Death in the Ashes

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t know what to believe right now. I can’t see any connection between the death of a servant in the orchard and an attack on Aurelia and this alleged blackmail. Until I can make a connection, the only thing I’m concerned about is protecting Aurelia.”

  “But you have to get back to Rome in a few days. Are you going to come back down here afterwards if you haven’t resolved this matter?”

  I shook my head. “If we can’t settle it in the time we have, I doubt we’ll ever get to the bottom of it. Trails grow cold. People’s memories fade.”

  “What about the threat to Aurelia?”

  “I’ll take her back to Rome with me if I have to.”

  “As close as she is to giving birth?” Tacitus threw his head back and laughed. “You might find yourself playing midwife on the journey.”

  †

  Earthquakes seem to have a center, where the most damage occurs, and then to be weaker as the waves spread out from that center, much like a whirlpool. In this case the south side of Naples was the center. The farther we rode away from there, the less damage we saw and the more we—and our horses—began to relax.

  “Did your uncle write anything about earthquakes in his Natural History?” Tacitus asked after we had ridden in silence for a few ­moments.

  “As a matter of fact, he did, and it’s in one of the parts of the book that I happen to have read.” People expect me to have practically memorized all thirty-seven scrolls of my uncle’s greatest work, but it’s so vast and so oddly organized that it’s the sort of thing one consults rather than reads.

  “What did he say about them?”

  “Following a long list of authorities—all the way back to Aristotle and Anaximander—he believed they’re caused by wind blowing into underground chasms, just as the wind causes thunder.”

  Tacitus pondered for a moment. “I can see how that could be the case.”

  “He mentioned Naples as a spot that’s particularly vulnerable to them.”

  Tacitus looked around, nodding. “There certainly are a lot of grottoes around here, like Tiberius’ on the isle of Capri, where the wind could get underground.”

  I shook my head. “At the risk of disagreeing with my uncle and those other eminent authorities, I don’t find it a satisfactory explanation. How much wind would it take to shake the earth? Thunder is one thing. It has no physical substance. Moving the earth the way it was shaken today would take more wind than I can imagine.”

  “But the wind can tear a large tree out of the ground. And in Syria we saw how it could move sand and reshape the landscape overnight.”

  “But there was no wind to speak of today.” That silenced Tacitus.

  †

  By the time we reached Aurelia’s villa there was hardly a sign that anything had happened. Our horses were easier to control as we turned off the road onto the grounds of the villa. We were spotted long before we reached the entrance to the house. Aurelia, Bastet, and the servants we had appointed to watch Aurelia were waiting for us. Most of her other household servants hovered behind them.

  “Did you see Calpurnius?” Aurelia asked as soon as my feet touched the ground.

  “Yes, we did.”

  She waited for me to say more, but I didn’t. “Well? What did he say?”

  “Let’s talk inside.”

  “It’s bad news, isn’t it?” She grabbed my arm. Her other hand rested on her belly, as though she would cover her child’s ears.

  “I just want to talk privately, with as few people listening as possible.”

  I wished I could erase the anxiety from Aurelia’s face, but I didn’t want to say any more in front of the whole household. Thamyras would spread the tale soon enough, probably with Calpurnius ripping the bars out of the wall and flinging them aside, like Hercules. I just wanted to be sure Aurelia had the most accurate version.

  The library seemed the most private place and large enough for several of us. I steered Aurelia in that direction. Bastet, with her arm through Aurelia’s, got into the room before I could close the door. Once she was in I didn’t feel I could tell her to leave without causing an earthquake of sorts in the room. The woman did carry herself like a princess, even in the way she held her head, wrapped with the multi-colored scarf that could serve as a crown.

  “Gaius Pliny,” Aurelia said, seating herself on a scribe’s workbench, “you’re frightening me. Why all this secrecy? Is my husband all right?”

  “I believe he is, as I’ll tell you in a moment. First I need to ask you about something he said when we talked to him.”

  “You can ask me anything. You know that.”

  I didn’t think Aurelia would be able to answer this question, but I had to ask it. In some families the women manage the money or at least know how it is being managed. I even knew of cases where wives had diverted money for their own use from their husbands’ accounts. Cicero divorced his wife for doing just that. I didn’t think Aurelia was devious enough or knew enough about handling money—but an idea jolted me. What if someone in Calpurnius’ own family was blackmailing him? And what if he knew—

  “Gaius Pliny,” Aurelia said, “why are you looking at me like that? What do you want to ask me?”

  No, it couldn’t be. I took a deep breath and asked, “Did your husband tell you about any financial problems he’d run into lately?”

  Aurelia seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “Why, no. Calpurnius handles his own affairs and doesn’t share his dealings with me. Since his father emancipated him, he’s had complete control of his money and doesn’t like anyone looking over his shoulder. Why do you ask that?”

  “Just because of something he said.”

  “Well, I’m sure it doesn’t matter. Now, tell me if he’s all right.”

  Her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth as I told her the story of the earthquake and Calpurnius’ escape, putting as little emphasis as possible on the trail of blood. “As of a few hours ago,” I concluded, “he was alive and well enough to take advantage of his opportunity to flee. Beyond that I can’t say anything for certain.”

  “Where do you think he’ll go?” she asked. “Will he come here?”

  “I doubt he’ll risk that. He was very concerned about putting you and your child in danger. I believe he’ll go back to his own house.”

  Bastet cleared her throat. “You’re very wise, my lord. He loved that place like it was his own child.”

  I tried to ignore the woman’s intrusion and her attempt at flattery. “Tomorrow morning Tacitus and I will go down there and find him.”

  But would we be bringing an injured husband back to his wife or a dead man back to his widow?

  XII

  Are you sure you don’t want to go out to Calpurnius’ house now?” Tacitus asked as we sipped some wine on a bench in a shaded corner of the garden. “He might need our help.”

  I shook my head. “I’m willing to wait until morning. It’s late enough that I don’t want to be prowling around the place in the dark. While we have the time, I want to look at his financial records. They might give us some clue about what he’s hiding.”

  “I doubt that blackmailers give receipts.”

  I didn’t dignify that comment with a response. “Something’s wrong around here. For one thing, a man with Calpurnius’ wealth shouldn’t keep this poor a wine in his house.”

  Tacitus swirled his wine around in the cup. “You noticed it, too? I thought perhaps all this ash was making things taste bad.”

  “No, it’s the wine. It’s wretched. The spices they’ve put in it don’t even help.”

  Even more than the wine, the garden gave the impression of a household living beyond its resources, on the verge of ruin. In addition to the damaged and unrepaired fresco of Venus and Adonis that I had noticed earlier, I could now see missing or cracked roof tiles. If they weren’t replaced, water would find its way into the beams under them. Probably it already had and t
he beams were rotting, soon to collapse. The few flowering plants around us seemed to be struggling to stay upright as well. Their colors did little to dispel the air of gloom that hung over the whole place.

  “Here he comes,” Tacitus said.

  A man, not as tall as I am, approached us across the garden. His hair was gray but still thick, his back hunched as though from poring over accounts for a long time. Stopping in front of us, he bowed his head. “My lady said you wanted to see me, sirs.”

  “Are you Diomedes?” I asked. Aurelia had said she would send us the one servant—a freedman—whom Calpurnius trusted to help him keep track of his money.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “We want to examine Calpurnius’ financial records. The lady Aurelia says the room where they’re kept is always locked and only you and her husband have keys.”

  “That’s correct, sir.” He touched the leather strap that ran around his neck and under his tunic. I recognized the gesture—because I made it often to feel the Tyche ring—of a man reassuring himself that something precious is still close to his heart.

  “Which room is it?”

  Diomedes pointed to the middle door across the garden, the only one closed at the moment. “All of my lord’s records and his strongbox are in there.”

  “Then we need you to open it for us.”

  “But, sir, I’ve been given strict orders not to open that room or the strongbox. I have the keys only in case something happens to Calpurnius.”

  “Something has happened to him,” Tacitus said. “And we need to know why it’s happened.”

  Diomedes held out his hands as though pleading a case in court. “But, sir, what do his records have to do with it?”

  “We won’t know until we look into them,” I said. “You can stand there and watch us.”

  “Forgive my boldness, sir, but I’ve received explicit orders from Calpurnius, and I don’t believe it is your place to countermand them. I understand he’s no longer in prison, so I cannot violate his order until I know what has actually happened to him.”

  “What if your mistress told you to unlock the door?”

  Diomedes folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe she would do that, sir.”

  This household seemed to have more than its share of bold servants. I wondered if Aurelia, because of her own background, was too lenient on them, or if they still saw her as one of them. But the two boldest ones I’d met so far were from Calpurnius’ household and had been with Aurelia for only a year. This particular servant had just issued a challenge that I had to accept.

  “Let’s find out if she will.”

  With Diomedes sulking along behind us, Tacitus and I crossed the garden to Aurelia’s room. The door was open and we heard a woman’s moans coming from inside. She sounded as though she was in considerable pain.

  “By the gods!” Tacitus said. “Is she having the baby?”

  But the moans came from a servant woman, we discovered when we reached the room.

  “She cut her hand,” Aurelia said as she stepped out of the door. “It’s not as bad as she thinks it is. Bastet is sewing it up.”

  “So the woman is a princess and a doctor?” I said.

  Aurelia looked back into the room. “She seems to have many talents. A year ago she cut off the finger of one of the servants.” She waggled the little finger on her right hand. “It wasn’t recovering from an injury. It was red and swollen, and the redness was spreading. Bastet said the finger would have to be cut off or he would die.”

  I tried to keep my face from showing too much of the shock I felt. “Where is that servant now?”

  “Calpurnius sold him, along with some others, about six months ago. Why do you ask?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Tacitus and I had agreed not to reveal the detail of the missing finger so the men who had attacked Aurelia wouldn’t suspect we had any way to identify them.

  “It’s just his infernal curiosity,” Tacitus said. “He’s never satisfied until he knows the full story. I’m surprised he didn’t ask you the man’s name.”

  “Oh, it was Sychaeus.”

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there,” I said. “I hope Bastet doesn’t have to take this woman’s hand off. Now, can we talk with you out here?”

  Aurelia joined us and we moved to the center of the garden beside a fish pond now filled with ash. The sea creatures decorating the mosaic tile must have been choking. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Diomedes refuses to open the door to Calpurnius’ money room.” I felt like a child tattling on another.

  “Oh, is that why you wanted to see him?”

  “Yes. Why did you think we asked for him?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to him. I thought you just…wanted to ask him some questions.” Her hesitation flowed over into the way she glanced at Diomedes, who was standing behind me.

  “We won’t know what questions to ask,” I said, “until we know something about your husband’s finances.”

  “But he’s accused of murder. What do his—our—records have to do with that?”

  “If we’re going to find out who killed Amalthea, we need to understand why. An affair might be a likely motive. You suggested as much yesterday.”

  Aurelia dabbed at a tear. “In spite of what I might have said, I will never believe Calpurnius could have been unfaithful to me.”

  “Then money is the next likely motive for someone to be murdered. From what Calpurnius said when we saw him in Naples, we think money might somehow be involved here.”

  Aurelia took a step toward the servant. “Diomedes, please unlock the door.”

  When I could get her aside I would have to tell her that a master must never say “please” to a servant. It means you’re asking a favor, not giving an order.

  Diomedes shook his head slowly. “You know that my lord Calpurnius gave me explicit instructions. I have served in his household faithfully for years—”

  “You will not address me in that tone.” Aurelia drew herself up and seemed to come alive, surprising me as much as she did Diomedes, who flinched. She walked over and stood by the door to the records room. “Calpurnius is my husband. There is no ‘his household’ or ‘my household.’ We are one familia. I told you to unlock this door. If you don’t do it, I’ll tear that key from around your neck and do it myself.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Clearly cowed, Diomedes drew two keys from under his tunic, inserted the larger one into the lock, and opened the door. But he still stood in front of it.

  “Move,” Aurelia said, thrusting her face close to Diomedes’. “Let these gentlemen get in. You are to do what they ask you to do and answer any questions they may have, just as you would for me or my husband.”

  Diomedes stood away from the door, his head hanging. “Yes, my lady.”

  But he was talking to her back as she returned to the room where Bastet was stitching up the servant’s hand.

  †

  Calpurnius’ storeroom could have belonged to any man of our class, except that it hadn’t been decorated as a storeroom. It was a bedroom which he had taken over when he married Aurelia and moved into this house. The lock was new enough that it still gleamed, the only thing in this part of the house that anyone appeared to be taking care of. With the light coming through the door I saw frescos showing scenes from the Odyssey—the Cyclops on the wall to our left and the slaughter of the suitors on our right. They were partially obscured by tables and boxes of writing materials set against each wall. A strongbox with a large lock on it sat under one of the tables. The wall in front of us was covered by shelves holding sheets of papyrus and some wax tablets.

  “We need more light,” I told Diomedes.

  “Yes, my lord. Right away.” He left to get a candle or lamp. From his pace I suspected that “right away” didn’t mean to him what it meant to me, but I didn’t mind at the moment. Tacitus and I needed time to talk.

  “I told you the men who attacked Aurelia k
new this house,” I said.

  Tacitus nodded. “We just need to know to whom Sychaeus was sold.”

  “But we can’t ask outright and draw attention to him. He may still have an accomplice in the house, somebody who could get word to him that we’re looking for him.”

  “There might be a clue to his whereabouts in here.” Tacitus pointed to the shelves of papyrus documents. “Calpurnius probably kept a receipt for the sale of a slave. You or I certainly keep those kinds of records.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” I said, gesturing with my head to Diomedes, who was strolling across the garden with a candle.

  “Here you are, my lords.” He lit the oil lamps hanging from a stand in one corner.

  “That’s much better,” I said. “How are these papers organized?”

  “The oldest are on the bottom shelves, my lord. The newer ones, higher up.”

  “That’s helpful,” Tacitus said, reaching up to pull some papyrus pages off the top shelf. “Are they gathered by subject?”

  “No, my lord, just by date.”

  “Well, that’s better than nothing.” Tacitus began shuffling through the first batch of pages he had picked up.

  As he watched us, Diomedes rubbed his hands on the sides of his tunic, like a man who couldn’t stand the sight of strangers pawing his most precious possessions—the way I would react if I saw another man touch Aurora.

  “Wait outside,” I told him. “We’ll call you when we need you.”

  Tacitus sighed with relief when Diomedes was out of sight. “Thank you. The fellow was starting to irritate me.”

  “I don’t see what he was so edgy about. These are nothing but receipts and reports from the stewards on some of Calpurnius’ other estates.”

  Tacitus held up one page. “Here’s the receipt for that wretched wine. But he didn’t pay for all of it. He still owes for half.”

  “If he’s lucky, somebody will come and take the rest back.” I stooped to get some pages off a bottom shelf. “I wonder if that’s the sort of wine he’s always bought.”

  We spread some sheets out on one of the tables. Most of them were scrap pieces of papyrus, larger pages that had been cut up and were written on the reverse side. They went back no more than four years. “His records from before the eruption of Vesuvius must have been destroyed when his house was buried by the ash,” I said.