Death in the Ashes

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  Tacitus put his right hand on my throat and pretended to stab me. “It is awkward,” he said.

  “And, even though you’re stabbing downward,” I pointed out, “the blade would go in straight, not angled the way Amalthea’s wound is.”

  Tacitus mimed stabbing me at that angle. “Yes, it is quite a bit more awkward. So you think the killer was standing behind her?”

  “I’m certain—well, reasonably certain—of it. You’re taller than I am.” I turned my back to Tacitus. He put his hand on my throat and acted like he was reaching over to stab me.

  “This could also explain why there was no blood on Calpurnius’ tunic,” he said, “if he attacked her from behind.”

  I hadn’t intended to strengthen the case against Aurelia’s husband. “But Calpurnius knew her. Would someone who knew her approach her from behind? I think he’d be more likely to walk up to her, face-to-face. She wouldn’t be surprised to see him. And he would plunge the knife straight in, even with an upward thrust, not downward. The wound would be below the breast, probably in her stomach.”

  “You’re saying ‘he,’ ” Tacitus observed. “Have you ruled out a woman as the killer?”

  “Not necessarily. The so-called fairer sex is just as capable of mayhem as we are.”

  “What do you make of the fact that there’s only one wound?”

  I had to think about that question for a moment. “If someone was angry at Amalthea, I would expect him to stab her multiple times.” I repeated a stabbing motion. “This one wound was precisely placed. When I put my blade into the hole, it went between the ribs, straight to the heart.” I removed and wiped the knife.

  “So the killer knew what he was doing.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had killed someone before.” While I was talking I picked up Amalthea’s left hand, as if I might comfort her or apologize for the indignity to which we were subjecting her. “Look at this.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Under her fingernails. Is that blood? Bring one of those lamps over here.”

  Tacitus removed a lamp from one of the stands and held it close to Amalthea’s hand. “Are you sure it’s not just grime? She worked in the kitchen, Aurelia said. One can hardly imagine what she might have had her hands in.”

  “Her hands are clean.” I used the point of Tacitus’ knife to scrape material from under the dead woman’s fingernails. When I put a speck of it in my mouth, Tacitus groaned.

  “It’s blood,” I said, spitting it out.

  “Whose blood?”

  “The blood of the person who killed her, I think.”

  “That’s a big leap.”

  “If someone grabbed you by the throat, what would you immediately do?”

  “Kick him in the balls.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Wouldn’t you try to get his hand off your throat? If you were a woman, smaller than the man who was attacking you and he was behind you, wouldn’t you scratch at his arm?”

  Tacitus put one hand on his own throat and mimed clawing at it with his other hand. “I guess so. Does this mean you’re going to go around tasting people’s blood to find someone that matches? Can you identify blood, like a wine vintage?”

  “No. Blood is blood. But we’re going to see if Calpurnius has scratches on either of his arms.”

  †

  We found Aurelia and Bastet in the exhedra, at the end of the garden near where we were examining Amalthea. As was common in villas in this area, the exhedra had sloping couches made of concrete and arranged like a triclinium, with blankets and cushions covering them. At Aurelia’s invitation Tacitus and I reclined, but Aurelia sat on the edge of one of the couches, like a matron of the old republic. She put a hand on her belly and almost smiled. “It’s more comfortable for me to sit now. Bastet recommends it.” Bastet sat in a chair near her mistress. Both women’s arms were bare, and I could not stop myself from glancing at them. Neither bore any scratches.

  “What did you learn from your examination?” Aurelia asked, almost as if she were afraid of the answer.

  “I’m still weighing the results,” I said. “But I have to ask about the condition of the body. She was killed four days ago, wasn’t she?”

  Aurelia nodded.

  “There’s no way to say this delicately, but I would expect the body to be decomposing by now.”

  “There’s something about the soil in that little cave,” Aurelia said, “that preserves flesh. I learned about it when I was ten. Amalthea got pregnant. She knew my father would be angry. He didn’t like the expense of raising slave children—except his own. With the help of a few other servant women she managed to hide her condition until late in her term. Then the baby was born dead. She was frightened.” Aurelia put her hand on her own belly. “She didn’t know if she would be accused of killing the child. The night the child was born she and another servant dug a grave in that cellar and buried the baby. When it was discovered several months later, it looked like the child had been born only a few days before. So, when this awful thing happened, I decided to put Amalthea’s body there. I didn’t know if it would work with an adult, but it was the only hope I had of preserving her until you arrived.”

  I tried to ignore Tacitus’ smug expression, but he had been right about Amalthea having a baby. “The soil down there must dry the body out and prevent putrefaction.”

  “Like making mummies in Egypt,” Tacitus said. “Or drying a piece of meat. It’s all a matter of getting the moisture out.”

  “Yes. You should put her back down there,” I said, “in case we need to examine her again.”

  Aurelia summoned a servant and gave the order for Amalthea to be returned to the cellar. Before the man turned and left, Tacitus stopped him.

  “Hold out your arms,” Tacitus said. “And turn them over.”

  The man looked at Aurelia, who, in spite of the confusion on her own face, reinforced Tacitus’ order. “Do as he says.”

  Both of the man’s arms were unscathed. With a last quizzical look at Tacitus and at Aurelia, he left to carry out his assigned task.

  “What was the meaning of that?” Aurelia asked, looking from one of us to the other, when the man was out of earshot.

  Tacitus started to say something, but I cut him off. I was sorry he had said anything. I didn’t want to reveal all that we knew. If Amalthea’s assailant was in Aurelia’s household, he could be forewarned, and that could make him dangerous. “Tacitus has a theory about the size of a man’s forearms and his…intelligence,” I said. “He tries to take samples whenever he can.”

  The answer clearly didn’t satisfy Aurelia, but she let it pass. Once we were settled on our couches, her servants brought us dinner, placing a small table where Aurelia and Bastet could reach it. The meal was simple, as a guest might expect when arriving earlier than anticipated: dried fish in garum, beans, bread, cheese, and wine.

  Aurelia sighed deeply. “Thank you again for coming, Gaius Pliny. And so quickly. I feel safer just having you here.”

  “Safer? Do you think you’re in some danger?”

  “I’m not sure. Something has been bothering Calpurnius lately, but he won’t tell me what it is. As good and kind as he is, he’s never been a man to share what he’s thinking with others. In recent days he’d be gone for hours and I didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. I suppose he’s seeing another woman. I can hardly blame him. Look how fat and ugly I am right now.”

  “Now, my lady,” Bastet said, laying a comforting hand on Aurelia’s arm, “you know that’s not true. Calpurnius would never betray you like that.”

  “And you certainly aren’t fat or ugly,” Tacitus said before I could get the words in. “You’re bearing his child. A woman can never be more beautiful to her husband than when she’s bearing his child.”

  “Thank you, Cornelius Tacitus. You’re a very sweet man.” Aurelia dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry I keep crying. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

  “Sweet”
wasn’t a word I would use to describe Tacitus, but I’d never heard him express such a tender sentiment.

  “You said ‘in recent days’ he would be gone for considerable periods of time. How long has he been doing that?” I asked.

  Aurelia closed her eyes and pondered for a moment. “For at least six months, actually. The first time I remember is last March.”

  “Has anything happened that would explain the change in his behavior?”

  “At first I thought it might be me. Once I was pregnant, I began to have trouble controlling my temper. And I cry over the smallest thing.”

  Bastet patted Aurelia’s arm. “That happens to many women when they’re carrying a child, my lady. I never saw your husband upset by anything you said or did.”

  “Only because he’s so patient with me.”

  Bastet drew Aurelia closer to her and put Aurelia’s head on her shoulder. Aurelia’s wig fairly gleamed against Bastet’s black skin. With both of her parents dead and her husband under arrest, she had no one but her nurse to turn to. But the gesture struck me less as comforting than as confining.

  I wished the solution to Aurelia’s problem was as easy as letting her lay her head on my shoulder. I was beginning to suspect, though, that the murder of which Calpurnius was accused might be just one part of a much larger question, a question that might be related to the change in Calpurnius’ behavior. If a man begins, at some point, to act differently than he acted before that point, then something happened to provoke the change. It might help to know if it was something Calpurnius did or something that someone did to him. Did Thamyras’ unguarded comment that Aurelia had finally brought her husband some long overdue happiness have any connection with this change in the man’s behavior?

  Aurelia groaned and put her hand on her belly.

  “Is something wrong, my lady?” Bastet asked.

  “The baby’s moving. She has been since I first heard Gaius Pliny’s voice.”

  I was surprised by her choice of a pronoun. “She? How can you know it’s a girl?”

  “Bastet can see signs.” Aurelia drew in a sharp breath.

  Bastet nodded. “The women of my tribe, my lord, can recognize clues as to whether the unborn child is a boy or a girl. We’ve been doing it for ages. I’m sure my lady is bearing a little Calpurnia.”

  And I was sure that would be a disappointment to Calpurnius, as it would to any man.

  †

  As we ate, Tacitus, Aurelia, and I reminisced about the circumstances under which we first met. Recalling what had been a perilous few days seemed to distract Aurelia from her current worries. Bastet had not heard the story. She asked questions with a freedom that made me wonder about her standing in this household. She wasn’t old enough to have been Calpurnius’ nurse when he was a child.

  When Bastet went to use the latrina, I decided to satisfy my curiosity. “Is she slave or free?” I asked Aurelia.

  “She is freed. Calpurnius emancipated her several years ago after she cared for his mother for a number of years. She was the only one with his mother when she died.”

  I pondered that but said, “She’s been in the household for a time then?”

  “Calpurnius brought her back with him when he returned from his service with the army in Egypt.”

  “She seems to have a favored status in your house.” Sometimes a favorite servant is treated like a family member—given the privilege of sitting with the family or speaking without being spoken to. We spend so much time with our servants that it’s difficult not to regard some of them as special friends. Seneca claimed that he allowed his servants to recline at meals with him. I treat mine humanely, I believe, but I do try to maintain a sense of separateness between us. Without that, we would have anarchy. With it, we have a dilemma such as Aurora presents to me.

  “I suppose she is a favorite,” Aurelia said. “She was a princess in her own tribe, she says. That’s why she wears that scarf around her head. No one has ever seen her without it.”

  “Not even when she bathes?” Tacitus asked.

  “She doesn’t bathe with the other servants. She says that, among her tribe, it is improper for a woman to bare herself before anyone but her husband. She bathes in her room.” There was something guarded about Aurelia’s voice.

  “I think you don’t quite trust her,” I said.

  “I’ve never been able to relax around her.” Aurelia glanced to see if Bastet was within earshot. “There’s something imperious about her that sometimes feels…sinister. Even though she’s been freed, she still calls us ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady,’ as though she were still a slave. It feels…sarcastic. She’s a very wise woman, and I’m not sure I could have gotten through this child-bearing without her by my side. I appreciate her, but I’m uncertain how much I trust her.”

  “Just be careful that you don’t create resentment among your other servants. While I treat my servants kindly, I don’t believe it’s a good idea to allow one to assume a much higher position than the rest. It can create jealousy and resentment among those who aren’t favored.”

  Tacitus snorted. “Interesting, coming from a man who gives one of his female slaves more freedom than most men give their wives.”

  Bastet’s return from the latrina put an end to the exchange. And what could I have said? Tacitus knew that Aurora served as my eyes and ears in places where I could not go, but I didn’t want to announce that to the world. A spy isn’t of much use if everyone knows she’s a spy. And yet, could I admit that, at that moment, I did not know where Aurora was or what her intentions were? If she had run away, I would have to find her and bring her back, to punish her and to warn all my other slaves. The typical punishment for a fugitive slave was to have FUG branded on the forehead. Could I do that to Aurora?

  When Thamyras arrived with our servants and other belongings we concluded our dinner and tended to unpacking and getting everyone fed. Or, more precisely, we left Aurelia and her servants to see to those tasks.

  “Before it gets completely dark,” I told Thamyras, “I want to see where Amalthea’s body was found.”

  “Certainly, my lord. It’s this way.”

  Taking a torch, he led us out the front entrance of the house and turned left. The orchard occupied all the space between Aurelia’s house and the next one up the road.

  “We grow apples up here, my lord,” Thamyras said, waving a hand, “and olives closer down to the shore, though they’re farther from the water than they used to be. That’s true all around the bay, of course. There’s grapevines on the other side of the house. It was all planted before I came here,” he added as though to forestall any criticism of the arrangement that we might make. “And the trees are much closer together than they should be. The one that Amalthea marked is over here.”

  He led us to a tree—one of the oldest in the orchard, to judge from its size—that was far enough away from the house to be out of sight due to all the intervening foliage. Only a few paces from it sat a grotesque herm marking the boundary between Aurelia’s land and the neighbor’s. The ash had been dug away from around the ugly little statue so that it didn’t have to be moved. His spot was now the lowest in the orchard.

  “There’s what she carved, my lord.” He rubbed his hand on the trunk of the tree.

  “All right. Thank you.” I took the torch from him. “You can go on back to the house now. Tell the lady Aurelia we’ll be in shortly.”

  “Do you not need me to show you anything else, my lord?”

  “This is all we need. Go back to the house.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tacitus gave me an odd look and started to say something, but I held up my hand to stop him until I was confident Thamyras was far enough away not to hear us.

  “Why didn’t you want him here?” he asked.

  “We just arrived. Our luggage isn’t even unpacked. I’m not sure yet whom to trust. You know how servants spread tales in a house. I don’t want everyone to know what we know, almost as soon
as we know it, especially if someone in this house is involved in whatever’s going on.”

  “Do you think someone might be?”

  “I think we’d better assume that anyone in this house could have wielded a knife out here. Now let’s look at this mark.”

  The mark was on the east side of the tree. Logical enough, since Amalthea came out here in the early morning. With the sun now low in the sky to the west, though, it was difficult to make it out, even with the torch. I ran my finger over it and then Tacitus did the same. The carving was the simplest outline of a fish one could make.

  “Why would somebody carve a fish on a tree?” I asked.

  “And what’s that below it?” Tacitus ran a hand down the trunk of the tree. “Is it writing?”

  I had to peer in closely to make out the letters carved vertically beneath the symbol. “It’s the Greek word for fish. If you’ve carved a fish, why would you then carve the word for fish right below it?”

  “I’m surprised she even knew it,” Tacitus said.

  “A woman who worked in a kitchen in this part of Italy would have heard it, I imagine.”

  “But was she literate?”

  “Not highly.” I traced the word with my finger. “The letters are crude.”

  “This is an odd place to practice her writing.”

  “We’ll ask about her education when we get back to the house. Now I want to look around this spot before it gets dark.”

  The ash from Vesuvius had made the ground crusty, so we could see the footprints of the people who had carried the dead woman away, but everything close to the tree, where she must have been killed, was a confused mess of impressions made by people milling around and moving the body.

  “Widen the search,” I said. “Make larger circles around the tree.”