by Peake, R. W.
One evening after my walk home with Scribonius, I decided I would get a feminine view on the matter before I mentioned to Scribonius my latest thoughts. After we sat down for our meal, for which Agis was responsible that evening, and seeing that he survived, we began eating. In between bites, I asked Miriam for her opinion. She chewed her food as she listened while I explained why I believed that I could relax my guard against Cleopatra at this point. When I was finished, she said nothing, continuing to look at me as she munched her bread. Finally, she gave a sad shake of her head, regarding me in a way that reminded me of how Scribonius looked when he was about to lecture me on some point that I had missed.
“You really do not understand women, do you, Titus Pullus?”
In fact, by that point in time I thought I did have a fair understanding, but apparently once again I was wrong, since she proceeded to explain why.
“You are thinking as a man would think. You don’t like Cleopatra, but as long as you do not pose a threat, you see no reason why she should be threatened by you. It is, how do you call it, logical?”
She tilted her head when she tried the foreign word, something that I found absolutely charming, and I nodded.
“But a woman is not logical; she is ruled by her passions. You know this, do you not?”
I nodded again, for that was true, making this fact part of why I believed that I had finally begun to understand women.
“But you also think that she is Cleopatra, she is the ruler of all Egypt, and that she was taught Roman ways by Caesar. So you think in your head that, unlike other women, a queen like her cannot be ruled by her emotions, that she has to think like a man. Is this not so?”
I have to say that I was impressed, because that is exactly what I was thinking.
I got another shake of her head before she leaned forward to tap me on the forehead with her first finger. “That is where you are wrong, Titus Pullus. She is a woman; first, last, and always. She hates you, and a woman does not need a reason to hate because it is part of her passions. She has no control over it. You think if you do not give her a reason, she will have no desire to end your life, but that is exactly when she will strike, because her hatred for you will only die when she dies, may the god Baal make it happen soon. She probably does not know herself why she hates you, though she will tell herself she has reason for it. All she knows is that she hates, and she is Cleopatra, and when Cleopatra wills it, you will die.”
I had rarely heard Miriam speak so many words, with such conviction as she did then. Sitting back, I digested her words along with my food. I cannot say that I completely agreed or even understood her explanation, but something inside me told me that it would be wise to heed her words, and I had resolved earlier that I would stop ignoring that voice of caution.
I patted her hand, saying, “I'll heed your words, my love. The guards will stay, and we'll continue with testing the food.”
Her relief was obvious, and we resumed our meal, each lost in our own thoughts the rest of the evening. As it turned out, Miriam’s advice was some of the best I ever received, despite it coming at a high price. It was perhaps two weeks later as I was walking to the apartment for the evening, this night with Balbus, and we were just a dozen buildings away when I saw a sudden movement, squinting to see Herennius sprinting toward us. My heart leapt into my throat and I grabbed Balbus by the arm, running to meet the Legionary.
He skidded to a stop, trying to render a salute, but I snapped at him, “Stop wasting time! What is it?”
He was gasping for breath, so it was hard to understand him, but finally I made out the name he was blurting out.
Once I made it out, I went limp with relief, although I do not suppose I should have felt that way. “Your slave, Eumenis. He was tasting the food and something happened. I'm sure he’s been poisoned.”
We ran the rest of the way back to the apartment, where Vellusius was standing in the doorway, his arm protectively around Miriam’s shoulder, who was weeping uncontrollably. A small knot of people were gathered, the type of onlookers always attracted to excitement, the grimmer the better, and I was none too gentle when I shoved them aside.
Reaching the pair, I asked Vellusius, “Where is he?”
Vellusius jerked his head back into the apartment, his weathered face a shade paler than normal. Before I entered, I asked if he was still alive.
Vellusius shook his head, saying grimly, “He died a few moments ago, and it wasn't a pretty sight. I think he choked to death.” He shrugged. “We tried to help him, but there was nothing we could do.”
I nodded my understanding before pushing past into the apartment. Eumenis was sprawled on the floor, his face almost unrecognizably contorted in a rictus of agony. The skin of his face was a purplish hue, his tongue protruding between swollen lips, his mouth still ringed with foam. I have seen men die in innumerable ways; I had seen my first Optio Vinicius burned to death with boiling pitch. In the intervening time, I had seen men disemboweled or rendered limb from limb, but this was the most horrible death I had ever seen, and I felt my stomach lurch at the sight. It was clear that he had died in horrific pain, his nails torn and bleeding where he was clawing at the stone floor, and I could see the bloody scratch marks he left. An upturned bowl was lying next to him, its contents spread over the floor, Miriam cooking a porridge for the night’s meal, by the look of it. I had made her promise that she would never taste her food, but I knew that sometimes she forgot, and I thanked the gods that she obviously had remembered this day. I doubted Eumenis felt the same way. A pool of what I assumed to be saliva was around his head, while his belly was grossly distended, as if whatever it was that had been used created some noxious gas inside of him that threatened to burst out. I knelt beside the body, saying a silent prayer, realizing that I did not know much about Eumenis, though I was sure that Diocles would. He was Thracian, or so I believed, and I wanted to at least send him to the afterlife in the manner of his people, thinking it was the least I could do. Slave he may have been, but he gave his life for Miriam and me, so for that I owed him a debt that I could never repay.
Returning to where Vellusius and Miriam were still standing, I took Miriam gently, nodding my thanks to Vellusius, whispering to him to remove the body. Herennius had rounded up a cart from somewhere, and he and Vellusius wrapped Eumenis in a piece of linen before they carried him out. Miriam’s sobbing had subsided, but it began afresh at the sight of Eumenis’ corpse, which was rigid, his limbs splayed out in the position in which he had finally died, something I attributed to the poison since the stiffness that comes with death should not have occurred yet. Kaeso, the third man on guard, had come into the apartment to clean up; he informed me when he was done, and I took Miriam back inside.
“Disperse this crowd,” I ordered Kaeso. “And I don’t care how you do it.”
Vellusius and Herennius carted Eumenis’ body back to camp. In a move of cunning, Vellusius “accidentally” let the makeshift shroud slip from the dead slave’s body, ensuring that all in the vicinity could view the handiwork of Cleopatra’s poisoner, much in the same way that Caesar's body was displayed when he was assassinated. From all accounts, it created quite a stir, men calling to each other to come look, it quickly becoming a parody of a triumphal parade with men lining the Legion streets to watch the grim procession. When men called out to Vellusius to ask him who did this horrible deed, he did not answer, instead giving a grim jerk of the head in the direction of the compound that served as the queen’s palace. From what I learned later, word shot through the crowd, and as Vellusius described, he was followed by an angry rumble as men informed each other of the identity of the suspect. Before long, Vellusius and Herennius had drawn a tail of men who followed the progress of the cart back to the 10th’s area of the camp. By his dress and the disc around his neck, it was clear that Eumenis was a slave, yet that did not stop these hard-bitten men from being outraged at his fate, and in a strange way, they honored Eumenis in a way that I think he wo
uld have appreciated. There is no doubt that their impromptu demonstration was an expression of their outrage against Cleopatra more than it was any grief over the death of a slave, no matter how horrible it may have been. Nonetheless, I know that most of them would not have wished this on a helpless and powerless victim. Meanwhile, as Vellusius and Herennius were finishing their task, I was with Miriam, who had calmed down enough that she could answer my questions.
“Do you remember anything about Eumenis saying where he purchased the food today?”
She shook her head, her brow furrowed as she tried to think. “No, he did not. You know his Latin was not very good, and we did not speak each other’s tongues, so we did not talk all that much.” She gave a sad laugh, her eyes refilling with tears. “Though that did not stop him from chattering away about only the gods know what. I do know that he seemed to have been in a much better mood the last few days. I do not know why that was.”
I had taken the sack that Miriam identified as being what Eumenis had brought from the market, still half full of grain. There were a few apples, most of which he had sliced for Miriam to put in the pot, along with the stalks of vegetables that were the remnants of what had gone into the meal. While Miriam talked, I examined these items. None of them looked suspicious, yet I also knew I had no idea what I was looking for. Picking up an unsliced apple, I was careful to hold it by the stem, inspecting it for any signs that the skin was punctured by a needle through which poison could have been dripped, but not finding anything. Next I took a cautious sniff, wondering if the concoction was potent enough to create vapors that would kill me if I inhaled, relieved that there was only the tangy scent of apple. Turning my attention to the sack, I continued my inspection while Miriam watched apprehensively. I think we both had the same feeling in our gut that the likely cause of Eumenis’ death was contained in that sack, but like the apples and vegetables, I could see nothing untoward in the appearance of the kernels of grain nestled in the bottom of the snack. Then, I took a sniff. At first I smelled only the familiar must of the combination of grain and sacking. I started to put the sack down, about to turn away, then on an impulse I took another pass at the sack, drawing in another breath. It was the second time that I caught a whiff of something that seemed out of place with the other smells, my mind struggling to place it. Was it . . . almonds? There was a tug at the back of my mind, recalling some conversation about a certain poison that smelled like almonds, although I could not remember when it took place or who said it. Whatever the case, I immediately tied a knot in the sack before setting it aside, telling Miriam I would have to leave to attend to Eumenis. I called Kaeso to tell him to stay with Miriam inside the apartment, which was unusual, but I knew him well enough to know that he could be trusted with her alone.
Pointing to the loaf of bread made from the grain left over from the day before, I said jokingly, “I guess you're going to have to eat like a Legionary tonight.”
My attempt at humor did not go over well with her, so I gave her a clumsy pat before I left. In my defense, my thoughts were elsewhere. Taking the sack of grain, I went back to camp to begin the search for Eumenis’ killer. I knew where the trail would point, and accepted that there was nothing I could do to strike back at the ultimate perpetrator, but I could make the people who carried it out pay with their lives.
When I arrived back at my quarters in camp, it was a somber place. There was a small group of men gathered outside the door to the Legion office, talking quietly, Vellusius standing among them, clearly telling them the gruesome details of Eumenis’ death. Upon my approach, the men came to intente, but I was in no mood for formalities, or to listen to their questions and cries that they wanted to avenge this insult to their Primus Pilus, knowing that on the part of many it was more of an attempt at ingratiating themselves with me than any real sincere outrage. Even after all these years, here near the end of their enlistment, it never ceased to amaze and irritate me that there were men who insisted on trying to flatter me in some vain hope that it would be useful to them in the future. I had been a Centurion and Primus Pilus for almost 20 years by this point, meaning that I knew every trick the men did, and was immune to them all. Nonetheless, it did not stop men from continuing to try to find a new tactic that would keep the vitus from their back or a shovel out of their hands digging a cac hole. Now they were using the death of a slave that they cared nothing about in a new attempt to get into my good graces, and the thought angered me.
“Get back to your duties,” I suddenly roared, taking a measure of enjoyment out of seeing the sudden rush of alarm and fear in their faces as they went scrambling, not before a couple of the slower ones got a helping prod from the vitus. Vellusius turned to run as well, but I stopped him with a barked command. He turned to stand at intente, his expression a mixture of apprehension and confusion.
“Where’s Herennius?”
“He went to get our rations for the night, Primus Pilus.”
That was certainly a plausible reason, and one I was not prepared to hear, expecting some Legionary’s excuse.
“Very well,” I grunted. “As soon as he returns, get back to Kaeso and resume your post. I don’t think it'll take long for her to find out she wasn’t successful, so she might send some men to try and finish the job.”
“I hope so,” he said fervently. “We owe that bitch a few more bodies.”
I did not know what to say, nodding instead before turning to enter the office.
“Primus Pilus,” Vellusius called out. I looked back to see him fidgeting. “I know he was just a slave, and I didn’t know him all that well, but that was no way for anyone to die. I mean it. That bitch owes the gods a blood debt for putting someone who hadn’t done a thing to her through something like that.”
I was touched at Vellusius’ obvious sincerity, and I thanked him, assuring him that if we got the chance we would make amends in Eumenis’ name, then entered the office. Scribonius and Balbus were there, sitting while Diocles stood beside the table on which Eumenis’ body had been placed, the Centurions watching as Diocles washed the corpse. Agis was assisting, both of them crying as they worked. Despite the absence of tears in the Centurions’ eyes, their expressions were suitably grim.
Scribonius turned to me, shaking his head. “I had begun to think that she'd forgotten about the whole thing.”
“I’m glad I listened to Miriam this time,” I replied, recounting the conversation where she had warned me to continue to be on guard.
He was clearly impressed, admitting that he had not thought of it in that way, and despite the gravity of the situation, I grinned. “See, women are good for more than just scratching an itch.”
Balbus gave a grunt that we had learned signaled his disagreement, but I was in no mood to argue the point. Turning my attention to Diocles, I stood behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. I could feel him trembling, though I did not know if it was through grief or anger; I suspect that it was equal parts of both.
“Diocles,” I said gently. “I need to talk to you about this.”
He did not turn to look at me, but nodded his head. I asked him what he knew of Eumenis and his trips to the market. “Did he use different merchants like he was supposed to?”
Diocles shrugged as he said, “I reminded him every day it was his turn, but I didn't follow him to make sure he was doing as he was told.”
I thought I detected a hesitant note in his voice, so I waited to see if there was anything else. He said nothing more, continuing to stroke Eumenis’ skin gently, which had turned a purplish hue, with a wet cloth. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Agis staring at Diocles, his lips moving and I turned suddenly, clearly catching him by surprise. The young slave’s face reddened as he turned his eyes immediately downward, but I was not going to be deterred.
“Agis,” I said sternly. “What do you know?”
While Eumenis was physically the clumsiest, and when compared to Diocles was slow-witted, Agis made Eumenis look like a combi
nation of Homer and Achilles in comparison. He also had a severe stutter, which was exacerbated whenever he was under stress, and he certainly was at this moment. In truth, I would have sold him long before this, but he had an endearing sincerity and earnestness that softened my heart, while the tasks he had to perform were sufficiently low-level that he took up enough of the drudge work by which he earned his daily bread and place to sleep. I knew that he was saving to purchase his freedom, since he had not been captured in war, but had been sold by an impoverished family, the youngest of many children, a not uncommon fate for poor people not lucky enough to be born Roman citizens.
“M-m-master, I-I-I d-d-d-don’t k-k-know . . .” he began before I cut him off.
I turned to Diocles to ask him, “Do you really want to put Agis through this?”
Diocles sighed, shaking his head as he laid the cloth down. He turned around to face me, his eyes red and swollen, and I could see the guilt in them.
Before he spoke, I told him quietly, “Diocles, it’s not your fault. The fault lies on my shoulders because I allowed this to happen.”
“But it was my idea,” he replied.
I shook my head, not wanting him to feel the burden of a man’s death, as I had so many times in the past. “No, I would have thought of it in time. You just came up with the idea first, but I assure you, it would have occurred to me as well. And,” I did not want to speak ill of Eumenis, but I felt it had to be said, “if Eumenis didn't obey his instructions, he has to bear some of the burden of this as well.”
“I think he's bearing all of the burden,” Diocles burst out bitterly, and this I could not argue.
Turning back to the question, I asked him again.
He bowed his head, closing his eyes before saying quietly, “I didn't know for sure, but I had my suspicions and this confirmed them. He had been talking about a girl he met at the market, a slave girl that worked for one of the merchants that he swore he didn't shop at every time it was his turn, but that he would stop and talk with.”