All Roads Lead to Murder

by Albert A. Bell

  “Did Marcellus offer Cornutus a second cup?”

  “No, my lord. My master praised the wine and asked for more.”

  His answers didn’t fit the theory I was working to prove. It’s a nuisance when a structure you’re trying to build doesn’t fit the terrain. I might have to restructure my theory about Cornutus being poisoned if the landscape continued to pose these kinds of problems. “What did Marcellus do then?”

  “Nothing, my lord. What do you mean?”

  “Did he stay at the table? Or did he go out, perhaps to the latrine?” One trick a poisoner can use is to ingest a slow-acting poison along with the victim, then go to the latrine and force himself to vomit.

  “No, my lord. He stayed at the table until we carried my master upstairs.”

  Melissa, silent to that point, raised her hand to her lips. “He sealed the wineskin back up. Remember, he made a fuss about not wanting his servants to get into it.”

  “But there was nothing about his behavior that you would call odd or unusual?”

  “No, my lord,” Phrixus said, and Melissa shook her head in agreement.

  Tacitus put an oar in. “Did Marcellus send any of his servants to the kitchen during the evening, to prepare anything special, or to help out?”

  “No, my lord,” Phrixus replied.

  That line of questioning appeared to have petered out, after such a promising start. “What happened next? All of Cornutus’ slaves were locked up for the night, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Phrixus said. “As you know, on this trip whenever space can be found, he locks us up at night. He’s a harsh man and doesn’t trust us, I’m afraid.”

  “Did he have reason not to trust you?” I asked quickly.

  Phrixus’ eyes expanded to match his ears. “Oh, no, my lord! None of us would raise a hand against him. Or against any other master. It’s just his nature. He won’t have anyone with him at night except Melissa here.”

  Reality hadn’t set in for the poor fellow yet. He was still speaking of Cornutus in the present tense.

  I turned my attention to the woman. She was about thirty, with sleek black hair done in a tight bun low on the back of her head, lustrous dark eyes, and an olive complexion. Eastern in origin, of medium height, an attractive woman rather than a raving beauty. Her face evinced more confidence than Phrixus’.

  “And you spent every night with your master?” I asked.

  “Yes, my lord. Every night.” Her voice was warm, throaty. Even with my limited experience in such things, I could imagine its effect on a man as she whispered and moaned softly in the dark beside him. From the way Tacitus sat up and leaned forward I could tell that he was having the same reaction.

  “How long were you his favorite?”

  “Since he purchased me, five years ago.”

  “How did you become a slave?” Tacitus interjected.

  “My sister and I were taken captive during the war of the Jews against Rome.”

  “But your name is Greek. The honeybee.”

  “It means the same as my Hebrew name, Deborah.”

  “All right,” I said. “Last night—”

  “What town are you from?” Tacitus asked. It was the question I hadn’t wanted raised.

  “Emmaus. It’s a day’s journey west of Jerusalem.”

  “What a coincidence,” Tacitus said, turning to me. “Isn’t that where your uncle served with Titus in the war?”

  “I believe he served on Titus’ staff at some point.” I didn’t want this conversation to go any further. “That was shortly before he returned to Rome to become praetor.”

  Melissa’s breathing quickened. “He wasn’t just on someone’s staff, my lord. He commanded the legion that sacked Emmaus . . . the legion that killed my mother and brother. He gave me to one of his subordinates and my sister to another. We were marched through the streets of Rome in chains in Titus’ triumphal parade.”

  Her sharp tone bordered on impertinence. Phrixus took her arm, fear showing in his bulging eyes and quivering mouth. “That’s enough, Melissa.”

  I studied Melissa, her chest heaving in anger. Justifiable anger, I suppose. She hadn’t started the Jews’ war against Rome, and yet she had lost everything because of it. And my uncle and his troops were the most visible cause of that tragedy, for her.

  “War, by its very nature, is devastating,” I said. “Not everyone who fights takes pleasure in it. My uncle never talked about his military experience. I know he found no gratification in inflicting suffering on anyone.”

  She jerked away from Phrixus. “Your uncle—”

  “Melissa, no more!” Phrixus stepped in front of her.

  “There’s no point in talking about this,” I said. “We can’t change the past. What we’re trying to do right now is find out who killed Cornutus. You need to put aside your hatred of me and my family and focus on the events of last night. If you can’t do that, I’ll have you locked up again. This time in a room without a window.”

  That last remark took the fight out of her. Anger still twisted the corners of her mouth, but she stood silent, like a horse that has finally accepted the bit. Slaves and horses—they both have to be broken to be useful. But you don’t want to crush the spirit entirely.

  “Now,” I said. “Did you expect to spend last night with Cornutus?”

  “Certainly, my lord. I was his wife in all but name.”

  Ownership of Jewish women had been a kind of craze among the Roman aristocracy for a few years, just as certain kinds of exotic dogs enjoy popularity from time to time. The late emperor Titus started the rage when he brought back Berenice, sister of the Jewish king Agrippa, to be his mistress. Our current emperor, Domitian, dislikes the Jews, so the fad of Jewish mistresses has gone into a sharp decline. Cornutus must have felt some genuine affection for this woman if she still enjoyed such status in his house.

  “Why didn’t you stay with him?”

  “After Marcellus and Phrixus put my master to bed, Marcellus reminded the innkeeper that we were supposed to be confined for the night. Phrixus told the innkeeper that I was supposed to be in the master’s room. The innkeeper said he had no such instructions. Marcellus said my master would not be needing my services anyway, so I was locked up with the other slave women.” The disapproving tone of her voice and the lift of her chin made it clear she considered that an indignity which she should not have to suffer.

  “But you didn’t actually stay in the room, did you?”

  She hesitated at first. “No, my lord. Phoebe and I were able to climb out through the window and sit on the roof. We were desperate for some relief from the heat.”

  “Did Chryseis get out of the room during the night?”

  “I don’t believe so, my lord. At least not while I was awake.”

  “Has she ever said anything to you about being afraid of high places?”

  “I’ve never heard her mention that, my lord.”

  * * * *

  We dismissed the two slaves with a stern reminder not to leave the inn. I would check on them in the evening and make arrangements about their accommodations. It seemed unfair that they should have to sleep under lock and key for the entire time we were stalled in Smyrna.

  “That little Honeybee can sample my pollen any time,” Tacitus sighed when Melissa was out of earshot.

  I tried not to smile at his vulgar witticism. One shouldn’t encourage that sort of thing. Instead I said, “Doesn’t it strike you as convenient that Cornutus was cut off from his slaves, including his regular bedmate, on the night he happened to have been murdered? And that Marcellus was responsible for isolating him?”

  “Actually it was the innkeeper who refused to let Melissa go to Cornutus’ room,” Tacitus pointed out.

  “But Marcellus backed him up.”

  Tacitus sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, his most evident signs of impatience. “Pliny, why are you so determined to implicate Marcellus in Cornutus’ murder? He just met the man tw
o days ago. There wasn’t a cross word exchanged between them. They bathed and had dinner together quite amicably yesterday. What reason would Marcellus have for killing Cornutus?”

  “I don’t think Marcellus has any reason of his own to kill Cornutus. But Marcellus is Regulus’ lap dog. He will bite whomever Regulus commands him to. The question you should be asking is, What reason would Regulus have to kill Cornutus?”

  “A more pertinent question,” Tacitus said sharply, “might be, What has Regulus ever done to you to make you hate him so much?”

  “There is an answer to that question, but you can’t have it just yet. I’m going to check on Chryseis and then get some rest. I’ll be most eager to get to the bath this afternoon.”

  “On that we agree,” Tacitus said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I can still smell poor old Cornutus in this tunic, in my very pores. And you stink like something out of a slaughterhouse. Old Marcus Carolus smelled better after rolling around in the stable.”

  His mention of that word gave me an idea. “As long as we haven’t cleaned up yet, why don’t we go out to the stable and look around at the wagons of our fellow caravan members.”

  He looked horrified. “You mean poke around in other people’s things? What on earth for?”

  “Somebody has a knife hidden somewhere. And somebody has a drug of some sort hidden somewhere. And we still don’t know where Cornutus’ heart is.”

  “Do you honestly think the person who mutilated him would keep his heart stashed among his own personal belongings?”

  “We won’t know until we look, will we?”

  Tacitus held his hands up, palms out, as though pushing me away. “You’ll have to do that without me. We have no legal standing here. If someone found you going through their things, they could get very upset. And we already know that somebody around here won’t hesitate to act when they get angry.” He turned toward the stairs.

  “I think it’s worth the risk,” I said to his back and turned toward the door that led to the rear of the inn.

  * * * *

  The stable was dim, quiet except for a few soft whinnies and the rustle of horses in the straw. Located on the west side of the inn and in its shadow, it was still cool inside. The travelers’ wagons were lined up two by two at one end. I decided to start with the first one and work my way back.

  The first wagon I looked through, I concluded, was Luke and Timothy’s. I gave it only a cursory glance because I was convinced that neither of them had killed Cornutus. They were carrying no more clothing than you would expect of two men. Two of their chests contained scrolls and individual pieces of papyrus written in Greek. The document on top was a letter from someone named Paul to a man named Philemon, asking him to take back a runaway slave. Nothing extraordinary in that. I’ve written similar notes myself.

  What did strike me as odd about the letter was the way Paul referred to himself as a ‘prisoner’ and the frequent mentions of ‘Christ.’ At the end of the letter Paul mentioned several ‘fellow-workers’, one of whom was Luke. Could this mean Luke and Timothy were members of the group called Christians? Other than the name and its unsavory reputation, I knew nothing about this cult. Perhaps I’d better keep a closer eye on these two.

  I had just stepped over into the next wagon and opened another chest when a sharp voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I looked up to see Gaius Sempronius storming toward me.

  “Get out of my wagon!” he said, doubling up his fist.

  “There’s no reason to be angry, Sempronius,” I said, still standing in the wagon, but he would not be mollified.

  “Get out of there!” he ordered again. As I started to comply and had one leg over the side of the wagon, he grabbed my ankle and pulled. I lost my balance and fell heavily on the ground. He pounced on me, his anger fully aroused. With his weight and height advantage he was able to pin me to the ground. He sat on my chest, pinning my arms with his knees, and punched me in the face. “What are you doing in there?” he demanded, adding a punch for emphasis.

  “Looking for a murder weapon.” I could taste blood running in the corner of my mouth.

  “Do you think I killed Cornutus?”

  “If you have nothing to hide, why object to someone looking through your wagon? I intend to search everyone’s.” I hoped that would reassure him. It didn’t.

  “Not mine, you won’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “If it’s a knife you’re looking for, I’ll show you mine.”

  He reached into the bosom of his tunic and pulled out a knife. He must have been wearing it strapped around his chest. He waved it under my nose.

  “This what you’re looking for, you nosy young pup? Shall we test it?” He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, exposing my throat. With the blade of the knife pressing against it, he said, “There’s no one around. One quick flick of my wrist and it’s done. I won’t be the only one glad to see the last of you.”

  I believe he would have killed me at that moment if a piece of rope hadn’t suddenly slipped around his throat and jerked him back off of me, lifting him up and slamming him against one of the wagons. Tacitus, who had a firm grip on the other end of the rope in the wagon, yelled, “Drop the knife, Sempronius, or I’ll choke the life out of you!”

  With his free hand Sempronius, gasping and wheezing, tried for an instant to loosen the noose. Unable to do it, he dropped the knife, which I scrambled to pick up. The rope went slack and Sempronius collapsed against the wheel of the wagon.

  Tacitus vaulted over the side of the wagon to land beside me, with the end of the rope still in his hand. He tossed it over an exposed beam and yanked it tight, causing Sempronius to clutch at the noose. “Are you all right?” he asked me.

  I didn’t take my eyes off Sempronius. At least the one eye I could see out of. “Yes, I’m fine. What are you doing here? I thought you were going up to your room.”

  “I did, but it was intolerably hot, so I came down to get something to drink. I saw Sempronius going out toward the stable and thought he might object to you poking around in his wagon. I sneaked in behind him, in case you needed some help.”

  We turned our full attention to Sempronius. “You just tried to kill me, Sempronius,” I said. “What are you trying to cover up?”

  “Nothing!” He tried to remove the noose, but Tacitus tugged on it. “I wasn’t going to kill you. I was just going to scare you, teach you a bit of a lesson, you high and mighty little bastard.”

  “Don’t take that personally,” Tacitus said.

  On one level I didn’t take it personally. Sempronius came from an ancient noble family from the city of Rome itself, but one that had fallen on hard times in the last couple of generations. His wasn’t the only one. Some members of those families resented the prosperity of families like mine and Cornutus’, from other Italian cities or the provinces. We were originally lower in social standing but are now rising in wealth and prestige.

  “Did you think Cornutus was high and mighty, too, Sempronius?” I asked. “Did you decide to teach him a lesson?”

  “What kind of nonsense is that?” he rasped. “I don’t have any reason to kill Cornutus. Saturninus is the one you ought to be talking to.”

  “Why would Saturninus want to kill him?” Tacitus asked.

  “Gambling debts. Saturninus has crippling gambling debts to Cornutus. He’s so broke that I’m paying all the expenses for our trip home.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “He’s married to my sister. I made him sign over his house to me, so she’ll at least have a roof over her head. Saturninus keeps losing, but he keeps playing. Begging to play, in fact. Thinks he’ll win it all back on one lucky throw. But it’s Cornutus who has the uncanny luck.”

  “It ran out on him last night,” I said somberly. “And I wonder if this knife could have made the wound in his chest? I’m going to let Doctor Luke have a look at it before I give it back to you. Now you can go.”

  Before
releasing the rope, Tacitus said, “I have one question, while we have your attention, Sempronius.” He jerked on the rope and raised the gasping Sempronius almost off the ground. “What did Cornutus mean by that comment at dinner last night: ‘If she were my daughter . . .’?”

  Sempronius’ lip curled. “I happen to like little girls. A few years ago I offered to buy Chryseis, before she got all grown up. Cornutus told me to climb back under my rock. He said he would sell anything else he owned but not Chryseis.”

  * * * *

  After dismissing Sempronius, Tacitus and I hastily looked through the other wagons but found nothing we could identify as suspicious. The witches’ garishly painted black wagon was empty. That in itself struck me as suspicious. When we went back into the inn I decided to check on Chryseis before going up to my room. The sight of my slave Damon sitting in his chair, on guard in front of Chryseis’ door, reassured me. Damon was an intelligent, conscientious man, only a few years my senior. With him on guard, Chryseis, at least, was safe. At our approach Damon sprang up, opened the door and stood aside for me to enter.

  The little room was warm, musty, and dark. The lamp had burned itself out, so the only light coming into the room was from the hallway. Scant though it was, it was enough to show that the bed was empty. Chryseis was gone.

  VI

  I GLARED AT DAMON. The pain in my left eye and cheek fed my anger. Before I could begin asking questions, the poor wretch began answering them.

  “My lord, I don’t know what could have happened! I was right here at the door, except for a very brief trip to the latrine.”

  I exploded. “You left your post? I threatened you with death if you left this door unguarded.” I smacked him across the face with the back of my hand. Though I have ordered beatings for recalcitrant slaves on occasion, this was the first time I had ever hit a slave myself, and I immediately regretted it. I had demeaned myself as much as him.

  Damon put his hand to the spot where my blow had landed, as though he had to touch it to believe it was real. “But, my lord, I urgently needed to piss, and there was no one around. It took me hardly any time. I swear it!”