She looked toward the door my mother and Apollodoros had used but didn’t move.
“I’ll have a servant bring you something here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tacitus and I decided to wait on lunch until after we had examined Aristeas further. I’m not bothered by sights that some might consider gruesome—perhaps Tacitus is right about my morbid curiosity—but he tends toward squeamishness.
I asked Macrinus, the butcher on this estate, to accompany us. In addition to slaughtering animals, he acts as a doctor when any of my servants and animals gets hurt. He has an assortment of needles for sewing up wounds. He always wants to investigate and poke around in a wound before he closes it up. My uncle encouraged him to do so.
We wrapped thin cloths saturated with perfume around our mouths and noses and concentrated on the dead man’s throat. I did not want to call attention to the missing raven’s head mark. Tacitus and I would examine that portion of the body later by ourselves.
“He’s spoiling fast, my lord,” the butcher said.
“What do you expect from seven-hundred-year-old meat?” Tacitus muttered, drawing a startled look from Marcrinus and a cautionary glare from me.
“That’s why there’s a funeral pyre being prepared for him,” I said. “I’m not sure when he was killed.”
“It must have been a day ago, my lord. Two, more likely. And this warm weather don’t help none.”
“Can you tell me anything about how he was killed?”
“Well, my lord, his throat was slit.”
“Really?” Tacitus said. “We thought perhaps he’d been drowned.”
“Sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to insult you by being so obvious.”
“Never mind,” I said. “Cornelius Tacitus has an odd sense of humor, which he seems to be indulging today. Can you tell anything about what sort of weapon was used?”
“I would say a knife, my lord, but not a very sharp one.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, the edges of the cut are ragged, my lord. If a knife blade isn’t sharp or has a rough spot or a nick on it, it tears more than cuts.”
I knew how uncomfortable it was to be shaved with a razor that wasn’t sharp or had a nick. This poor man had not only been slaughtered like an animal and the blood drained from his body. His killer had hurt him all the more by using a blade with a rough edge. Was it done intentionally?
“All the blood was drained out of the body,” I said. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Well, my lord, I watched a Jewish butcher cut up a sheep once. They’ve got all sorts of rules about slaughtering animals. One of the main ones is draining the blood. I’ve heard stories that they use it in some secret ritual.”
“Is there a Jewish butcher anywhere around here?”
“The closest one would be in Ostia, my lord.”
“It would take too long to get a message there and get him back here.”
“If he would even come, my lord. They don’t like to mix with us that ain’t Jews. But you could ask Naomi.”
The suggestion surprised me. “Yes, I know she’s Jewish, but what would she know about something like this?”
“Her husband was a butcher, my lord. She’s told me a few things about how I might do my job.”
In all I had learned in recent months about Naomi and her family, who were taken captive after the destruction of Jerusalem, I had heard nothing about her husband. I could only assume he had died some years ago.
“Thank you for your help,” I told Macrinus.
Tacitus and I went into the house to find Naomi. We managed to pry her loose from my mother and took her out onto the terrace. The fresh breeze off the bay was a welcome change from the stench of the stable. I drew in a deep breath before I turned to face her.
“I need to know something about how your people slaughter animals. I understand your husband was a butcher.”
“Not just a butcher, my lord, but a shochet.”
She sounded like she was clearing her throat. “How is that different from a butcher like Macrinus?”
“A shochet has been specially trained, my lord, to slaughter animals following our laws about the preparation of meat.”
“Would those laws require an animal to be strung up by its hind legs?”
“Not require, my lord. The animal can be strung up, or it can be laid on its back. The important thing is that the knife be extremely sharp and the throat be cut quickly and without pressing into the flesh.”
“You drain the blood, don’t you?” Tacitus asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“How is it collected and what’s done with it?” I didn’t really believe it was used in bizarre rituals. I don’t understand the Jews, but I’ve seen nothing sinister about them. I certainly am not afraid of the ones in my household.
“It isn’t collected, my lord. That’s forbidden. The blood must be drained onto the ground and covered. We’re taught that the life of a creature is in its blood. We will not eat the blood.”
“Are the animals stunned first?” Tacitus asked.
“No, my lord. Our law requires that the animal be conscious when it’s slaughtered.”
In Roman sacrifices the animals are hit on the head with a large hammer before their throats are cut. I had not seen any sign of a blow on Aristeas’ head. That could mean nothing more than that the person who killed him wanted him to suffer right to the last moment. I didn’t think Naomi had anything further to tell us about how Aristeas might have been killed, but my curiosity was piqued now. “Naomi, do you eat meat in my house?”
Naomi shook her head. “I eat fish, bread, cheese, fruits and vegetables, my lord. My lady Plinia has offered to buy meat from a shochet for me, but, even if the animal is slaughtered properly, we have other rules about the preparation of the meat that would make it impossible for me to eat any cooked in your kitchen.”
I drew myself up. “Our kitchen seems to be good enough for everyone else in the household.”
“Forgive me if I offend you, my lord. I know Gentiles find our food restrictions puzzling. Some do come to understand them and see the wisdom in them. My lady Plinia has begun purchasing garum that is prepared according to our laws.”
In spite of my surprise at hearing that, I wondered if it might explain the difference in taste I had noticed lately. I thought she’d just been going to a better shop. “How is it different from regular garum?”
“No shellfish are used to make it, my lord, only fish with scales.” She must have read my change of expression. “My lord, I don’t mean to suggest there’s anything wrong with—”
“I understand. My mother has charge of the household and can purchase what she deems best. I just want to be sure you’re eating enough to keep up your strength so you can carry out your duties.”
“Thank you, my lord. I would not fail you or my lady Plinia. You’ve been very kind to me and my son.” She lowered her head and then looked back up at me. “Do you require anything else?”
Why did I feel like she was dismissing me? “No. You may go.”
Tacitus waited until she was out of sight. “So, do you think the butcher did it?”
“No. But I don’t think Myrrha killed him either. The knife beside her bed was sharp, with no nicks or rough spots on the blade. It wouldn’t have torn the flesh the way his was torn. And it would have taken a strong woman to tie him up and hoist him by his feet.”
“Myrrha could do it with a pulley or two,” Tacitus said. “You saw that bracket she made to hold her knife. Chloris said she was clever with things like that, things you wouldn’t expect a woman to be able to do.”
“But where could she—or whoever did it—have strung the man up? You’d need a barn or a workshop, wouldn’t you? It’s not something you’d do out in the open or in your bedroom.”
“Maybe not your bedroom. We’ll have to see if there’s any likely place near Saturninus’ building that would be suitable. Maybe h
e’s involved.”
I shook my head. “He’s too old and frail. He couldn’t have done it.”
“But he could have assisted in some way.”
“Assisted Myrrha? Why?” I shook my head. “He hates her, and Chloris too. You heard how he talked about them. And he practically spit in Chloris’ face when we went into his shop with her.”
“True. But I also saw how he looked at them. There’s something between them that we’re not privy to. Perhaps a murder that took place fifteen years ago.”
I hated to admit it, even to myself, but Tacitus might be right. “We can’t do anything about that now. We have to find out what happened to Aristeas’ blood.”
“But if whoever killed him let it drain on the ground, how can we find it?”
“If what Daphne said about people buying his blood as an elixir is true, don’t you think they would have collected it? And what did Naomi say? ‘The life of a creature is in its blood.’”
Tacitus turned and looked out over the bay. “If it made you immortal, it would be priceless. Speaking of drinking an elixir ...”
I was about to go inside and call for some wine when Blandina appeared with a tray holding a large cup of wine, two smaller drinking cups and some bread. I wondered if she’d been listening to our conversation.
As we drank, a dolphin surfaced in the bay below us, spouting water from the hole on the top of its head. The creatures fascinate me, as they did my uncle. He used to go out in a boat and try to study them more closely. They would swim up to the boat, make a high-pitched noise and let him touch them. He said he felt like they were trying to talk to him. That’s the sort of thing I find in his unpublished scrolls—much of it helpful, but some of it nonsense.
I had no time for distractions. I needed to concentrate on Aristeas’ murder, and a key element in the puzzle was what happened to his blood. “How big a container do you think you’d need to hold all the blood from a man’s body?”I said.
Tacitus drained his cup and shook his head. “I doubt you’ll find a volunteer to help you answer that question.”
“A large hog weighs about as much as a man, doesn’t it?”
“A small man like Aristeas? I suppose so.”
“Then let’s have Macrinus string up my largest hog and cut its throat. We’ll rig up something to catch the blood.”
Tacitus refilled his cup and laughed. “For some reason a line from Aristophanes just popped into my head. From the Thesmophoriazusae, I believe.”
“By the gods, yes!” I couldn’t help but be amused, even in such grisly circumstances. “Mnesilochos—wasn’t that his name? —uncovers the wine skin that a woman is passing off as a baby. ‘But first the sacrifice!’ he says. ‘I must cut its throat.’”
“That’s it. And the woman says, ‘Bring me a bowl. At least I can catch my lovely’s blood.’ ” Tacitus gazed into his wine cup. “Wine and blood. What an amazing equation.”
“I wonder how large a container we’ll need.”
Tacitus drained his cup. “Your largest amphora, I should think, just in case.”
“Yes. And while the servants are building Aristeas’ funeral pyre, they can construct another one to roast the pig.”
When the door onto the terrace opened again I thought it would be Blandina bringing more wine, but my mother emerged from the house.
“Gaius, I want to speak to you about this man’s funeral.”
“We’re about to take care of it,” I said. “Tranio is constructing the pyre.”
“But why go to all that trouble?”
I knew what was coming. Last summer she attended a Jewish funeral and was deeply impressed with their practice of placing the body in a cave and letting it decompose for a year, then collecting the bones and placing them in a box carved from stone.
“You could put him in that cave on the side of the cliff below the house, dear, the one where you used to play. It would be easy and convenient.”
Easy and convenient for anyone to get to him, I thought. “Mother, if it were anyone else, I would indulge you, but this man is going on the pyre.”
“Why? Are you afraid of him?”
While Tacitus and I got something to eat, Macrinus selected the largest hog on the estate and, with the help of several other servants, roped the thing and dragged it to the stable. The hog protested vehemently and fought back as though he knew what was in store for him. The rest of my servants laughed like an audience enjoying a farce in the theater.
“Do you suppose Aristeas put up that much of a fight?” Tacitus said as we watched the uproar.
I sipped some wine to wash down a bite of bread. “I wonder if someone attacked him when he was in that sleep-like state. Out there in the woods, he didn’t respond at all when my servants picked him up and put him in the cart. It was as though his ... his life force had left the body.”
“Why can’t you call it his soul?”
“Because that’s not how I think of it.”
“Whatever you call it, perhaps his body was ... vacant. Some people explain dreams that way. Our souls leave for a time and see things we can’t know about. If Aristeas’ body was vacant, even a woman might have been able to overcome him. Myrrha’s as big as he is.”
“You don’t have to say everything you think, my friend. There’s a strong enough case against her without you adding to it.”
Macrinus decided to string the hog up using the beam over the far gate of the paddock. He had reinforced it with a second beam on top of it because of his concern about the animal’s weight. Using that gate would keep the whole business out of sight of the house and leave whatever mess needed to be cleaned up afterwards on the edge of the woods. My mother, Naomi, and Apollodoros stayed inside and refused to watch. Daphne, however, showed a keen interest, making sure she was in the front row. I thought I saw a trace of a smile on her face.
“We’d better pay closer attention,” I said as the servants finally got the hog suspended by its back legs. Tacitus and I moved through the ring of onlookers and stood by the sweating Macrinus.
“It would’ve been easier if I could’ve bashed ’im on the head, my lord.” The butcher wiped his brow with his forearm.
“Aristeas wasn’t hit,” I said, “and I want to duplicate what I think happened as closely as possible. The way this thing is thrashing around, though, you won’t be able to collect any blood, will you?”
“No, my lord. It’ll be spurtin’ all over the place. To collect any we’ll have to tie his head down somehow. But the only way to do that would be with a rope around his neck.”
I had not noticed any mark of a rope on the back of Aristeas’ neck, but I am nothing if not pragmatic. “All right, we’ll have to compromise. Stun him and then cut his throat as quickly as you can. And remember, it has to be a deep cut, just short of taking his head off, with a blade that’s not particularly sharp.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The hog squealed louder and jerked so violently that even the reinforced archway creaked.
“And you’d better be quick about it.”
“Yes, my lord.” Macrinus fetched a large hammer. He had already assembled a copper bowl with a hole drilled in the bottom and the largest amphora he could find. When everything was in place he hit the hog on the head. I heard a crunch and the huge beast went limp. Macrinus stepped in front of the animal, plunged in the knife, and slashed its throat with one practiced motion.
The initial spurt of blood was so strong that the servant holding the copper bowl had trouble keeping his grip on it. The bowl filled almost as fast as blood ran out of the hole into the amphora below it.
“That’s a lot more than I expected,” Tacitus said.
“There’ll be a lot at first, my lord,” Macrinus said, wiping the bloody knife on his apron. “Then it’ll slow down and trickle out for a while.”
“How long do you think it will take for all the blood to drain out?” I was wondering how long someone would have needed to leave Aristeas hang
ing upside down. Most murders can be committed quickly, with a thrust or two of a knife or a blow from a stone. A person can be strangled quickly. A moment of passion or anger followed by a lifetime of remorse. To kill Aristeas in the way we were slaughtering this hog would require forethought and a place where he could be concealed for ... how long?
“How long? Not sure, my lord. I’ve never done this before, I mean, tryin’ to drain all the blood out of an animal.”
“How much blood do you think there will be in all?” I asked.
“At this rate, my lord, more than a congius, I suspect.”
“Do you think there’s more blood than that in a man?”
“If you mean that scrawny little fella you had in the stable, my lord, I suppose he’d have a bit more, but not more than two congii.”
“So one amphora of that size would be large enough to hold it all?”
Macrinus nodded and patted the hog.
I had almost forgotten about Daphne until she stepped around us and put the tip of a finger into the bowl of blood. “It’s surprisingly warm,” she said and put her finger into her mouth.
With the hog slaughtered, I wanted to get back to examining Aristeas’ body, but I didn’t want a large crowd of my servants satisfying their gruesome curiosity while I worked.
“The spectacle is over,” I announced. “Everyone back in the house and back to work.” I turned to Daphne. “You should go back in the house as well. I thought you would want to clean up after lunch.”
“That fop Apollodoros got into the bath first. Are you going to roast the pig for dinner?” She looked with interest at the blood continuing to drain from the animal’s throat.
In a moment Aristeas would be brought out of the stable for me to examine him one last time. There was no gentle way to tell Daphne what had happened to him.
She spared me the effort. “He was brutally murdered, wasn’t he? Like this. That’s why you staged this ... spectacle.”
“We think this is what happened.” I turned toward the interior of the paddock. Two of my servants, with the promise of five denarii each, brought the fetid corpse out to where a platform had been hastily constructed so I wouldn’t have to get down on the ground to examine him.
The Corpus Conundrum Page 17
