Death in the Ashes

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  “Yes, my lord.” Thamyras turned his horse onto a street leading west and the rest of us followed him. “Very clear.”

  †

  Our route took us through a tunnel over seven hundred paces long. Augustus built it to make the route between Naples and Puteoli shorter and more direct. The hills around Naples run down to the coast and the old road to Puteoli winds along the shore. The tunnel cuts through the hills and rejoins the road as it begins to straighten out. It’s the longest of three tunnels Augustus built in this area. It’s wide enough for two carts to pass one another, and the slope of the roadway from end to end is so gentle as to be hardly noticeable.

  By the time we reached the western end of the tunnel I was regretting my outburst. But my impatience had not abated, even if my anger at Thamyras had. Never had I known people so reluctant to answer questions, let alone volunteer information. Were they trying to protect someone? If so, whom? Against what?

  It was difficult to keep my focus on the problems before me, though, because the scenery along the road was so enticing. Over the roofs of the houses to our left I could see the bay itself, as placid as though it had never been roiled by earthquakes or eruptions. The foliage on the trees we passed did not yet show any signs of autumn. This far south in Italy that season comes late and practically undetected, slipping in like a wayward servant in the middle of the night. You wake up one morning and wonder how it got there without your noticing it. I prefer the crisp decisiveness of autumn farther north, in my native Comum at the foot of the Alps.

  After we had ridden a mile or more I decided to see if I could get Thamyras to open up about someone he probably didn’t know well as Calpurnius. Maybe he wouldn’t be so protective.

  “Can you tell me any more about why Amalthea would have been out in the orchard so early in the morning?” I asked. “Did she pray to the herm?” People sometimes make little offerings to a herm, but I’d never known anyone to go to the trouble of getting up early to ask a favor of one, which is what prayers usually amount to.

  “No, my lord. She went out to pray to her god.”

  “Which god was that?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  “Did you ever ask her what the fish meant? Was it a sign of her god?”

  “I believe it was, my lord. I chewed her out good for putting it there. I don’t like people carving in my trees, even if she did it before I came here with my lord Calpurnius. I told her not to do it anymore. It’s not good for the trees, and they’re having a hard enough time recovering from the eruption.”

  “Why carve a fish on a tree?” Tacitus asked.

  “I don’t know, my lord. To worship Neptune perhaps.”

  “Were others in the household aware of what she was doing? Was the lady Aurelia aware of her strange behavior?”

  “I think so, my lord.”

  “Did she do anything about it? Reprimand her?”

  “What should she do, my lord? Amalthea did her work and didn’t cause any trouble. She was a bit simple, but she worked hard.”

  “Do you pray to any gods, Thamyras?” I asked.

  He didn’t seem startled by the question. “No, my lord. For a while I prayed to Venus and to Mercury to bring Proxena back to me. Since they watch over lovers and travelers, they seemed a likely pair. But it did no good, so I don’t do that any more. The gods, if there be such, don’t seem to have much interest in what we humans do.”

  I certainly sympathized, but I didn’t say anything. It’s not a good idea to reveal too much of what one thinks to a slave. But, if you can’t reveal to her what you’re thinking… An intense longing for Aurora suddenly surged over me, so strong I had to tighten my grip on the reins and squeeze my knees against the horse’s sides. Where was she? Was she safe? Perhaps I should offer prayers to Venus and Mercury.

  “Are you all right?” Tacitus asked, reaching over to put a hand on my arm.

  I shook my head to clear it. “I’m fine. How much farther is it to Fabatus’ house?” I asked Thamyras.

  “We turn at the next road, my lord. Then it’s just a short bit.”

  X

  Fabatus’ house sat close to the road, as though inviting visitors. The trees shading it appeared to have survived the eruption as well as any in the area. The plaster and paint on the two-storied walls were fresh. As soon as we turned off the road we were spotted by two boys playing in front of the house. One called out, “Papa!” bringing a heavyset servant to the front door.

  “May I help you, sirs?” he asked.

  We dismounted, handing the reins to our servants. “I’d like to speak with Calpurnius Fabatus,” I said. “I’m Gaius Pliny and this is Cornelius Tacitus.”

  “Please come in,” the servant said, standing aside. “I am Stentor, doorkeeper for Calpurnius Fabatus.”

  I wondered if his voice was as loud as the mythical character for whom he was named. Servants are sometimes given names based on a characteristic which they embody, and sometimes on a characteristic which they noticeably lack, if the master has an ironic sense of humor.

  “Greetings, Thamyras,” Stentor said quietly as we entered the house. “It’s been a while since we saw you here.” Then he addressed us. “Now, if you gentlemen will wait here, I’ll inform my master of your arrival.”

  We had only a moment to admire the decorations in the atrium. The typical Roman exterior of the house did nothing to prepare one for these frescoes, which depicted scenes from Egypt. The Nile seemed to flow around the atrium, with pyramids and a sphinx in the background on the wall to our left and boats and river creatures on the wall to our right.

  “Is Pliny really here?” a jovial voice said just before Fabatus came into view, with Stentor on his heels. Calpurnius’ father looked just as I remembered him from the wedding—old but robust, with a full head of white hair and his skin unwrinkled. His tunic, though Roman in style, had a border of Egyptian symbols.

  “What a pleasure to see you again, sir,” I said. “May I introduce my friend, Cornelius Tacitus?”

  “Welcome,” Fabatus said, extending his hand to Tacitus and then to me. “Please, let’s go sit in the garden and have something to drink. The way this damned ash gets into everything, I feel like I’m always thirsty. Stentor, be sure their servants and horses are tended to.” He walked ahead of us toward the back of the house.

  Fabatus’ house was small, the home of a man who did not want to draw attention to himself. The second story served as an extra level of protection to shield the interior from prying eyes. The garden, though, showed that, within the safe confines of that modest house, he paid close attention to details. Each plant had been chosen and placed not only to show it to best advantage but also to draw the eye to the few pieces of sculpture that decorated the garden. They all looked ­Egyptian.

  “I don’t think these are copies,” Tacitus muttered to me.

  Fabatus’ hearing was not that of an old man. He turned back toward us, a smile playing on his lips. “No, I don’t buy copies. I’ve been fascinated by Egypt since I lived there when my father was on the governor’s staff. Have either of you ever been there?”

  Tacitus and I shook our heads. Fabatus’ family came from near my hometown of Comum, but they had traveled much more widely than my family had, or Tacitus’ for that matter.

  “You really must go. And by Egypt I don’t mean Alexandria—that cesspool of bastardized Greeks. Go up the Nile. See the real Egypt. Their skill in building astounds me. The pyramids, by the gods, the pyramids—you simply cannot fathom them until you’ve stood in front of them.”

  “We passed the tomb of Cestius as we left Rome,” Tacitus said.

  About a hundred years ago Gaius Cestius’ heirs had built, in accordance with his will, a pyramid for his tomb on the outskirts of Rome. At that time Egypt, which had just recently been conquered, was all the rage in the city. Augustus even hauled a huge obelisk across the Mediterranean and erected it in the Circus Maximus.

  Fabatus chuckled. “Ah,
yes, Cestius’ tomb. An amusing trifle. The grandest pyramids in Egypt are four times that size.” He stretched his arms as far apart as he could.

  My eyebrows arched. Cestius’ tomb is one of the tallest structures in Rome. I could not visualize something four times as large. It must rival Vesuvius.

  “And the antiquity of Egypt,” Fabatus continued to rhapsodize, “is almost incomprehensible. Herodotus was there five hundred years ago. I’m sure you’ve read his account. When he stood in front of the pyramids, they were at least two thousand years old. The Egyptians built those pyramids when we Romans were hardly more than wild animals, still shitting behind bushes and dragging our bottoms on the ground to clean ourselves.” He placed his hand on a statue that occupied the center of the garden, where the walkways crossed. “The man who sold me this assured me it was carved over two thousand years ago. Could a Roman—or a Greek—have produced anything like this at that time? Can we really equal it today?”

  The statue of which he was so proud showed a man and a woman standing side by side. The woman had her right arm around the man at his waist. The man’s left arm went around the woman’s neck and draped down so that his hand covered her left breast. The woman wore a gown that reached from her shoulders to below her knees and clung to her figure. The man wore a garment that looked like what I would wear in the bath, a towel wrapped around his waist and extending to his knees. The whole piece, including the base, which bore Egyptian symbols, came to just above Fabatus’ own waist.

  “Isn’t it magnificent?” Fabatus said.

  To me the statue looked crude, the poses stiff and awkward. “There is certainly an…elegance to it.” That was as close to a compliment as I could honestly come.

  Tacitus stepped closer to the piece and bent over to examine it. “It’s interesting to see that men were groping women two thousand years ago. Some things never change, I suppose.”

  Fabatus’ displeasure at the insult to his treasure flashed across his face. If we were going to get anything helpful from him, I had to get back on his good side. I slapped Tacitus on the shoulder. “If it’s not a statue or a picture of people coupling, you don’t think it’s art, do you?”

  Fabatus’ eyes twinkled. “Now, if that’s your style, Cornelius Tacitus, the Egyptians were just as frank as we Romans. I keep that part of my collection inside, though, so as not to offend my sister. I’ll show it to you later. Even if you can’t read the writing, you’ll especially like the books, I think. They’re illustrated.”

  We followed him to the exhedra at the end of the garden and took our places on the couches. His servants were setting fruit, bread, and wine on the table under the supervision of a woman of about thirty-five. Her dress, made from linen and adorned with some of the same symbols we’d seen on the statue, was even more Egyptian than Fabatus’. It revealed the outline of a lovely figure. From the way she carried herself, I knew the woman was not a servant.

  “This is Sabina,” Fabatus said.

  I was surprised by the lack of any identification. Was she his wife? A freedwoman?

  Sabina acknowledged us with a nod of her head. “Welcome, gentlemen. Gaius Pliny, I’m sorry I did not get to meet you at Calpurnius’ and Aurelia’s wedding. I was ill at the time.”

  “I’m glad to see you looking so well now,” I said. She was indeed attractive. Her makeup, done in the Egyptian style with dark coloring around her eyes, gave her a seductive quality. Her hair was cut in a style one sees in images of Cleopatra—straight across the forehead and squared around the neck. She sat on the foot of Fabatus’ couch and put her hand on his leg. The glance that passed between them could have been one Cleopatra gave Caesar—or Marc Antony.

  Sabina poured some wine for us and I took a sip. Fabatus was right about the ash; my throat was dry.

  “Now,” Fabatus said, “it is a pleasure to see you again, Gaius Pliny. My daughter tells me that she misses seeing your mother, now that you don’t spend as much time in Misenum as you used to.”

  “My mother’s reaction to the eruption of Vesuvius is what keeps us away. She was delighted to see your daughter at the wedding last year. She was much relieved that it was held in your house in Rome so she did not have to come down here. Frankly, so was I.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re not the only one. Our changed conditions down here have made the area much less enticing to visitors than it was five years ago. The mineral baths and such places that depend on traffic from Rome are suffering. I’m sorry that my son’s difficulties have made it necessary for you to make the trip.”

  “Considering the friendship between our families, I’m only too willing to offer whatever help I can.” I was exaggerating a bit. Except for my mother’s friendship with Fabatus’ daughter, Calpurnia Hispulla, there was no close connection between our families.

  “It’s kind of you to say so.” Fabatus raised his cup to me. “But for you Aurelia is the one who really matters, isn’t she?”

  I felt myself blushing.

  “It’s all right. Her grandfather told me the whole story. You risked your life to save her and reunite her with her family.”

  I didn’t want to drag that story out again. “Aurelia sent and asked me to help her husband.”

  “I’m glad she did. And I’m glad you’re here, for whatever motive. My son seems to have no interest in helping himself. I’m not sure he even wants to live to see his child born. I’m certainly looking forward to having a grandchild. A grandson, I hope. That’s our only hope for keeping the family name alive.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that Bastet had predicted the child would be a girl. No sense dashing his hopes.

  Tacitus put his cup down. “Her nurse predicts the child will be a girl.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sabina sneered. “Bastet and her nonsense.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” I said, glaring across the table at Tacitus, a wasted gesture since he was dividing his attention between a bowl of figs and Sabina’s body.

  “I’ve never understood my uncle’s devotion to that woman,” Sabina added.

  “Nor do I,” Fabatus said. “He brought her—and little else—back from Egypt when he served as a military tribune there. Beyond tending to my wife in her last days, she contributed little to the household. She claims to be some sort of princess and still acts like one. She’s not Egyptian, you know; she’s Nubian.”

  “Is there a difference?” Tacitus asked. “I thought Nubia was a province of Egypt.”

  “And Egypt is a province of Rome,” Fabatus said, “but that doesn’t make Egyptians Roman. When Calpurnius married, she was the first of the slaves that he picked to move with him to his new household, and she chose the others he would take. I was relieved to see her go.” He picked up a date.

  Sabina stepped in while Fabatus’ mouth was full. “On a more pleasant topic, I trust my aunt Aurelia is well.”

  “Yes, she is. She’s anxious for her husband, but otherwise well.”

  Fabatus was ready to get back into the conversation. “I tell you, that girl is a prize. I was overjoyed when Manilius Quadratus asked me to consider a marriage between our children. Puzzled, too, though. My family is far less distinguished than his and has been under a shadow since Nero’s day.”

  “Some of us are proud to say that we offended Nero, sir. My uncle withdrew from public service rather than hold office under him.”

  “Yes. I’ve always admired old Secundus for that. But he wasn’t accused of knowing something about Calpurnius Piso’s plot against Nero and about the infidelities of Nero’s aunt Lepida.”

  “Is there a connection,” Tacitus asked, “between your family and Piso’s?”

  “We’re only distant relatives,” Fabatus said. “But to Nero’s mind one Calpurnius was as good as another.”

  “The charge against you wasn’t pursued,” Tacitus said. “At least that’s what I’ve read in the history that Gaius Pliny’s uncle wrote.”

  Fabatus watched the memories swirl around in his cup a
nd sighed heavily. “You’re right. It became clear that witnesses had been bribed or coerced. Nero would have been embarrassed to prosecute me on such flimsy evidence and have me acquitted. But I learned that I had no stomach for public life.”

  “Your son hasn’t pursued a career either,” I said, hoping to get us back to my main concern.

  “He’s never shown the inclination or the aptitude,” Fabatus said. “He’s done a good job of running our family enterprises, though. The boy does have a head for business.”

  “But you’re the paterfamilias,” Tacitus said. “Don’t you oversee what he does?”

  “I emancipated him and handed everything over to him six years ago, when my wife died. I felt like a fire went out in me when that happened. Now I’d rather be free to travel. We were planning another trip to Egypt until this dreadful business came up.” He squeezed Sabina’s hand.

  We were almost back on track. “So you don’t know the current state of your son’s business affairs?”

  “All I know is that he maintains my household at a level that satisfies me, so things must be going well for him.”

  Or, I thought, he’s siphoning money from somewhere else to make it appear that everything is all right. “Can you think of any reason, then, for Calpurnius to be acting the way he is?”

  Fabatus shook his head slowly, like a man who wishes he could explain the course of human history but can’t even understand what happened to him yesterday. “He baffles me. He wouldn’t even talk to me when I went to visit him in jail yesterday.”

  “Do you know of any reason he might have had to kill that woman?”

  “Gaius Pliny, I’ve looked at it from every angle I can imagine, and I cannot come up with an explanation, not even a far-fetched one.”