Death in the Ashes

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  Thamyras drew his horse to a halt. Tacitus and I stopped beside him.

  “How did you guess, my lord?” I could see the pain on his face.

  “I didn’t have to guess. Your voice fell. Your shoulders sagged. That great sadness was written all over you.”

  “I can’t help it, my lord. I fell in love with her the day she came into the house. It was about six months before the eruption. And she loved me. I thought we would be together for the rest of our lives.”

  “What was her name?” Tacitus asked.

  “She was called Proxena, my lord.”

  “Did Calpurnius allow you to marry her?” I grant my own slaves the right to marry and to make wills. I would never sell a slave who was the spouse of another of my servants.

  “No, my lord, he didn’t. But we lived together as man and wife.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, my lord. Calpurnius sold the first batch of his slaves to a dealer…a few months after the eruption. They were the ones he’d bought most recently. She could be anywhere by now. I just hope she’s in a household and not in a…a whorehouse.” His voice broke as he said the last word. The memory of Proxena must have been as fresh to him as though she had gotten out of his bed that morning, not five years ago.

  How does the memory of a certain woman insinuate itself into a man’s mind so deeply that he cannot eradicate it? And yet other women leave no impression. I had met my bride-to-be, Livia, several times, but at this moment I could not recall the color of her hair or eyes, only that she had a high forehead. And yet I could see Aurora as though she were standing in front of me and the light pressure of the Tyche ring on my chest made her seem all the more real. I had not willed myself to think this way about Aurora—no man of my class, in his right mind, falls in love with a slave—and I knew I had to marry Livia. There were other women with whom I had been intimate. I had never even come close to that with Aurora, but she was the only woman I could picture at the moment, or imagine myself spending my life with.

  I patted Thamyras on his shoulder. While he lowered his head and wiped his tears I studied our surroundings, to get my mind off Aurora. Even in the few miles we had traveled the world had turned greener, though still a pale green, like the merest hint of color a modest woman would put over her eyes.

  “You must really hate Calpurnius,” Tacitus said.

  “What, my lord? Hate him?” Thamyras fought to recover his composure. “No, I can’t do that. You masters…have the right to sell…your property.”

  I kicked my horse in the ribs to get him moving again. The other horses followed his lead. “It sounds to me as though Calpurnius needed money. Is that why he started selling his slaves?”

  Thamyras shook his head. “I don’t know, my lord. My work is in the gardens. I’m not one he consults about his finances.”

  “Whom does he consult?”

  “No one, really, my lord. He’s very close about his money. There is one freedman, Diomedes, who assists him.”

  So Diomedes would be a man we’d have to talk to when we returned to Aurelia’s house.

  “Why hasn’t Calpurnius freed you?” Tacitus asked. It was the question I was about to ask. Emancipating a slave who has grown up alongside the master is a common practice—something I should consider for Aurora—and freedom might have taken some of the sting out of Thamyras’ loss of his woman, just as it might make it easier for Aurora to accept that I cannot marry her.

  “I’ve not…asked him to, my lord,” Thamyras said. “I’m sure he will when the time is right. All in all, he’s a kind man. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, whether I was slave or free.”

  †

  We were on the outskirts of Naples now, passing the Necropolis with its tombs and monuments. Some of the older ones were still partially covered by the ash, probably because the deceased had no more family to care for the tomb. Ashes covered by ash—the image struck me as ironic, though I meant no disrespect to the dead.

  “I need to stop for a moment,” Tacitus said. “And there’s a stone I can use to mount again.”

  He dismounted and stepped behind one of the larger tombs. It’s common practice for travelers to relieve themselves in the shadows of a Necropolis. This one was unusually large, offering lots of privacy. Tacitus returned with a smile on his face.

  “I must have found the favorite spot for people around here. On the back of that big limestone monument someone has scratched, ‘Stranger, please don’t piss on my grave.’ ”

  “That one does provide the most cover,” I said.

  “Some of these tumbled ones look rather old,” Tacitus said, “even older than the time of the eruption.”

  “There was a huge earthquake in this area the year I was born,” I said. “That was seventeen years before the eruption. Those monuments must have been damaged then.”

  “I wonder if there was any connection between that earthquake and the eruption,” Tacitus said.

  “How could there have been? Seventeen years is a long time.”

  Tacitus looked over his shoulder at Vesuvius. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Where people had uncovered their stones they had piled some of the ash against the neglected burials. The newer tombs sat higher, some as much as a cubit.

  With our journey nearing its end I wanted to ask some more questions of Thamyras while I still had the time. “The lady Aurelia says she has noticed a change in her husband over the past few months. He often goes away for hours, and she doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Do you know where he goes? What he does?”

  Thamyras pondered before he replied. “No, my lord, I don’t. As I said, my work is mostly in the garden and the grounds, so he doesn’t confide in me about his comings and goings.”

  “Does he walk or ride?”

  “He rides, my lord. At least when I’ve seen him leaving.”

  “So he must be going some distance. Which direction does he go?”

  “Toward Naples, my lord. There’s no point in going south.”

  “Does he take anyone with him?”

  “Not that I’ve seen, my lord.”

  Tacitus and I looked at one another in surprise. For a man of Calpurnius’ class—our class—to venture out unaccompanied would be most unusual, not to mention dangerous.

  IX

  We Romans have controlled Naples for several hundred years—the city withstood a siege by Hannibal—but it still feels like the Greek city it originally was—Neapolis, Newtown. It was laid out on the grid pattern that makes most Greek cities in southern Italy so attractive and so easy to get around in, unlike Rome, which grew up randomly, without any planning except what was driven by greed.

  The vigiles’ headquarters where Calpurnius was being held sat on the main road by which we entered the southernmost gate of Naples. Just ahead of us I could see a bath, which I intended to visit after we talked to Calpurnius. We hadn’t bathed yesterday on the ship, and it was too late to bathe when we arrived at Aurelia’s villa. This morning I had washed off and put on a clean tunic, but that was no substitute for a real bath.

  The vigiles’ building must have originally been a large taberna. The main room had been cut up into smaller rooms, but the counter at which food had been sold was still visible and the bits of wall paintings that I could see were the sort of thing one finds in a food-shop. The commander of the day watch—a gray-haired and grizzled former legionary, to judge by his demeanor—introduced himself as Novatus but greeted us with something less than enthusiasm.

  “Why do you want to see him?” he asked when I told him what we wanted. “He won’t talk to anybody.”

  “I promised his wife I would talk to him,” I said, “and we’ve brought him some fresh clothes.”

  “That’ll be welcome,” Novatus said, “for him as well as for us. The tunic he was wearing when they brought him in is getting a bit ripe.”

  “His servant also brought a razor. A shave might make him feel
better.”

  Novatus shook his head. “You’ll have to leave that here. I can’t let you shave him unless it’s done in front of me. And your other men will have to wait out here.”

  Thamyras deposited the bag containing the razor on the counter where people used to get their food. I hoped Tacitus and I did not give away, by our expressions, the fact that we were armed. Novatus made the assumption that people always do—that men of our class depend on our servants to protect us and so don’t carry weapons.

  Swinging the short rod that was the symbol of his office, Novatus led the three of us through what had been the kitchen to some storage rooms at the back of the building. The buckets used to fight fires were stacked along one wall. On the opposite wall stood a collection of swords and spears. The doors of three of the storage rooms had been removed and replaced with iron bars that ran from top to bottom of the door frame, with a small opening at the bottom to allow containers to be passed through. Only one of the cells was occupied.

  Calpurnius, his head in his hands, sat on a rickety bed. If the covering on it had ever had a color, it was lost under dirt and stains that I would not want to try to identify.

  “Visitors,” Novatus said, rapping the bars with his rod.

  Calpurnius looked up slowly, as though trying to comprehend the word. “I don’t want any visitors.”

  “Well, you’ve got ’em.”

  “Where can we talk to him?” I asked.

  “Right here,” Novatus said.

  I looked around. “But there’s no privacy.”

  Novatus grasped one of the bars. “We’ll open this door when we’re told to bring him to trial. Until then, he stays on that side and you stay on this side…sir.”

  When Novatus was out of sight I told Thamyras to watch and let us know if anyone came into this part of the building. Calpurnius was standing up now. He was a tall, thin man in his forties, whose natural gauntness was heightened by his need for a shave and a good meal.

  “Gaius Pliny? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Calpurnius. I’ve come to help you.”

  “No, no. This is terrible. You’ve got to leave right away.” Shaking his head, he grabbed the bars, more to hold himself up than to try to force them open.

  “Look at his arms,” I told Tacitus. “No scratches.”

  Calpurnius looked at his own arms and back at me. “What? What are you talking about?” His voice was thick and slow.

  “Amalthea scratched the person who killed her. I didn’t think you did it, but now I know for certain that you’re innocent.”

  “Get out of here!” Calpurnius waved an unscathed arm to send us away. “You’ve got to get out of here before they know you’ve talked to me.”

  “ ‘They’? Who are ‘they’?”

  “The people who will harm my wife and child if they find out you’ve been here.”

  “Someone tried to kidnap her last night,” Tacitus said. “Fortunately we were there and stopped them.”

  I glared at him but didn’t say anything about the “we.”

  “No, don’t you see?” Calpurnius’ voice was growing desperate. “They tried because they knew you were there. Oh, gods, it’s hopeless.”

  “Calpurnius,” I said, “you’re not making any sense. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you, Gaius Pliny. If I did, you would be in as much danger as my family and I already are. Just go away. That’s the best thing you can do for us. The only thing.”

  I took a step toward the bars and waited until Calpurnius’ eyes found mine. Then I asked, “Do you know a man who is missing the small finger on his right hand?”

  Calpurnius sank to his knees, still gripping the iron bars. “It’s too late, then.”

  “No, it isn’t, Calpurnius. I can help you. I know you didn’t kill Amalthea. There are no scratches on your arms, no blood on your clothes—”

  “Of course I didn’t kill her, but that doesn’t matter.” With his head down, I could hardly hear him.

  “What were you doing out in the orchard so early in the morning?”

  He looked up, like a man pleading for mercy. “I’d had a message the day before, telling me to be there, where the herm is, at the first hour.”

  “A message from whom?”

  “I can’t tell you, Gaius Pliny. I really can’t.”

  I decided not to press that point for now. “Why would you do what the message said?”

  Calpurnius got up off the floor and sat on the bed, with his hands clasped between his knees, his head down. “Because I’m being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed? By whom?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Tacitus asked.

  “I can’t, because I don’t know who’s doing it.”

  “But you knew the message was from the blackmailer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “Because it contained a code word that only they and I could know.”

  I knew there was no point in asking him what the code word was. “What did you do when you got to the herm?”

  “I called quietly, but no one answered. Then I saw a pair of feet sticking out from behind the statue. When I looked more closely, I saw Amalthea.”

  “Where was the knife?”

  “On the ground beside her.”

  “You picked it up. Why did you do that?”

  “Because I heard a noise—a movement, I guess. I was afraid and the knife was the only weapon at hand.”

  “You don’t carry a weapon?”

  He snorted. “In my own house? Why would I?”

  “Do you know who made the noise?”

  He gestured to his servant. “It turned out to be Thamyras, coming out to work.” The slave nodded.

  “Could you tell if Amalthea was still alive?”

  “I don’t believe she was. She didn’t move or make any sound.”

  “Thamyras says you sent him to get help. Why did you do that?”

  “It just seemed the thing to do. There was blood all over her.”

  “Did you know—”

  “Gaius Pliny, I barely knew the woman.” His patience was wearing thin. “She was part of my wife’s household. Are you aware that I’m living in my wife’s—”

  “Yes. Aurelia explained the situation.”

  “So, you see, a woman like Amalthea—a kitchen servant—is someone I haven’t spoken to more than half a dozen times in the year I’ve been living in the house. I have no idea why she was out there.”

  “She was in the habit of going there every morning,” Tacitus said, “before she began her work in the kitchen.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that.” He straightened up as he seemed to gather some last bit of resolve. “Now, you simply must leave. And I mean leave my house, leave Naples. Leave my family alone before you do more damage than you’ve already done.”

  “We’re only trying to help,” I said. “If you’ll tell us—”

  “I will not say another word to you.” Calpurnius flung himself on the bed, with his face to the wall.

  Tacitus and I looked at one another. “I guess we’ve gotten all we’re going to get out of him,” Tacitus said. “And I don’t think he wants a shave.”

  “If you decide to tell us any more,” I said to Calpurnius’ back, “ask your jailer to send a messenger to us. I’ll leave him something that should make him amenable to such a request. Oh, and Thamyras brought you a clean tunic.” I draped the garment over one of the bars. Calpurnius did not respond.

  We worked our way back to the front of the jail and retrieved Thamyras’ razor. Novatus’ face brightened into a crooked smile as I placed some coins in his hand. “Make sure he’s comfortable,” I said.

  “This should buy a lot of comfort, sir.”

  “For Calpurnius.” I clinked a last coin into his hand.

  “Of course, sir.” His hand closed around the money, into a fist that I would not want to ha
ve aimed at my jaw. “For Calpurnius.”

  “Has he said anything to you about what happened?” I asked, leaning back a little.

  “No, sir. He won’t say a word. Won’t even deny that he killed the girl.”

  “He didn’t. You can be sure of that. Has anyone else tried to see him?”

  “His father did come by here.” Novatus fished a key on a leather strap from around his neck and unlocked a box sitting on the counter. He opened the lid enough for me to see that my coins would not be lonely in there.

  “His father is still alive?” I hadn’t heard anything more about Calpurnius’ father since the wedding. He’d seemed elderly then.

  “Yes, sir. Old Fabatus is along in years, but still active. He lives a couple of miles west of town, on the road to Puteoli.”

  “Did Calpurnius talk to him?”

  “No, sir. He told me not to let the old man come back there.” As Novatus returned his key to its place of safety I sensed, from the set of his jaw, that he had closed the conversation as securely as he had his strongbox.

  “Thank you…for your assistance.”

  We squinted at the bright sunlight as we emerged from the jail. Our servants brought our horses and helped us mount. Tacitus turned his horse toward the gate through which we had entered Naples. I followed him until I thought we were out of earshot of the jail, then stopped.

  “Did you forget something?” Tacitus asked. “Oh, yes, you wanted a bath.”

  “No, that will have to wait. As long as we’ve come this far, I think we should go visit Calpurnius’ father.”

  “Why? He wasn’t there when the girl was killed. And he didn’t talk to Calpurnius.”

  I nodded. “But he may help us understand why Calpurnius is behaving so oddly. Thamyras, I assume you know the way to the house.”

  The slave’s face darkened. “Yes, my lord, but I don’t think you should bother the old man.”

  “Why not?”

  “Meaning no disrespect, my lord, but there’s some things I’d rather not talk about.”

  I turned my horse so that I was facing Thamyras. “By the gods, man! I’ve gone to considerable trouble and expense to respond to the lady Aurelia’s request for help. But every way I turn, someone says they won’t tell me something or there’s something I can’t know or somebody I can’t see.” Passersby were starting to stare, so I lowered my voice. “The more you tell me that I can’t see him, the more determined I am to do precisely that. Now, we are going out to Calpurnius Fabatus’ house. And you are going to show us the way. Is that clear?”