCCD,’ to reflect his imperial name?”
“Perhaps the inscription was carved before he became emperor?” Angela suggested. “Or maybe it was intended to be personal, to emphasize that whoever had carved the stone knew a lot about Nero, and maybe was even related to him.”
“We’re out of here,” Bronson said, looking at his watch and standing up to leave. “So you reckon Nero’s worth another look?”
“Absolutely,” Angela agreed. “Let’s find another cybercafé. ”
II
They walked the quarter mile or so to the second cybercafe’ Angela had located earlier. This one was almost empty, presumably due to the time of day, and they sat down at the PC at the end of the line, closest to the back wall of the cafe’.
“So where do we go from here?” Angela asked.
“Bloody good question. I’m still not convinced we’re even on the right track, but we’ve got to start somewhere. Look, forget ‘LDA’ for the moment. Jeremy suggested that the other letters on the stone—‘MAM’—were probably those of the mason who carved it. But what if there’s another explanation?”
“I’m listening.”
“This is a bit tenuous, so bear with me. Assume that the ‘PO LDA’ does mean ‘by the order of Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus,’ and that we are talking about Nero himself. Jeremy guessed that meant the stone was inscribed on Nero’s instructions. But let’s suppose it wasn’t. Maybe Nero ordered something completely different to be done—some other action—and another person, someone with the initials ‘MAM,’ decided that this event should be recorded.”
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“Take a present-day example. You’ll quite often see monuments and inscribed stones in Britain commemorating some event: the names of local residents who died in a war, or details of a building that once stood on the spot, that kind of thing. Sometimes there’s a note at the end explaining that the stone, or whatever, was paid for by the Rotary Club or some other group. The point is that the people who paid for the stone had nothing to do with the event the inscription described. They just arranged for the memorial to be erected. Maybe this is something similar.”
“You mean that Nero did something that could be described by the expression ‘here lie the liars,’ but someone else—‘MAM’—ordered the stone to be prepared as a record of what Nero had done?”
“Exactly. And that suggests that whatever Nero did might have been illegal or private, nothing to do with his position as emperor. So what we have to do is find out if he was connected to anyone with the initials ‘MAM.’ If he was, we might have something. If he wasn’t, it’s back to the drawing board.”
That search took very little time. Within a few minutes they had a possible match.
“This guy might fit the bill,” Angela said. “His name was Marcus Asinius Marcellus, and he was a senator during the reigns of both Claudius and Nero. What’s most interesting is that he should have been executed in A.D. sixty because of his involvement in a plot to forge a will. All his accomplices were put to the sword, but Nero spared his life. I wonder why?”
“That’s worth chasing.”
Angela scrolled down the page. “Ah, here we are. Marcellus was distantly related to the Emperor. That’s probably why Nero gave him a break.”
“Yes, that could be the link.”
“I’m not following you.”
Bronson paused for a moment to order his thoughts. “Suppose the Emperor saved Marcellus because he was a relative, certainly, but also for some other reason. Nero wasn’t known for his compassion. He was one of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty of all the Roman emperors—if my memory serves me correctly, he even had his own mother executed—so I don’t think killing a fifth cousin or whatever Marcellus was would have made him lose any sleep.
“But suppose Nero wanted the services of someone who owed him a debt of allegiance, someone whom he could trust completely. In that case, this inscription makes more sense. Nero had ordered something done, something private or illegal or both, and Marcellus had been told to carry it out, maybe against his will. And it’s that action which the inscription on the stone has recorded.”
“You’re quite right—it is tenuous. But what orders did Nero give?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea.” Bronson stood up and stretched. It had been a long morning. “And there’s something else. How would you describe the inscription we found on that stone—the three Latin words?”
“Cryptic, probably.”
“Exactly. Assuming we’re right about this, why did Marcellus feel the need to have a cryptic inscription prepared? Why didn’t he carve something that explained the situation? Or was that exactly what he did on the missing lower section of the stone? Maybe that Latin phrase we found was just the title of the inscription?”
He paused and looked at Angela. “We need to do a lot more research.”
Two hours later, Angela was in Bronson’s room surrounded by books on the Roman Empire. They now knew a great deal more about Nero, but information on Marcellus was tantalizingly sparse. He seemed an extremely shadowy figure, and they found almost nothing about him that they hadn’t already known. And they still had not the slightest idea what the Latin inscription might refer to.
“We’re really not getting anywhere with this,” Angela said, closing one of the reference books with an irritated snap. “I’m going to start looking at the second inscription.” She stood up and reached for her coat. “I’ll be in the third cafe’ on our list, if you need me.”
“Right,” Bronson replied. “I’m going to keep flogging away at these for a while. Be careful out there.”
“I will, but don’t forget nobody’s looking for me, at least as far as I know.”
Angela had been working at the machine for only about twenty minutes when the door of the cafe’ opened. A police constable entered and walked across to the girl manning the counter.
“Good afternoon, miss,” the officer said. “We’re looking for a man who we believe was in this area earlier today using cybercafe’s, and we wonder if you remember seeing him in here.”
He produced a photograph from a folder he was carrying and placed it on the counter. As he did so, Angela caught a glimpse of the face in the picture and realized in a single heart-stopping moment that it showed Chris.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said, “I only started my shift here a couple of hours ago, and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been in this afternoon. You could try asking the customers.” She waved her hand to encompass the twenty or so computers in the café and the dozen people using them. “Some of them are regulars. What’s he done, anyway?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, I’m afraid,” the officer said. He walked across to the first occupied terminal and repeated his question. By the time he’d got to the third computer, all the people in the cafe’ were clustered around him, staring at the picture. Angela realized that if she didn’t go and look, that would appear suspicious in itself. So, on legs that weren’t quite steady, she walked across the room and peered at the photograph of the man she knew better than anyone else in the world.
“And you, miss?” the constable asked, looking directly at her.
Angela shook her head: “No, I’ve never seen him before. Quite good-looking, though, isn’t he?”
A couple of girls in the group giggled, but the policeman seemed unamused. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, and turned to leave.