All Roads Lead to Murder

by Albert A. Bell

  Since our presence would be required at Apelles’ house in the middle of the night, Tacitus, Luke, Melissa, and I walked over there not long after supper to avoid being on the streets after dark. A smaller city such as Smyrna must be safer than Rome, which falls into the hands of cut-throats and bandits after sunset, but no city of any size affords real security for those who venture onto its streets after dark. I observed Melissa closely as we walked. She seemed composed, almost resolved. Time alone to vent her grief seemed to have settled her.

  Upon our arrival we were assured by Apelles’ widow, a pudgy, sad woman named Kallisto—though I doubt anyone but the most doting parents would have considered her ‘the most beautiful’, as her name indicated—that Chryseis was in another wing in the back of the house and would not be aware of our presence.

  I hadn’t taken much notice of the house on my previous visit, but I now realized it was quite large, and built on the Roman model. Apelles, Luke told me on the way over, had lived in Rome for a number of years before returning to his hometown. The house boasted not one peristyle garden but two.

  Melissa and I inspected the tablinum, where our little drama would be acted out. As she suggested some rearrangement of furniture to make it look more like Cornutus’ tablinum I could imagine her as a free woman, in her own home. She had never lost that poise and self-confidence. Kallisto had her slaves carry out Melissa’s directions. Then there was nothing for us to do but wait. We retired to the same peristyle garden where I had talked with Chryseis earlier in the day. Torches had been lighted, and several slaves were ready to serve us.

  Conversation soon dwindled, since Luke and Timothy on the one hand were not well acquainted with Tacitus and me on the other. “We need a bard to sing us the tale of the Trojan War,” Tacitus finally said during an awkward pause, drawing a chuckle from the rest of us. A long story would certainly help ease the social awkwardness and pass the time we had to wait.

  “Your uncle died in something just as devastating as the Trojan War, didn’t he?” Luke said to me.

  “Yes. He was overcome by the fumes from Mt. Vesuvius while he was trying to rescue people from the eruption.”

  “Would it be too painful for you to tell us about it?” Luke asked.

  “It would be painful for us if he were to sing it,” Tacitus said. “Believe me, I’ve heard him sing.”

  “Tacitus is right about that. But I can tell the story.” I glanced apologetically at Tacitus. He had heard parts of the narrative while we were traveling, but he was the one who brought up the idea of a story-teller. I was secretly pleased to have the opportunity to relate my tale to a new and appreciative audience.

  “It began one afternoon in late August, four years ago. We—my mother, my uncle, and I—were relaxing on the terrace of my uncle’s house after lunch. He had command of the fleet in that area. The house is on the peninsula of Misenum, at the extreme west end of the bay of Naples, where it joins the open sea. My mother noticed a cloud rising from the other end of the bay, some twenty miles away. My uncle, because of his scientific interests, decided to take a boat and go investigate. There seemed no reason for haste, and by the time he got the little expedition organized, a messenger arrived from Naples to say that disaster had struck. Mt. Vesuvius, which no one had ever suspected was volcanic, was erupting. The towns along the coast—Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Stabiae—were in mortal danger, as were the numerous private villas which lined the coast. What had begun as a leisurely voyage prompted by curiosity became a rush to save as many lives as possible.

  “We decided that I would stay at the house, to watch over my mother and the slaves. We had no way of foreseeing how widespread a catastrophe this would become, but my uncle always stressed the importance of protecting one’s home base in a military operation, which this was now turning into.”

  As I slipped into the rhythm of my story I could see my audience falling under its spell, too. From the accounts of those on the ships I had compiled my own ‘bardic’ version of the disaster. Now I led this small circle of listeners through the terrifying voyage of the ships across the bay, with ash and bits of pumice raining down on them like flaming projectiles from an enemy ship as they sped into ever-thickening darkness.

  Nor was I ashamed to mention my own part. At Misenum, I attempted to keep everyone in our household calm, but that night the house began to shake and ash began to fall on us. We joined the flow of refugees heading north. Some were crying for family members who’d become separated from them. Others were cursing the gods and bewailing the end of the human race.

  “‘There shall be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth’,” Luke said softly.

  “Where did you get that line?” I asked.

  “Oh, from something too obscure to have come to your notice,” he replied quickly.

  “The author could have been with me that night,” I said.

  “Please continue, friend Pliny,” Luke said. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you. We’re all enthralled by your story. I’m sorry you were interrupted.”

  “There’s not much more to tell,” I said, picking up the thread. “My mother proved too frail to travel far, so we tried to take refuge beside a tomb, but if we sat still for even a short time, the ash threatened to cover us. When we first stopped by the tomb, the top of it was even with my head. By the next morning the top of it was below my waist. Most frightening of all was the darkness. I’ve never known a night of such thick, suffocating darkness. Morning in this case was just slightly less darkness.

  “The next day we received the terrible news of my uncle’s death.”

  As I finished the story and fell silent my listeners seemed to remember that they could breathe again.

  “That was an unimaginable horror,” Timothy said. “I had friends in Pompeii. The entire family was lost. I’m glad to know something of what it was like.”

  One of Kallisto’s slaves brought a fresh pitcher of wine. We all drank and sat alone with our thoughts for a few minutes.

  “My lord,” Melissa said, “the moon is visible above the roof of the house now. I think it’s late enough for us to begin.”

  X

  WE FILED OUT TO OUR SEVERAL places. Luke, Tacitus, and I concealed ourselves in a room next to the tablinum. After Chryseis entered the room, we would take up positions outside the door, to be able to hear what was going on and to allow Luke to intervene if he felt Chryseis was being endangered. Melissa had selected two of Apelles’ slaves who matched the general size and appearance of Cornutus and the other slave woman who had assisted her. In that poorly lighted room, she said, they would serve the purpose. She had given them specific instructions about where to stand, what to say and do. A brazier had been filled with hot coals and a branding iron was glowing in it. With all of us in our places, Melissa went to fetch Chryseis.

  They returned in a few moments. I could hear Chryseis asking tiredly where they were going. Melissa, according to the script, told her that her master wanted to see her. Once they were in the room, Luke, Tacitus, and I tiptoed over to the door and flattened ourselves against the wall. What I heard cut into my heart.

  Chryseis was crying. “What are you doing? Please, let me go.” In the original incident she was gagged, but we couldn’t gag her here. We had to hear what she was saying, to know if her memory was returning.

  She let out a scream so piercing I could hardly bear to listen. I stood away from the wall and turned to the door, about to rush in and rescue her. Luke, on the other side of the doorway, made a gesture with his hand as if to hold me back. His face displayed as much anxiety as I felt.

  “No!” Chryseis cried again. “No!” From the thuds of furniture being kicked around, I realized that they were trying to tie her to the table. If the real Cornutus was her father, how could he have stood to put his child through this?

  “Shut her up,” I heard the fake Cornutus tell the other slave woman. He spoke his lines with no conviction at all.

  But then Chryseis called ou
t, “Mel . . . Mel . . . Melissa!”

  Luke’s face brightened as Melissa said, “Stop! She knows me.”

  I bolted into the room ahead of Luke and grabbed the branding iron from the hand of the fake Cornutus. He was holding it just inches from Chryseis’ face. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my hand wrapped in a cloth, as he did, and the handle was almost as hot as the brand. The searing pain helped me to avert my eyes from the sight of Chryseis nude, stretched over Apelles’ table, her ankles and one of her wrists tied to its legs. Melissa threw a blanket over the sobbing girl and untied her.

  I dismissed the two slaves. Luke told the woman to bring some oil for my burned hand. Melissa wrapped the blanket around Chryseis and hugged her. I longed to hold her myself, but I knew she needed the comfort of Melissa’s familiar presence.

  When she had settled down, Melissa said, “Let me help her get dressed and gather her wits for a moment. We will return.”

  I put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Chryseis, I am so sorry we had to put you through this. We had to risk it to help you get your memory back. You know I would never hurt you.”

  She looked me straight in the eye. “Yes, my lord, I know.” She turned to Melissa and said, “I’m all right. I can talk with them now.”

  We all took seats around the table which sat in the center of the room. Melissa moved her chair close to Chryseis’ and placed her hand on the girl’s arm. Shelves around the walls held Apelles’ collection of scrolls, and bits and pieces of papyrus with household accounts and other necessary information. Luke glanced at me in a way that put me in charge of the questioning.

  “Can you tell us what happened on the stairs in the inn?” I began. “What, or who, made you fall?”

  Chryseis hugged the blanket tightly around her. “All I know for certain, my lord, is that a man hit me and I fell.”

  “You didn’t fall accidentally, or stumble?”

  “No, my lord. I was being very careful because the stairway was so dark and narrow.”

  “Marcellus claims that you stumbled on the stairs and bumped into him as he was coming down. Think very hard. Can you see anything in your mind?”

  She looked down and really did appear to be trying to concentrate and remember something. Finally she looked up at me. “I’m sorry, my lord. It was dark and everything happened so quickly. I don’t remember bumping into anyone, but if Marcellus says I did . . . maybe I did. I had my head down, watching my footing. My master was right, actually. I am a bit clumsy.”

  “But you said before that he hit you,” I persisted.

  “Somebody did . . . I think.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes. “It’s all very confusing to me now.”

  “Could Marcellus have been reaching out to grab you,” Tacitus said, “perhaps to keep you from falling?”

  I glared at him in disbelief and anger, made even stronger by the pain in my hand. “When did he hire you to defend him?”

  Tacitus shrugged. “Do you want to find the truth, or do you just want to construct your own version of what happened?”

  I broke away from his gaze because I realized he was getting to the core of the problem. In investigating any sort of puzzle one must have a theory, as a sort of guide. But one must also remain open to any other possible explanation that might develop.

  “I have no wish to defend anyone either,” Luke interjected quietly, “but it does seem unlikely to me that Marcellus could have been planning to attack Chryseis. First, what possible reason could he have? Secondly, how could he have known she would be coming up those stairs at that particular moment? The stairs are narrow and dark, as we all know. Isn’t an accident the simplest explanation for what happened?”

  “It’s clear we’re not going to get any further on this path of questioning,” I said. “You, my supposed colleagues, are now speaking for the other side and sowing such confusion that Chryseis is no longer even certain about what happened.”

  “You need not get so huffy, friend Pliny,” Luke said. “We’re simply trying to be certain that, in your zeal to convict Marcellus, we don’t allow the real culprit to escape.”

  Before I could object, Tacitus said, “Marcellus may well be the guilty one, but there is no compelling evidence against him, for either Cornutus’ murder or for trying to harm this girl. Why don’t you look at some others who had perfectly good reasons to kill Cornutus? I’d like to know more about Tiberius Saturninus’ gambling debts myself. Or where the witch Anyte was at the time Cornutus was killed.”

  I had to admit they were right. I could almost hear my uncle’s voice in their admonitions. “All right. For the sake of argument, let’s cast the net a little wider. But before we finish here, I want to ask Chryseis about something else.”

  The golden-haired slave girl sat up straight, nervously alert. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Where did you get the sealed document that you carry in your bag?”

  The way she looked at me is the way I imagine Hera glared at Zeus when she discovered one of his infidelities. I knew she wanted to ask me by what right I was rummaging through her bag. Even if she was only a slave, she was someone else’s slave, not mine. She clipped her words as she said, “My master, Cornutus, gave it to me the day after he branded me. He told me not to open it myself under any circumstances. If something happened to him, I was to take it to the nearest Roman magistrate and have him open it. The document would protect me, he told me, but I must never break the seal.”

  “Do you want to open it now?” I hoped she would say yes, just to satisfy my own curiosity. Sometimes that characteristic of mine seems almost a flaw.

  “You aren’t a magistrate, are you, my lord?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll wait until the governor arrives, my lord. I don’t mean to be difficult, but those were my master’s instructions and I believe I should carry them out.”

  The lift of her head could have seemed arrogant in a slave. It struck me as self-confident, worthy of a noblewoman.

  I sensed it was time to quit. “I think that’s all we’re going to learn tonight. It’s very late. Melissa, why don’t you put her to bed? Then there are a few things I’d like to ask you. Would you meet me in the garden?”

  She looked a bit irritated, but just said, “Yes, my lord.”

  * * * *

  Since we knew in advance that it would be late before we were finished, we had made arrangements with Apelles’ family to spend the night there. Luke put a salve on my hand and wrapped it. Then he and Tacitus had gone to bed by the time Melissa found the bench where I was sitting in the garden. She stood before me until I motioned for her to sit with me. The torches had been extinguished. The moon, just one night past its fullest point, provided all the illumination we needed. Melissa’s gown, a pale green, took on a lustrous sheen. It was almost as though she was moving through a waterfall.

  “Thank you for your help tonight,” I began. “We couldn’t have pulled her through without you.”

  “I’m sorry to have doubted you and the doctor, my lord. And I am pleased to do anything for Chryseis.”

  “Can you put aside your hatred of me, for her sake?”

  She sighed, as though expelling some of her animosity. “I will try, my lord. I’ve been telling myself these last few days that you aren’t your uncle. You have been very fair, even gracious, in your treatment of me. And your concern for Chryseis goes beyond anything we have a right to expect.”

  “I want to continue to help you. But to do that I need information that only you can give me. Now, I know it’s late, and this probably could wait until tomorrow, but I’m too excited to sleep right now.”

  “I can understand, my lord. I doubt if I will sleep tonight.” I wasn’t quite sure that she was referring just to the excitement of the evening. I wished I could knock down the fortifications she had erected around herself, fortifications held together by resentment of men like me and my uncle. I wondered how Cornutus had breached the wall.

  “I don’t mean to fr
ighten you,” I said, “but I believe whoever killed Cornutus may intend to harm Chryseis.” Actually, frightening her was exactly what I hoped to do. If she was a bit scared, I thought, she might be more open with information. “I want to protect Chryseis, but to do that I need to know as much about her background as possible. That may help me figure out who would have a reason to hurt her. Since you were so close to Cornutus, I thought he might have told you something he wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

  She began cautiously. “Very soon after I arrived in his house I saw that Cornutus took a special interest in Chryseis, but in a funny way. At times it seemed he doted on her. She was a kind of pet, the way many Roman aristocrats treat a favorite slave child, especially when they have no children of their own. But, at other times, he seemed to hate the sight of her. As he and I grew closer, I asked him why he treated her that way. He told me that her mother was a German captive, taken in a battle across the Rhine, north of Colonia Agrippina. He purchased her in the aftermath of the battle. She died in childbirth. Cornutus felt she hadn’t had proper care during the birth, and that was his fault, since she was his slave.”

  “Do you know if this German woman was his . . . concubine, if you’ll pardon my using that term?”

  “It’s all right, my lord. I have accepted my status. Cornutus loved me, no matter what anyone may call me. I was his wife in all but name. He was married at the time he took this German woman captive. I don’t know if he had any relationship with her. He told me nothing more about her.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about Chryseis, anything that would give someone reason to harm her?”

  “No, my lord. She’s a sweet, loving child.”

  “Do you know anything about the sealed document Cornutus gave her?”

  “No, my lord. That was a secret both of them kept from me.”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait until the governor arrives to get to the bottom of that.”

  “My lord, I’m very worried. What’s going to happen to us? Will we be sold?” She forgot herself enough to clasp my unburned hand in both of hers.