Back to the writing an ancient Roman facsimile of a Sherlock Holmes.
We've talked about this before. How do you create a character who is not Sherlock Holmes but compels you to think of Holmes while you're deep in the pages of the book?
You see the problem.
Mimic Holmes too much and you have, frankly, just written another Sherlock Holmes novel but set in a historical context. Not mimicking a few of Holmes' intellectually quirks and you've just created a whole new character. So what is the fine balance between too much and not enough?
I've created a Roman by the name of Decimus Virilis. Decimus 'The Lucky.' Lucky is what Virilis means, among other interpretations. Ex-soldier. Retired as the third-ranking officer in a Roman legion (the highest rank a professional Roman legionnaire could acquire); not so distant cousin to Caesar Augustus (time frame for the novel is set around 10 C.E.). Very efficient. Very astute. Has a knack at deducing analytically problems. Much like our beloved Holmes.
As Holmes implied, "Most people see . . . but few people use their eyes and senses to observe." Decimus Virilis is the observant type. To the max.
The problem I'm having with Decimus is that I cannot etch his personality into a three-dimensional form just yet. I meander from making the guy dark and mysterious to someone elderly and quite willing to reveal his methods on investigating a crime scene to anyone who might show some interest in him. As an associate of mine who is closely involved in this project pointed out to me, after reading what I have so far, "I can't tell if this guy is creepy or is just a nice old ex-retired soldier."
Ah! Epiphany!
In one sentence from a distant observer my problem fully revealed!
Screw Sherlock Holmes.
Write about Decimus Virilis. Don't constantly stand him up against Holmes and compare what Holmes would do in a situation versus what Decimus might do. The novel (and possibly series?) is not about Sherlock Holmes. It is about Decimus Virilis. It's about the history of Rome. It's political intrigues. It's conquests. It's mysteries. It's about a man, wrapped in hard won, and sometimes brutally acquired, experience and using that experience to observe those around him.
Problem solved, Pueblo!
Maybe now the writing will come a little easier. With that in mind I thought I might share Chapter Two with you. If you go back in the archives here in the blog you can find Chapter One. Remember now, this is just the rough draft I'm sharing. Yes, Yakima; you will find a few boo boos in spelling and grammar. That'll be cleaned up at a later date. So, take the time to read it and maybe spend a few seconds more and give me your thoughts.
Always interested in hearing your thoughts.
Two
To
his right the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea in a blue
haze that drifted off into the horizon.
Sails, white and wine red, from several large cargo ships heading for
the port of Ostia
behind him dotted the blueness like jewels set in a blue velvet frame. Sea gulls circled and wove through the
partially cloudy skies above them. The
sloping countryside sliding down to the see was a lush verdant green. To him it looked like the vast gardens of a
royal estate as he rode down the rough trail toward their destination.
The sun was out and deliciously
warm. The panoramic view of the
countryside around him pleasing to the eye.
The waters of the Tyrrhenian setting in its haze a splash of color on a
beautiful canvas.
One
would think, if one only trusted his eyes and nothing more, the world was
beautiful and peace and tranquility was the order of the day. But he knew better. Life was an illusion. Beauty only a mask to hide the darkness and
pain from our eyes.
Reining
in the powerful mare he was riding he turned and looked at the small entourage
behind him. Gnaeus, looked decidedly ill
at ease sitting on a horse, dressed in the garb of a Roman legionnaire. With the plain conical helm of a legionnaire
partially hiding the thick mass of pepper and salt colored hair, the simple off
white linen undergarment underneath the typical lamellar armor of a Roman
cavalryman, the old infantryman that had been Gnaeus scowled at Decimus but
said nothing.
Smiling
he turned his head and looked at the two other men who drew their mounts beside
Gnaeus. One was a thin framed with the
hooked nose of a scowling hawk. Like
Gnaeus, he too was dressed in the typical armor and uniform of a
cavalryman. And like his servant, a man
whom Decimus had known for years in the army.
A specialist in his own right. A
man who knew how to find things. Any
thing. Find it and retrieve it without
making any raucous noise about it. Some
said Rufus was a thief. A pick pocket. A
purse snatcher. He knew Rufus for what
he truly was. A man with a very special
talent any commander of a legion would need sooner or later.
Or
a man now in his newly appointed position.
The
third cavalryman was very much different.
He was a tall man with thick arms and powerful thighs. Yet he rode his horse with the ease of
someone who had lived all his life around horses. He was dark complexion with jet black eyes
and a small mouth. There seemed to be an
aloofness . . . a sense of otherness . . . that separated him from the
others. Indeed he was this
stranger. He was not Roman born. He was a foreigner. A tribesman from the deserts of Morocco. Yet he too, like the others, a man whom he
had known and trusted for years.
"Hassid. That way," he said lifting an arm and
pointing toward the south. "Check
the surrounding countryside for any tracks.
Make a full circle around the crime scene. You will find us there when you return."
The
black eyed hunter from the desert nodded silently and urged his horse on. He moved out rapidly and soon disappeared
into a copse of trees hugging a small hill.
Decimus, waiting until the rider was well out of sight, grunted and
turned his horse toward the southwest and heeled its flanks.
With
the two riding abreast and slightly behind him the newest tribune of Rome's
newest force, the Cohortes Urbanae, they topped a small grassy
knoll and began descending rapidly down upon the odd scene below.
After
the civil wars, after Octavius' arch rival, Mark Anthony, had been dispatched
to Hades, Octavius returned to begin rebuilding both the city of Rome
and the empire. In Rome,
after decades of neglect and civil strife, he found a city dominated by
powerful underworld gangs. Gangs, many times, bought and paid for by powerful
patrician families of Rome. To fight the tenacious tentacles of organized
crime he created two organizations and gave them the specific tasks of bringing
crime under control and providing some measure of safety for all the citizens
of the city. One was the old Vigiles Urbani. The other was the Cohortes Urbanae.
The
vigiles were the firefighters and beat cops of the city. The city-watch. A carry over idea, greatly expanded, from the
numerous privately funded fire brigades and neighborhood watches that littered
the city during Julius Caesar's time.
The Imperator collected the various units into one unit, assembled them
along the lines of a Roman legion, and established taxes to pay for them. Most of the men were ex-slaves commanded by
Roman citizens--usually retired officers from the army. They worked during the night looking for
fires and chasing down common hoodlums.
But they were effective if not, occasionally, a bit brutal.
The
Urban Cohorts acted more like the homicide division of a city's police
force. They investigated violent crime,
organized crime, political shenanigans. They too were organized along the lines
of a Roman legion. But unlike the
vigiles using ex-slaves as their manpower, only Roman citizens could join the
cohorts. Better paid and equipped
compared to their vigiles cousins the Urban Cohorts could, if the need arouse,
actually be pulled from the city's street and used in military operations.
The
Imperator commissioned Decimus with the rank of tribune in the Urban
Cohorts. A tribune minus the normal
eight hundred or so men most tribunes in the army, or the vigiles, or the
urbanae, would command. His orders, straight from the quill of
Octavius himself, decreed he was on detached service answerable only to the
Imperator.
His
assignment was simple. Find, and bring
to justice, those whom the Imperator thought were of a particular dangerous threat
to the newly acquired peace of the empire.
Like
this case.
Reining
up suddenly in front of a group of men, a mixed bag of vigiles and urban cohort
soldiers standing around the destruction of what once had been a large wagon,
he nodded to the centurion in charge and then slipped from his horse, throwing
back the edge of his short scarlet and purple trimmed short riding cloak in the
process.
"Hail,
tribune!" the young officer said, snapping to attention and saluting.
"At
ease, son. And be so kind to inform me
of this situation."
In
the thick grass were several large dark stains where people had died violent
deaths. The bodies were gone but the
visual evidence was ample to the trained eyed to conclude no one had survived
the attack. A quick sweep of the ground
suggested to Decimus at least four people were dead. The litter of several wooden trunks smashed to
piece with their contents strewn all over the side, even the ripped out bottoms
of the wagons themselves mixed in with the other flotsam, indicated someone
must have been in search of something important.
"Night
before last the servant of a merchant in Ostia
brought word there had been a series of murders . . . a massacre as they
described it . . . just outside the port.
I sent two men out on horses to ascertain the truth. As you can see the information was
correct."
He
saw Rufus nod his head toward his master and drift off toward the sea to begin
his assigned task. Gnaeus, scowling as always, silently moved away in a
different direction and began looking at the signs left behind in the dirt and
grass. Decimus nodded, turned, and
strode to one particularly large dark stain in the grass and knelt down. The young centurion behind him followed
respectfully yet watched the two servants of the tribune curiously.
"The
bodies?"
"In
Ostia, sir. In the morgue of the vigiles' barracks.
"Any
survivors?" he asked as he used an
index finger and traced the outline of a particularly large partial print of
distinctive shoe sole in the dust of the narrow trail beside the grass.
"None
that we know of. When I arrived I found
four bodies. Two men of rank it would
seem and two servants. And, of course,
the scene which greets you now."
"Identification
of any of the men?"
"None. No signet rings. No personnel scrolls. Nothing of monetary value left behind."
"Are
you sure, centurion, of the veracity of your men? Are you sure no one in your command decided
to claim a small prize of his own? Say
the first two men who came out and discovered this scene?"
He
stood up and turned to face the younger man.
A hot flash of anger swept across the centurion's face but quickly
subsided. The officer was of a famous
plebian family. A very famous, and rich, family. Rarely had anyone doubted his veracity.
But
standing before was a tribune with a high sloping forehead, with a thin swipe
of grayish/blond hair covering the upper regions of his cranium, the deep,
experienced wrinkled face of a man who had seen much in life; the confident,
almost arrogant, gate of a soldier. And
there was the way the tribune gripped his ivory tipped baton, the symbol of
rank for any high ranking Roman officer, which cautioned him. Not just an ordinary soldier. But someone who was used to command.
A
man not to be trifled with.
Frowning,
he turned and barked loudly two names.
From
the huddled group vigiles two men stepped forward and came to attention. in
front of the centurion. Decimus, eyeing
the two freedmen, slapped hands behind his back, stepped up very close to the
men and began inspecting them closely as circled them. Glancing down into the dust of the wagon ruts
he selected noticed the prints of their sandals they had just imprinted into
the dirt.
"You,"
he said, using the long wooden baton of authority he gripped in one hand and
slapped the man forcefully on the man's biceps. "Your name!"
"Gallus,
sir!"
"You
and this man beside you discovered the bodies last night when you road out from
Ostia?"
"Yes
sir!"
Decimus
nodded, hands gripping the baton behind his back, head down and staring at the
ground thoughtfully as he walked slowly around the two men and stopped directly
in front of the man who called himself Gallus.
"Centurion,
what is the punishment for a vigilii who is convicted of thievery?"
The
rough looking plank of an ex-slave visibly paled. As did the man standing beside him. Decimus eyed the man but returned his
attention back to the one standing in front of him.
"Ten
lashes with the whip, sir. And
garnishment of one month's of wages. Of
course, if the theft is large enough, perhaps he might become a contestant at
the next set of gladiatorial games."
Beside
the white faced Gallus the vigiles at attention groaned softly and his knees
almost buckled. The centurion, angry,
exploded in rage.
"By the gods,
Gallus! You filthy liar! I'll personally peel the flesh off your back
with a cat'o nine tails if you don't confess to your crimes now! Do you understand me!"
"Sir! I . . . we . . . it was just a little
thing! Nothing expensive . . .
really!"
Decimus
turned his head and watched the forever scowling Gnaeus trotting up toward him
carrying something white and thin between the forefinger and thumb of his right
hand. He nodded and smiled grimly as he
recognized it immediately. Extending a
hand, palm up, toward his servant the bushy haired. But his unwavering light blue eyes were
riveted onto the face of the man calling himself Gallus.
Gnaeus
delicately deposited a severed finger onto the open palm of his master's hand.
"Let
me tell me paint you a picture of what happened last night, my good man. Interrupt me whenever I stray from the
truth."
The
young centurion strode up to stand by balding yet dominating force of Decimus
Virilis and turned crimson faced in rage when his eyes fell upon the severed
ring finger. Slapping the small baton
all centurions gripped angrily against the side of his bare leg he turned and
gave his man a dark, murderous look.
Decimus,
snarling back a dangerous smirk, zeroed his eyes on the man in front of him and
continued talking.
"You
and your companion arrived last night just as it began to lightly rain. You found this site as it appears today. You found four dead bodies, clothes and
furniture scattered all over the field, two small wagons completely dismantled
and strewn about. There was no gold. No jewelry.
Nothing. Except for one small
item . . . "
Lifting
the severed finger in his palm he delicately put it directly under the
ex-slaves flaring nostrils and continued.
"You
found a rather large fat man with a small signet ring on a finger. A ring which would not come off because the
man's fingers were swollen. No no . . .
don't deny it was a signet ring. In fact
I suspect it was a signet key
ring. A key that was supposed to open a
small jewelry box or some other small wooden chest. See the circular discoloration on the
flesh? Yes? Clear evidence the man wore a ring. Now look closely at the finger. It is a man's middle finger. The finger a man of some importance would
decorate with a signet key ring. So tell
me, Gallus. Did you find the wooden box
the ring you removed from the dead hand of Spurius Latinius last night?"
"I
. . . uh . . . we found what . . . what was left of the box, tribune."
"We
. . . !" exploded the man standing beside him, wheeling around and
stepping away from his comrade. "I
told you not to cut off that finger! It
was a trifling ring! It wasn't worth a penny!"
"Silence!"
The
centurion, baton in hand, backhanded the man across the face viciously. The man staggered to one side, holding his
face with one hand, but came back to full attention. Glaring at the man for one second the young
officer thought about clubbing the man again but contained his anger and turned
to face the tribune.
"My
sincerest, most humble, apologies sir. I
assure you when these two return to their barracks they will be severely dealt
with!"
Decimus
shook his head negatively and placed a hand on the officer's arm.
"Severity
will quill no evils, centurion.
Discipline them you must.
Preferably in front of their comrades for all to take note of what will
happen to those who cannot restrain themselves from petty theft. But measure the punishment to the quality of
the crime. Otherwise you will generate
more animosity than compliance among your men."
Turning
back to the ex-slave the balding, darkly tanned tribune lifted a hand up and
told the man to give him the ring. The
man fumbled the ring out of a small leather pouch and dropped it into Decimus'
hand.
"Sir,
if I may ask a question?"
Decimus
smiled, turning from the two ex-slaves and motioned them to leave at the same
time.
"You're
wondering how I knew so quickly this nasty little deed had taken place last
night. Yes?"
"Sir!"
the centurion nodded, surprised, and wondering if the older officer could read
his mind. "I mean . . . how?"
Decimus
half turned toward the young officer and smiled fatherly as he lifted a finger
up and motioned him to follow his actions.
Kneeling in front of the stain on the grass beside the dust of the wagon
trail he waited for the centurion to kneel beside him and then he pointed
toward a set of tracks in the dust.
"There
are two different set of prints in the dust.
Here and here," he said pointing to one and then the other. "Look closely. The vigilies and the urban cohorts issue to
their men the exact types of sandals as the army does for their men. They have
a distinctive pattern on the soles of the leather. Notice one set is that of someone wearing
such footwear and the other isn't?"
Once
pointed out it was obvious for anyone to see plainly written in the soil. With the addition of the military soled
sandal extruding from underneath it mud.
As if Gallus had knelt in the rain to do his dastardly deed.
"Precisely,"
Decimus nodded, smiling with quiet pleasure at seeing the younger officer see
the evidence without the need to point it out to him. "A slight rain
producing just enough mud to generate such a track. But not so the other. Meaning?"
"The
murderer must have committed his dead prior to the rain last night. The rain began just a little after midnight.
So . . . that means the massacre mush have taken place sometime
before!"
"Very
good," the older man said, coming to his feet and smiling. "Remember
this small lesson, young man. Every
living creature uses their gift of sight to see world around us. Our eyes gives us this wondrous sense of
vision. We see . . . but very few of us
observe. For an officer such as yourself
the difference between seeing and observing could be all the difference in the
world in keeping you and your men alive."
"But
. . . but how did you know in the beginning the dead man would have a signet
key ring? And this blood stain? How did you know this was the precise stain
to look at and not the other three?"
Decimus
laughed casually and glanced at Gnaeus who had come up to stand beside
him. The scowl on servant's face
softened a bit but did not go away as he eyed the young centurion.
"As
to the knowledge of the key ring I confess I came owning such knowledge
already. I've been asked to look into
this case and to bring it to a swift conclusion. I was informed the patrician involved was
carrying a small black wooden box engraved in ivory with a set of papers in it
that were important. Important to
several groups of people. That box and
those papers my task is to find and obtain as well as to bring to justice those
who killed Spurius Lavinius and his men.
As
to knowing to look at this stain and not the others? I confess. I guessed! Observation of men and their position in
power over the years have led me to believe a man of Spurius' position would
place him in the lead wagon. He would be
the first to step down form the wagon if confronted by ruffians. I knew the man from the past, centurion. I knew how arrogant and supremely confident
he was toward those he considered his inferiors. I'm sure Spurius thought he could bluster his
way through this confrontation and continue on with his journey. Unfortunately he sorely misread the situation
and paid for it dearly."
"Spurius
Livinus?" the young centurion repeated, frowning and looking
confused. "I don't recall hearing
this name before. Who was he?"
"An
old, old, old villain my boy. Very old .
. . and very dangerous," Decimus
answered softly. "But now we have a new plague upon us."
"Someone
perhaps even older and far more dangerous has struck and lifted from the victim's
cold hands the box and its mysterious contents.
Someone far more dangerous I would think," the centurion answered
quietly.
Decimus
Virlis glanced at the young centurion
and frowned.
Indeed so, my boy. Indeed
so.
Mark Gilroy has two books out featuring his sharp edged homicide detective, Kristen Conner. With this I came up with an interesting idea.
