Death in the Ashes

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  “How long had you owned him?” I asked.

  “Almost seven years. I got him from Aelius. I had a horse that Aelius admired, so we traded—the horse for three slaves.”

  “What? Sychaeus was a slave in Aelius’ house? Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  Calpurnius looked at me in genuine surprise. “How is it relevant here?”

  “It could be the most relevant thing you’ve told me yet. The letter that someone is using to blackmail you came from Aelius’ house and Sychaeus was a slave in Aelius’ house.” I held up my index fingers and brought them together. “It’s the first connection we’ve made.”

  Calpurnius didn’t appear impressed by my logic. “But Sychaeus couldn’t have known about the letter. He’s a common laborer, more valuable for his back than for his brain.”

  “Can he read?”

  “A bit, but he wouldn’t be able to make sense of the letter.”

  “If he can read at all, he could recognize—”

  “He can read Latin, Gaius Pliny. The letter was written in Greek.”

  While Calpurnius tore off some more bread, I had to stop to consider that bit of useful information. Many people in Rome, even slaves, are fluent in both Latin and Greek. In this case someone who could not read Greek was eliminated as a potential blackmailer.

  “That means we’re looking for another person in addition to Sychaeus,” I said as Calpurnius took a sip of wine, puckering his face.

  “I’d forgotten how awful this stuff is,” he said.” My apologies to you if you’ve had to drink it.”

  “I’ve had worse,” I lied. “But back to Sychaeus. He has to be working with—or for—someone who knows an omicron from an omega.”

  “Perhaps it’s the other man who attacked Aurelia,” Tacitus suggested.

  “We do have to consider that,” I said, pacing from one side of the small room to the other and back again. “But something tells me those two were, as Calpurnius so aptly put it, more valuable for their backs than for their brains.”

  What unnerved me was the unspoken possibility that the person who did have the brains might be connected to Domitian—might even be Domitian, toying with Calpurnius until he decided to kill him. If Domitian had seen the letter, he knew that Calpurnius was the one who suggested killing him. That alone would seal Calpurnius’ fate. The only question would be when Domitian felt he had exacted enough revenge—or had tired of the game—and was ready to finish Calpurnius off.

  “Let me see if I have the chronology straight.” Picking up one of the torches that had gone out, I made a black line on the wall in the blank space where a chunk of plaster had fallen off and wrote hodie beside it. “That’s today, where we are now. Domitian put Aelius to death three years ago.” I put marks to count off those years and wrote Ael mort.

  Calpurnius nodded. “As soon as I heard about it, I thought my days were numbered. Maybe they are, in Domitian’s mind.”

  “But the blackmail began six years ago, based on a letter that you wrote fifteen years ago.” I counted off those time spans and made marks and notations, crimen for the blackmail and epist for the letter.

  “Yes.”

  “And you purchased Sychaeus from Aelius seven years ago.”

  “Yes. Swapped the horse for him, to be precise. It was a magnificent creature.”

  “You said you received three slaves,” Tacitus put in. “What happened to the other two?”

  “I put both of them to work on my estate south of Pompeii. I haven’t seen either of them since the eruption. For all I know, the fellow Gaius Pliny ran into back there could be one of them. Or they could all be dead.”

  The last mark I put on the wall was for the arrival of Sychaeus in Calpurnius’ house. “As you can see, the two events that are closest in time are your purchase of Sychaeus and the beginning of the blackmail. And we know that Sychaeus was one of the men who attacked Aurelia. He is woven into the very fabric of this plot, the thread we have to find to unravel it.”

  “But he’s been in Capua for the past six months,” Calpurnius said, “since I sold him.”

  “He wasn’t in Capua two nights ago, when he tried to kidnap your wife.”

  “Are you absolutely certain it was Sychaeus?” The look in Calpurnius’ eyes told me he was growing weary of the discussion.

  “He left his handprint in the ash outside your garden.” I held up my right hand and turned the small finger down. “He might as well have signed his name.”

  “And he knew which room was your wife’s,” Tacitus said.

  “You shouldn’t be surprised, my lords,” Bastet said. “He was a difficult man. And he hated my lord Calpurnius—and Aelius—for separating him from his sister.”

  “He had a sister?” Calpurnius said in surprise.

  “Yes, my lord. You may not have heard him, but among the servants he did talk about her. She even wrote him a letter now and then.”

  I took a step toward Bastet. “Was she a servant of Aelius’?”

  “Yes, my lord. She was younger than Sychaeus, and he felt very protective of her.”

  Turning to Calpurnius, I asked, “What became of Aelius’ household after Domitian put him to death?”

  “His second wife was allowed to keep some of the property,” Calpurnius said. “To show his clemency, Domitian left her with an estate north of Naples and a few bits of property in the city—an insula and some tabernae, I think. He confiscated the rest, mostly estates north of Rome.”

  “Who was this second wife?”

  “A woman named Fabia. Aelius had a daughter by her, as he did by Longina.”

  “By the gods! Aelius fathered a child who was a descendant of Augustus?”

  “Yes, but she died when she was three.”

  “So the execution had nothing to do with Aelius possibly claiming power on the basis of his wife’s and daughter’s connection with Augustus.”

  “I don’t see how it could have. The daughter was dead and Domitian had taken Longina some years before. His family had a secure hold on the imperium. He executed Aelius simply out of spite. I suppose Longina may have prodded him.”

  “Is Fabia still living on the estate?”

  “I believe so. I haven’t heard from her since Aelius’ death. You know how it is. Sometimes it’s better to step away. Especially in this case…I mean, with the letter.”

  I could not condemn Calpurnius as a coward. When a man is put to death by the princeps, his surviving family is often shunned by former friends, anxious about their own safety. A ruler’s enmity can spread like leprosy, from one person to the next, and it’s every bit as painful and deadly as that disease. Sometimes men seek their own deaths to escape the pain and avoid spreading the plague any farther.

  Calpurnius leaned back and closed his eyes. “Have I answered enough questions to pay for my meal? Or must I, like Odysseus in the palace of Alcinous, tell you my entire life story?”

  “No,” I said. “This has been very helpful. And I’m thankful you didn’t precede the tale with a pack of Odyssean lies.”

  “Reluctant I may be to talk, Gaius Pliny, and very tired, but never a liar.”

  Bastet pushed past Tacitus and me and put her arm around her master.

  Not giving the Nubian a chance to order us out, I said, “We’re going to leave now. We’ll come back tomorrow or send someone to bring more supplies. Are you certain you’ll be all right? Do you feel any threat from whoever else is down here?”

  “I sense no threat from him at all, my lord,” Bastet said.

  “I’m sure Bastet is right,” Calpurnius said. “Thank you for all you’ve done—all you are doing—to help my family. You’ll make a good son-in-law.”

  †

  When Tacitus and I reached the point where the tunnel turned to go back to the surface, we paused and peered into the darkness where I had followed the intruder.

  “Do you want to go back there and find him?” Tacitus asked.

  My gaze darted from that sect
ion of the tunnel to the branch that would take us out. “I have a feeling Calpurnius is right. The poor man is hungry, but more frightened. I imagine he knows places to hide where we two would never find him. We’ll bring some reinforcements tomorrow and do a thorough search. For now I just want to get out of this place.”

  Tacitus nodded. “It does feel like we’ve been down here for a long time. It took Virgil only one scroll to get Aeneas into and out of the underworld.”

  “But Aeneas didn’t have a pack of rats gnawing on his leg.”

  “Now, Gaius Pliny, a nip on the foot from one rodent hardly qualifies as a gnawing horde. Are you sure it was a rat and not a tiny little mouse?”

  XVI

  While we were in our own underworld the sky had grown overcast, but my sensitive eyes still found even the softened light almost blinding. Philippos popped up from behind a rock, sporting his new tunic, which was brown with a dark green trim. He had used some of the water we brought him to scrub the top layer of dirt off his face. As my eyes adjusted to the soft sunlight I thought, he could be a handsome lad, almost pretty, but maybe the light was playing tricks on me.

  “Fortune protected you, sir,” he said. “I’m glad to see that.”

  “I guess you could say she did.” I touched the Tyche ring on the strap around my neck.

  “We Romans have been saying it for hundreds of years,” Tacitus said, “from the days of Ennius and Terence. Fortes fortuna adiuvat.”

  “Does Fortune help the brave? That’s what my uncle said as he was boarding his ship to sail toward Pompeii and look what happened to him.”

  Tacitus lowered his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up that memory.”

  “You couldn’t have known, and it doesn’t lie deep enough to require much dredging.”

  “What happened to your uncle, sir?” Philippos asked.

  “He tried to rescue people during the eruption, but he died. He was like a father to me.”

  “What about your father, sir?”

  “He died when I was very young.”

  “So you’ve lost two fathers.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “I’m very sorry for you, sir.”

  A destitute orphan pitying me! The boy displayed a maturity far beyond his years. He had had to grow up even faster than most Roman children.

  “And I’m very sorry,” I said, “for what happened to your father. I promise you that I will take care of you. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  He drew his shoulders back. “Will I be your slave, sir?”

  “I don’t intend for you to be anyone’s slave, but we’ll have to work all of that out. Now we need to get back to the lady Aurelia’s house before it gets dark.”

  “Can I ride with the driver, sir?”

  As we stowed our bags in the raeda I noticed that the one we’d given Philippos still seemed to have something in it.

  “What’s that?” I asked, touching the bag.

  “It’s my old tunic, sir.” He drew the bag toward himself. “Please don’t make me get rid of it.”

  “Why do you want to keep that old rag?”

  “It has my papa’s blood on it, sir. That’s all I have left of him.”

  †

  Because we weren’t in such a hurry this time we weren’t bouncing around in the raeda and the metal rims of the wheels didn’t make such a deafening noise on the road’s paving stones. Something close to normal conversation was possible.

  “I suppose we’ll be off tomorrow morning,” Tacitus said, “to find Fabia and ask her about this sister of Sychaeus.”

  “Yes. I don’t see how she could have anything to do with the blackmail, but she’s the only one who might know where Sychaeus is. We could spend days trying to locate him, and we don’t have that kind of time. And along the way I want to stop at the book shop where Calpurnius left the money for the blackmailers.”

  “Do you think you’ll learn anything there?”

  I shrugged. “I just want to see the place. It could have more of a connection to this matter than Calpurnius assumes.”

  “And what do you intend to do with this boy?” Tacitus jerked his head toward the front of the raeda, from where squeals of delight were emanating. “You’ve made him a rather large promise.”

  “I felt I should, given what happened to his father—to be more accurate, what someone in our party did to his father. I’ll ask Aurelia to put him up for a time, until I can sort out his legal status.”

  “That could be another burden on her, and she’s already so anxious about her baby.”

  I felt my tone hardening. “Don’t forget, it was one of her husband’s servants who killed poor old Ferox.”

  “True. But one more mouth to feed—that’s all Aurelia needs.”

  “I can leave her some money. That’s not my main concern now.”

  As the raeda turned into the drive to Aurelia’s villa I was surprised to hear a young voice call, “Whoa! Whoa, boys!” We stepped down from the carriage to find Philippos holding the reins and beaming.

  “I let him drive the last little bit, my lord,” the driver said. “I hope that was all right.”

  “He didn’t wreck us, so no harm done.” For a servant it’s always easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

  “He’s got a nice touch with the horses, my lord.”

  Aurelia, with several servants, came out to meet us. One hand was cupped under her belly, as though she was already cradling her child—my future wife? “Well, Gaius Pliny,” she said, “where did you find—”

  “This is Philippos. We encountered him on the road.” I did not want the boy to start telling the story. “Due to an unfortunate incident this morning, the child is an orphan. I didn’t feel I could leave him behind.”

  “No, no. You’re quite right,” Aurelia said, sympathy welling up in her eyes and voice. “We’ll see what we can do for him. Obviously, the first thing we can do is make sure he has a bath.” She motioned to the woman on her right, who stepped forward and took Philippos’ hand.

  “A…a bath?” the boy said, pulling back. “I don’t want a bath, sir. You didn’t tell me I’d have to take a bath.”

  “When was the last time you had a bath?” I asked, half expecting “never” to be the answer.

  Philippos shrugged. “Sometimes, after it rained, my papa and me would find a pool of water and wash ourselves.”

  “It’s time you had a proper bath,” Aurelia said. “This is Chaerina. She’ll help you.”

  “I can bathe myself,” Philippos insisted. “I washed my face a while ago.”

  “And that just shows us how dirty the rest of you is,” Aurelia said, wincing and putting her other hand on her belly. “Now, go along with Chaerina.”

  Chaerina took one of Philippos’ arms and another servant woman took the other. Between them, they pulled the boy, protesting all the way, into the house.

  “How did you end up with him?” Aurelia asked.

  I dismissed the rest of the servant women and told her the story, concluding with my evaluation that Bastet did not have to kill Ferox. “The man was so weak, she could have easily overcome him without really hurting him.”

  “I told you, Gaius Pliny, I have felt a menace since the day that woman came into this house. I’m relieved she’s not here now, but I’m afraid to have her out there alone with my husband.”

  Over Aurelia’s shoulder I saw Chaerina hurrying toward us. “We can talk about that later, I suppose.” I indicated Chaerina, and Aurelia turned around.

  “My lady,” the servant called. “My lady!”

  “What’s wrong?” Aurelia asked. “Is the boy all right?”

  “My lady, the child isn’t a boy.”

  “What? Well, what is he?”

  Chaerina looked at her mistress as though Aurelia had asked something as obvious as what color the sky was. “He isn’t a ‘he,’ my lady. She’s a girl.”

  “Of course. I mean.… Well, as soo
n as he’s…she’s cleaned up, get her a more suitable garment and bring her into the garden.”

  “I told you that child cried an awful lot for a boy,” Tacitus said as we entered the house and made our way into the garden.

  “Didn’t you notice, Gaius Pliny?” Aurelia asked as we settled ourselves.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or to blush at my lack of perception. “It’s odd how one can see what one expects to see. Ferox called the child his son and that’s what I saw.”

  “What did you see the first time you saw me?” Aurelia asked.

  “Certainly not the daughter of a noble Roman family. Knowing this child is a girl changes a lot of things. With a boy we could think of training him for a trade. I’m not sure what to do now, and I don’t want to burden you.”

  Aurelia patted my hand. “We don’t have to settle everything today. You’ve done a very generous thing. For the moment, that’s enough.”

  Less than half an hour later Chaerina brought the child—what were we to call her now?—to us. Her hair was still wet and she was wearing a blue chiton, a Greek garment worn by women in this part of Italy, where the Greeks had established themselves long before we Romans blundered onto the scene. She was pulling at the unfamiliar gown, which came almost to her ankles.

  “Sir,” she said as soon as she saw me, “do I have to wear this? I can hardly walk in it. And it smells funny.”

  “That’s because it’s clean,” I said. “I think what you’re wearing or what you smell like is the least of our concerns right now. Why were you disguised as a boy?”

  She stopped in front of my chair and folded her arms over her chest, standing legs apart like a man. “My papa told me to pretend to be a boy because people weren’t as likely to bother me if they thought I was a boy.”

  I glanced at Tacitus but didn’t say anything.

  “He kept my hair cut short. He said someday people would see I was a girl, but he wanted to keep me safe as long as he could.” She tugged at the chiton again. “What are you going to do with me, sir?”

  “For now you’re going to stay here.” Aurelia had agreed to that.

  “Am I a slave of this lady?”

  “No. This is the lady Aurelia. You are now…well, part of her household. You will address her as ‘my lady’ and you will do whatever you are told to do.”