“What did you see when you returned?” I put my hands on my hips, to keep myself from striking him again. Right now it was more important to get information than to inflict punishment.
“My chair was sitting in front of the door, just the way it was when I left.”
“Did you look in the room to see if the girl was all right?’”
“No, my lord. Everything looked fine. I just sat back down.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Within the hour, my lord. It’s hard to reckon time in here. I can’t see the sun.”
What a quandary! I regarded this man as one of my most reliable servants. That was why I had brought him with me on this trip and why I had chosen him for this particular job. I had threatened him with death if he left his post. My uncle once told me never to threaten a slave with any punishment which you don’t actually mean to inflict. If you don’t carry through, you weaken your control over that slave and all your other slaves, for they do gossip and spread stories among themselves.
“I’ll deal with the matter of your punishment later,” I said, leaving him room to imagine his own terror. “Right now there’s a more pressing problem. Get me a lamp.”
Damon scurried away and returned quickly with a lamp. I took it from him and Tacitus and I entered the dark, dreary room. The erotic paintings couldn’t overcome the gloom of the place. They didn’t put me in any mood for the activities they depicted.
“Not much to see, is there?” Tacitus commented, his attention diverted by the artwork.
“Not unless we look closely,” I replied, scanning the room desperately. “For instance, the bedcover appears to have been turned back neatly, not thrown back violently or hastily.”
“Is that significant?” Tacitus asked.
“It could be.” I grew more encouraged as I thought about it. “Think about how people get out of bed. If someone came in and grabbed her while she was sleeping, I don’t believe the cover would have been turned back so neatly. Someone in a hurry to get her out of here would have yanked the cover out of the way. Perhaps wrapped her up in it.”
Tacitus nodded dubiously, like one of Socrates’ students in a Platonic dialogue, as yet unconvinced but willing to be shown the light.
“On the other hand,” I continued, “if Chryseis awoke, frightened in the dark, unsure where she was, she probably would have pushed the cover back like this and gotten up quietly. So I would conclude that it’s likely she might have left of her own volition.”
“But how? The door opens outward, and your slave had his chair up against it.”
“Except for the time when he was in the latrine. Let’s try something. Damon!” He jumped when I called his name. “Close the door, put your chair up against it, and sit down.”
Damon did as I ordered. I knew he would be most eager to obey in the future, if I let him have a future. When he was seated, Tacitus and I sat down on the bed.
“Imagine yourself waking up,” I said. “The room is pitch black. You have no idea where you are, or why you’re here. The only light you see comes under the bottom of the door. Wouldn’t your natural reaction be to go to the door and give it a push?”
“I think so,” Tacitus said. He sounded as if he was nodding. “But wouldn’t Damon feel someone pushing against the door?”
“This is a frightened fifteen-year-old girl pushing. I think she would give up at the slightest resistance. The door won’t open, so you sit back down on the bed, wondering what to do.”
“I would call out,” Tacitus said. “Maybe knock on the door. Ask who’s there.”
“You might, being a free man and accustomed to having your way. Chryseis has been a slave since birth. She’s never challenged or questioned anything. You saw how passive she was when we questioned her. At the end she would have stood there all day if I hadn’t told her where to go and what to do.”
“All right. Granted,” Tacitus finally said.
“So, after a few minutes you hear a chair scraping,” I said, “as someone gets up, then footsteps fading away. Damon, get up! Now you try the door again. This time it opens.”
I opened the door and stuck my head out, looking around like a cautious turtle.
“This is your chance to get out, so you take advantage of it.” We squeezed through the slightly opened door, closed it, and put the chair back against it.
“That all makes sense,” Tacitus said as we re-opened the door.
“I’m also encouraged that her bag is gone,” I said. “Would a kidnapper have bothered to pick it up?”
“Would she even have found it in the dark?”
It took me a moment to reconstruct my actions from earlier in the afternoon. “I’m almost certain that I dropped it right by the bed. She must have stepped on it when she got up.”
“But why did she leave?” Tacitus asked.
“That’s the difficult question. And it’s one thing that makes me worry that someone might have carried her off by force. She had no reason to leave.”
“Unless she killed Cornutus. But, I know, you don’t think your little goddess is capable of such a thing.” He raised a hand to forestall my objections.
“It’s also possible she wasn’t in her right mind. In his notebooks my uncle recorded his observation that people who receive blows to the head are sometimes addled, not knowing clearly where they are or even who they are.”
“Let me see if I understand all of this.” Sarcasm built in Tacitus’ tone. “We have a slave girl on the loose, who may not know she’s a slave, and who may be a murderer but may not know it. Is that an accurate summary?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And you’re going to look for her, aren’t you?”
“What choice do I have?”
“Several, actually. She’s not likely to try to travel in this heat. If she does, we’ll find her wherever she drops. More likely she’s hiding. I don’t think she would risk traveling alone in the middle of the day, even if her wits are scrambled. And how far could she get on her own, without protection, money, or supplies?”
I knew his gloomy scenario was all too likely. Anyone who dared to set out alone on a journey was inviting trouble as surely as if he were to thrust his hand into a beehive. A young woman by herself would stand no chance whatever. If highway bandits didn’t prey on her within a few miles of town, lack of food and water would soon do her in. “So you think she’s probably hiding somewhere in town?” I said hopefully.
Tacitus nodded. “Let’s get Nicomedes the boularch to post guards at all the city gates and make sure she doesn’t get out. As long as we keep her confined to Smyrna, we can hunt her down at our leisure.”
I didn’t like his imagery, but his plan seemed the only reasonable one. It would also allow us to get some badly needed rest and a bath. And I could have Luke look at my eye. I wouldn’t be a very effective hunter with one eye swollen shut. Tacitus went to find one of his slaves to send to Nicomedes.
* * * *
After getting a poultice for my eye from the good doctor Luke I was on my way back to my room for an abbreviated rest when I noticed one of the Ephesian ‘witches’ approaching from the other direction. She was carrying a chamberpot to empty it in the large slop jar at the head of the stairs. She had a cloth draped over the pot, as people sometimes do, out of modesty or from a desire to contain offensive odors. As we passed and she lowered her eyes, a scene from a play by some minor Greek comic writer came to my mind. A woman gave birth to a stillborn child. A slave smuggled the child out in a jar and a live child, purchased from an overly fertile prostitute, was substituted to satisfy the father’s desire for an heir. I thought the whole situation absurd when I read the play, but I now had to admit that I could not swear what the woman who just passed me was carrying in that pot. A baby wouldn’t fit in there . . . but Cornutus’ heart would.
Of course! The missing chamberpot. No one would think twice about seeing someone carrying a chamberpot in the middle of the night,
especially if it were covered with a cloth. And whoever took the pot out wouldn’t risk going back to return it. The only question now was whether the heart had been dumped in one of the slop jars or hidden away until it was needed in some demonic ritual. After the woman completed her business and returned to her room I lifted the lid of the malodorous, waist-high slop jar and saw that it was barely half full. Androcles, I was sure, wouldn’t pay to have it emptied until it was close to overflowing. After the midday rest I would tell him not to have any of the jars emptied until their contents had been inspected. And I knew just which slave of mine I was going to assign that task to. If I couldn’t kill Damon, I could make him wish I had.
* * * *
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. My face hurt and Chryseis was so much on my mind. What if I was wrong about what had happened to her? What if someone—Marcellus, no doubt—had carried her out of the room? But why would Marcellus go to the trouble of kidnapping a slave girl? Where would he hide her? Was she Cornutus’ daughter? Could someone else—Marcellus perhaps—know that? Such worries chased one another through my head until they blurred together like the spokes on the wheels of a speeding chariot. I was startled when Tacitus’ knock on the door woke me up.
“Pliny, let’s get down to the bath before it’s too crowded,” he called.
I stumbled out of bed and explained my deduction about the chamberpot to Tacitus as we descended the stairs. We stopped by Androcles’ quarters to tell him not to empty the slop jars until further notice, then walked quickly to the bath house.
While we were still in the frigidarium rinsing ourselves off, Luke and Timothy came in. They hadn’t undressed and appeared to be looking for someone. Me, it turned out. Androcles had told them where we were headed.
Luke called me into a corner and spoke in a low voice in Latin. “Friend Pliny, the strangest thing has happened. On our way back from Apelles’ house, we ran into Chryseis on the street.”
“Oh, thank the gods!”
I had told Luke about Chryseis’ disappearance while he treated my eye. He had urged me to treat Damon with compassion and promised to look for Chryseis as he walked to his friends’ house. I was overjoyed at his stroke of luck but knew it was important to act as though he had not told me anything particularly important. He’d already attracted too much attention by coming in here fully clothed. Who knew what interest others in the room might have in this information?
“Where was she?” I asked in a whisper.
“About three blocks from the inn. Once I’d recovered from my surprise at seeing her up and about, I spoke to her. She seemed confused, unable to recognize her own name or where she was, or why she was out in the street. I told her she shouldn’t be walking around. She was injured in a fall. She seemed to think hard for a moment, then said, ‘He hit me’.”
“Marcellus!” I hissed. “I knew it.”
“Now, don’t read too much into that,” Luke cautioned. “When the memory is confused like this, the person may recall something from several years ago more clearly than something from a few hours back. For a slave to say that someone hit her would not be unusual. Remember the scene with Cornutus yesterday.”
What I remembered—with shame—was the blow I had struck Damon. Would he in his dotage be mumbling, ‘He hit me’?
“Where is she?”
“We took her to the house of Apelles and asked them to care for her for a day or two. If someone did hit her or push her down the steps, it seemed to me unwise to return her to the inn, where her assailant might have another chance to strike.”
“Thank you, doctor.” My knees were actually weak with relief. “This is wonderful news. I feel as if a burden has been lifted. Do you think I could go see her after my bath?”
“I suggest you wait,” Luke said, and I knew it wasn’t just a suggestion. “The family is preparing for Apelles’ funeral tomorrow morning. You said you were planning to attend. I’ll accompany you and, after the funeral, we’ll go back to the house and talk with her. I’m not sure how she’ll react to you. You aren’t a familiar person to her, but you did have some conversation with her, didn’t you?”
“Not as much as I would have wished.”
“Sometimes contact with anyone or anything the least bit familiar can help an individual regain memory.”
“I’ll do whatever you think is best for her.”
He clapped my shoulder. “I must remind you that sometimes a person can recover memory in a few days. Other times the loss of memory can be permanent. Chryseis is young and the blow doesn’t seem to have been severe, so I’m hopeful for a full recovery.”
Luke and Timothy then returned to the dressing room, left their clothes there with ours under the watchful eye of Tacitus’ slave, and returned to the bath. We waited for them to join us as we went into the main room, to soak in the pool. I don’t normally pay any attention to the membrum virile of other bathers. It’s considered impolite and one is taught from childhood not to notice anything. I could not help observing, however, that Timothy was circumcised, though Luke was not. This form of mutilation is considered so bizarre among Greeks and Romans that few Jewish men uncover themselves completely in the public baths. A few, I’m told, go so far as to have some sort of surgery to reverse the process. The very thought made me cringe.
* * * *
When I returned to my room I found Cornutus’ concubine Melissa waiting at my door.
“Have you learned anything about Chryseis, my lord?” she asked. She seemed genuinely anxious.
“Her condition hasn’t changed.”
She looked confused. “But I heard she’d been lost.”
Damn Damon! He couldn’t keep a secret in his mouth any more effectively than he’d kept Chryseis in that room.
“She’s been found and is safe. For now she’s staying at the house of . . . some local people.”
“Could I see her, my lord?”
“I don’t think that’s wise at the moment.” Something suddenly made me a bit distrustful of her motives. All I knew about her—that she was Cornutus’ mistress and that she hated me and my family—was based on one conversation. “The blow to her head has left her uncertain of some things.”
“But you’re sure she’s all right?”
“So Luke assures me, and I trust his judgment.”
“Then I’ll be content to know that.” She started to turn away, but I took hold of her arm and stopped her.
“Why are you so concerned about Chryseis?”
She obviously didn’t want to answer, but her status compelled her. “Since coming to Cornutus’ house I have been a sort of mother to her.”
“Do you know anything about the incident when she was branded?”
From the way her face went pale, she couldn’t deny that she did. “Yes, my lord. I was there.”
An eyewitness! This was more than I had dared hope for. I led her into my room and closed the door. “Please tell me what happened.”
She seemed confused by my urgency. “Why, my lord?”
“It’s not your place to ask questions. Now, tell me what happened the night Chryseis was branded.”
“It was . . . very late one night. Cornutus told me to bring Chryseis to a room off the atrium. So I woke the poor child and led her there. She kept asking me what he wanted. I could truthfully tell her that I had no idea. When we entered the room, it was lit by only a few small lamps. The effect was eerie, unsettling. There was another slave woman waiting there with Cornutus. In the center of the room was a charcoal brazier with an iron heating in it. I still didn’t realize what he intended to do. It was so incomprehensible. Then he told the other woman and me to undress Chryseis and tie her over the table. Chryseis began to cry. I didn’t move at first, until the other woman grabbed her and began dragging her toward the table. I pleaded with Cornutus not to hurt her. He told me to shut up and help tie her up. He wanted her bent over the table, with her buttocks exposed. I feared he was going to rape her.”
&n
bsp; “Did he say why he was doing this?”
“No, my lord. I asked him. I pleaded with him not to do it.” She raised her clenched hands as though asking the favor of me. “He just told me to hold her still. The other woman stuffed a cloth in her mouth and clamped her hand over it. I had to stand right beside her, holding her bottom, with the smell of her burning flesh in my nostrils. I survived the sack of my home in Judaea, my lord, and I have to say this was worse. You expect soldiers to pillage and burn. You don’t expect a man to brand an innocent child.”
“What happened then?”
“He dropped the iron back into the brazier and ran out of the room. The other slave woman left, too. Her task was completed, and she didn’t care. I untied Chryseis, put some ointment on the burn, and stayed with her that night. She was terribly upset by the incident and didn’t sleep well for several nights.”
I was grateful to know that Chryseis had someone to comfort her. “When she told me about it, it still seemed to affect her deeply. Did Cornutus ever give you any reason for doing it?”
“No, my lord. He would never answer my questions about it. But one day, several months later, we were at Baiae. Cornutus and I were watching Chryseis play in a pool with several other girls. The others were nude, but Chryseis would not undress. One of the girls tried to lift her gown and caught a glimpse of the brand. Chryseis was humiliated and ran back to our rooms. Cornutus must have known from my look what I was thinking. All he said was, ‘I did it for her own good. You’ll see. It was for her own good.’”
* * * *
Androcles had informed me that the slop jars were scheduled to be emptied the next day, so that if I wanted to go fishing in them, as he put it, I had better get to it. He would not inconvenience himself by asking the workers to make an extra trip.
I did impose the task on Damon, as part of his punishment for failing in his guard duty. But I didn’t make him use his hands, as I had first thought I might do. We found a long stick in the stable and began on the second floor, nearest to where Cornutus’ room was. Damon used the stick to stir around in the jars, as though he were stirring a revolting sort of soup. He hit nothing solid in any of the jars on the second floor. Only after a search of the third floor jars proved fruitless did my spirits begin to flag. I doubted that the killer had gone down to the more public parts of the inn on the first floor to dispose of his trophy. And our search there verified my hypothesis. The heart was not to be found in any of the jars. I would have someone present to watch when they were emptied tomorrow, just to be sure, but it now appeared that whoever removed Cornutus’ heart either found some other way to dispose of it or still had it in his possession.
All Roads Lead to Murder Page 9