“That was the original plan,” I said. “But he prevailed on me after we got back from the baths to trade rooms with him. He said that the bed was bigger. And he is—was—a big man. He could’t get comfortable in here.”
“By the gods, Pliny! Have you thought about what that means?”
I looked at him blankly. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody could have gone into that room intending to kill you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“Why would anyone want to kill Cornutus?”
* * * *
I tried to put Tacitus’ troubling assertion out of my mind as we descended the dark narrow stairs to the main floor. At the proper time I might give it some consideration. For the moment I had to focus on our interview with Nicomedes.
I didn’t expect much from the boularch. Such positions are largely ceremonial. Rome encourages the sharing of power in all political posts, to prevent any one individual from becoming too influential. All important decisions in any province are made by the governor sent out from Rome.
Nicomedes was pacing in a small private room off the main dining room when we entered and introduced ourselves. He was a swarthy, middle-aged man of what I judged to be mixed Greek and eastern ancestry, with beady eyes and a copious supply of sweat. I wondered whether he was reacting to the weather or to the predicament he was in. Murder of a Roman citizen in a province can bring harsh penalties on an entire town if the killer isn’t caught.
“Sirs, this is terrible,” he said. “Just terrible. I can’t believe that any citizen of Smyrna would do such a thing.”
“It’s unclear at this point who the killer is,” I said. “We’ve sent for the governor and are making preliminary inquiries until he arrives.”
“What do you want me to do?”
I noticed he didn’t challenge us, didn’t ask on what authority we were acting. In most of these shared-power governing arrangements—and I include the consulship in Rome—you tend to get one man who actually has the gumption to do the job and a partner who wants it carved on his tombstone that he was boularch or duovir, or whatever the local title may be. In Rome the story still circulates of the year when Julius Caesar and a man named Bibulus shared the consulship. Bibulus was so terrified of Caesar that he spent the entire year holed up in his house. Wags referred to it as ‘the year when Julius and Caesar were consuls.’ From the way Nicomedes kept sweating and wringing his hands, it appeared we were dealing with Smyrna’s version of cowardly old Bibulus.
That could have its advantages. He was likely to keep out of our way. On the other hand, we probably couldn’t count on his support if any hard decisions had to be made. For that matter, the governor might not be much help. Asia is a senatorial province, with its governor chosen by the senate in Rome. The frontier provinces, such as Syria, where legionary troops and auxiliaries are stationed, have their governors appointed by the emperor. The more ambitious, decisive men end up there. The senatorial provinces are comfortable sinecures, where the governors spend most of their time sorting out disputes over property lines, deciding whether to build a new sewer, and finding a suitable mistress among the daughters of the local aristocracy. The only troops under their command are a small honor guard. Tacitus and I might find ourselves out on a limb if we pursued this matter too far.
“I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can,” Nicomedes added, “although the death of my fellow boularch, Apelles, has left a great void in our city’s leadership.”
I’ll bet it has, I thought. A big void where the brains and courage used to be. At the reminder of Apelles being a boularch, Tacitus and I exchanged a glance. If Luke bore letters of introduction to a man of such prominence in the city, he was better connected than we could have guessed from his unassuming demeanor.
I raised my left hand to grasp the drapery of my toga over my chest, a position Roman men learn to assume when they want to assert their authority. “We have asked everyone in our traveling party to remain in Smyrna at least until the governor arrives,” I said. “We would like to ask your city watchmen to apprehend any unfamiliar persons or anyone found engaging in suspicious activities.”
Nicomedes raised a timorous hand to stop me. “What do you consider suspicious?”
“Gatherings at night. Any kind of unapproved religious cults, for example. You see, Lucius Cornutus’ heart was cut out.”
His gasp was predictable but apparently genuine. He steadied himself against a table.
“We don’t know,” I continued, “if there is a connection with the bizarre practices of some cult. Perhaps the Christians.”
“I can assure you, sir,” he said stoutly, “that Smyrna worships the gods and honors the emperor and Rome. Why, we built a temple to the guardian spirit of Rome in the days of your war with Hannibal, almost three hundred years ago. That was long before we were privileged to become a province of your glorious empire. This city was made a temple-warden of the imperial cult by Tiberius Caesar, son of the deified Augustus.”
I stopped him before he fell to his knees and began reciting the oath of loyalty which emperors periodically require of provincials. “We have no doubt of Smyrna’s loyalty. But even in the most loyal city there may be individuals who act disloyally. They threaten the safety of their own city as much as that of Rome.”
His bulging eyes told me he had taken my point. If Cornutus’ killer wasn’t found, the entire city would be held accountable. That accountability would land squarely on the shoulders of its leading magistrates. And this murder had happened on Nicomedes’ watch.
He swallowed hard. “You will have my utmost cooperation, sirs,” he promised. “I will inquire about any recent suspicious visitors and keep a close eye on the town’s nocturnal activities.”
“Report anything you learn directly to me,” I said, “or to my friend Tacitus, but to no one else.”
* * * *
“That was impressive,” Tacitus said as we had a bite of bread and olive oil. “He was ‘sir-ing’ you right and left, and you’re not half his age.”
We were sitting at one of the long tables in the main dining room, probably the most pleasant room in the inn. The frescoes had been redone recently. In fresh, vibrant colors they depicted famous banquet scenes from myths and literature, a common motif in dining room decoration. Anyone who wanted a morning meal had eaten by now, almost the third hour of the day. The servant girl who had shared Tacitus’ bed was waiting on us. She seemed awkward around him, uncertain how to act. I guess my interruption and the nature of my news had shattered the romantic moment. Tacitus and I conversed in Latin, shifting to Greek only when necessary to talk to the girl.
I took a sip of the well-watered wine. “I watched my uncle dealing with soldiers the whole time I was growing up. He told me the secret of command is simply to take command. Never give the other person—whether a soldier, a slave, or any other subordinate—a moment to reflect on whether or not you’re worthy to command. If you act worthy, that confidence will come across.”
“And confidence is a quality you certainly don’t lack,” Tacitus said, “especially for someone your age.”
“I don’t see my youth as a disadvantage, as you apparently do. Remember, the deified Augustus was only nineteen when he was adopted by his uncle, Julius Caesar, in his will—as I was—and took command of Caesar’s troops.”
Tacitus leaned over the table and dropped his voice to a whisper. “If I were you, I would be very cautious about drawing analogies between myself and Augustus. That sort of comment, reported to the right people, could be interpreted to mean you have imperial ambitions.”
I leaned over until our heads almost met and whispered back, “If you don’t report it, I could report you for failing to do so. That could be taken by some people to mean you support me in my plot to place myself on the throne. Your head would roll in the dust right alongside mine.”
We smiled at one another until Tacitus took a p
iece of bread and dipped it in the olive oil. As new as it was, our friendship had already reached a level where we trusted one another enough to make such jokes. Our teasing had a sharp edge of truth to it, though. Such comments had led to arrests and executions in the past, under emperors whose fear of plots against their lives had driven them to the doorstep of madness, or beyond. It was still too early in Domitian’s reign to know whether he fell into that category.
“So what’s our next step?” Tacitus asked.
“We need to round up Cornutus’ slaves and question them, especially Big Ears and the blond girl.”
“Her name is Chryseis.”
“What a surprise.” (‘Chryseis’ in Greek means ‘Goldie.’ I would wager that a third of the blond slave girls in the empire bear that name. My uncle, and now I, owned half a dozen.) “How did you learn this?”
“She was serving Cornutus at dinner last night. I heard him call her name.”
“Did you see any sign that he had punished her?” I tried to hide my anxiety, without much success, I feared. “Did she appear to be injured?”
“Not that I could see. She was obviously afraid of him, but he gave no sign of being particularly angry at her. Unless she was serving him, he pretty much ignored her. He must have said something about her to Marcellus, though. At one point he gestured at the girl, and Marcellus looked at her and then at Cornutus in amazement.”
“Probably describing some sexual antic he had engaged in with her,” I said bitterly. Of all the things we inflict on our slaves, forced sexual relations seem to me the most reprehensible. Seduction of a free woman is one thing, a game of wits, as Ovid described it. The women play it as avidly as the men. But brutal domination of a woman by someone who holds the threat of physical punishment over her—I see no place for that in a civilized society.
“What difference does it make to you what Cornutus does with one of his slave girls?” Tacitus asked, taking a sip of wine. “Marcellus was right about one thing. You do seem to have an unhealthy interest in her.”
I drew myself up. “I feel responsible for whatever he may have done to her after the incident at lunch yesterday. But there’s something more to it. She has an aura about her, something dignified. Can’t you see it? If I met her on the street, I would never suspect she was a slave.”
Tacitus made a disgusted face. “Do you think this is one of those comic plays where the girl turns out to be the abandoned daughter of an aristocratic family so she can’t be legally enslaved? Maybe you can free her and marry her.” He laughed lightly.
“I am under no such delusions,” I said stiffly. Sometimes Tacitus can really irritate me with his lack of seriousness. “I just recognize something that differentiates her from other slaves. I’m also concerned about what’s going to happen to her now. Cornutus’ slaves and his goods will be sent back to Rome. Assuming his father is still alive, all of Cornutus’ property will revert to his father, unless he made other provisions in his will. It could be a legal mess that will take months to straighten out.”
“So we’d better talk to them before anything else happens to them,” Tacitus said.
* * * *
Upon inquiring of the innkeeper, we learned that Cornutus had ordered his slaves locked up for the night along with the slaves of several other travelers. The men had been kept in a storage room attached to the stable, the three women in a room on the third floor of the inn. The other slaves had been released already, but Cornutus’ were still confined while Androcles awaited orders about their disposition.
“I’ll take responsibility for them,” I said quickly. “The men and the older women need to see the doctor, Luke, and assist him with Cornutus’ funeral preparations. Give them something to eat, if you haven’t already. The blond girl I want brought to me immediately in that private room off the dining room.”
“Right you are, sir,” Androcles said, smiling broadly and winking at me.
It seemed to take a long time, but Chryseis eventually came into the private room and stood, waiting for a command. The sight of her almost overwhelmed my power of speech. They say that, in the legendary days of Rome’s infancy, a goddess used to come to king Numa and advise him on laws for the city. Seeing Chryseis standing in that doorway, her hands clasped modestly in front of her, her long, golden hair and her gown being ruffled slightly by a breeze from somewhere, I could suddenly understand how stories of such divine apparitions arose. How could I not have noticed her before in all the days we’d been traveling together? Cornutus’ wagons usually stayed farther back in our caravan, and there were over a hundred people in our group all together, but she should have stood out like the moon among the stars in the night sky.
“Please, Chryseis, come sit with us,” I said, recovering as much of my composure and businesslike manner as I could.
She seemed surprised but did as I told her, taking a seat on the bench across the table from me. Tacitus was sitting in a chair at the end of the long table. I had put him there deliberately, to make the situation less intimidating for Chryseis. I put bread, cheese, and olive oil in front of her. She began to eat with little interest.
“Do you know what has happened?” I asked, folding my hands on the table in front of me.
“Yes, my lord,” she said with quick, nervous nods. “My master’s been murdered.”
“Do you know what that could mean for you and his other slaves?”
She started to cry. “We could be put to death. But, my lord, we were locked up last night. How could we have killed him?”
I reached across the table and took her hand, ignoring the smile from Tacitus which I could see even without turning my head.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Chryseis. Not to any of you. I promise. I just want to ask you some questions. You must answer them truthfully if I’m to be able to help. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord. Are you a magistrate, my lord?”
I was flummoxed that a slave had asked that question when Smyrna’s surviving co-mayor had bowed to my assumed authority without a whimper.
“Well . . . actually I’m not. But there aren’t any Roman magistrates in Smyrna right now. We’re waiting for the governor to arrive. Until then I’m making certain everything is done in proper order, since Cornutus was a Roman citizen and not subject to the laws of Smyrna.”
That must have satisfied her, since she asked no further questions. She did seem a little disappointed about something, though.
“Now, Chryseis, did Cornutus punish you last night?”
“No, my lord.”
That was two burdens off my shoulders at once. I had not caused her any hardship, and if Cornutus hadn’t done anything to her, she wasn’t likely to have killed him in revenge.
“Did he punish you often?”
“No, my lord. He threatened me sometimes but the worst he did was slap me once or twice . . . until four years ago.” I hoped she might offer more of an explanation, but one of the first lessons a slave learns is not to give more of an answer than was called for.
“What happened then?”
She dropped her head, then looked up at me from under her eyelids. Women in Rome practice that gesture for hours, trying to look innocent and demure. To Chryseis it came as naturally as a baby’s smile, and it had the same winning effect on me. “He . . . he branded me. On my . . . on my backside. The mark is a ram’s horn, like his seal.” She dropped her eyes again, as though unable to bear the shame of what she had just said.
The design of the brand made sense, since the name Cornutus was derived from the Latin word for horn. Its location and the man’s motivation were another matter. “Do you know why he did that?”
“No, my lord, I don’t.”
“Had you done anything wrong?” I prodded.
She wiped tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I wasn’t aware of anything that I had done wrong.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
She took a quivering breath.
“Two of the other slave women brought me to him one night and tied me up. He branded me himself. It was horrible. I still have dreams about it. Horrible.” Her reply was effusive by slave standards.
The story troubled me. Slave owners rarely brand their slaves unless they’ve tried to run away. The brand, usually placed on the forehead, makes it virtually impossible for them to hide. It also lowers the slave’s value if he or she is to be sold. And yet Cornutus had branded this divinely beautiful girl. And had done it himself, not entrusting the task to another slave. I glanced at Tacitus to be certain he had noted that odd fact.
“Why don’t we have a look at it, just for the record?” Tacitus suggested. Chryseis blushed violently.
“That won’t be necessary.” I shot Tacitus a glance intended to seal his lips. He gave me an innocent expression that seemed to say, What did I do? Why are you looking at me? Then I turned back to Chryseis. “Did Cornutus brand any of his other slaves?”
“None that I know of, my lord.”
“Were you angry at him for branding you?”
“I was hurt, my lord, because I didn’t know why he did it. But a master can do whatever he wants with his slaves, so there was nothing I could do about it.” She shrugged, and endowed even that simple movement with grace.
“You could have nurtured a grudge and killed him,” Tacitus said.
“You were locked up all night, weren’t you?” I asked as a reminder to Tacitus.
“Yes, my lord. Melissa, Phoebe, and I, up on the third floor.”
“And you’re sure no one got out of the room at any time, even for a few minutes.”
When she didn’t respond immediately my heart sank. “You must answer the question, Chryseis.”
By the way she twisted her hands she might as well have confessed her guilt. “Well, my lord, Melissa and Phoebe . . . it was so hot in there, you see.”
“What did they do, Chryseis?”
“They squeezed out through the window and sat on the roof of the stable for a while. It connects to the inn right below our window. But they didn’t go anywhere else.”
All Roads Lead to Murder Page 5
