“Well, I guess we know where we’re going tonight,” I said as Pamphile scurried back to the kitchen.
Tacitus’ jaw almost dropped onto the table. “You plan to spy on some wild women’s cult ceremony? If they catch you they’ll tear you apart the way the Maenads did old King Pentheus.”
“That’s a myth,” I reminded him. “I’m disappointed someone of your intelligence would give it any credence. We won’t be in any danger. The women won’t know we’re there. We’ll leave the inn well ahead of them and lie in wait to see what happens. It’ll be dark.”
“There’s a full moon tonight,” Tacitus objected. “In case you missed it, that’s the whole point of the ritual.”
* * * *
We were on our way out of the inn when Melissa called to me. “My lord, may I ask you something?” Her expression said she would rather be doing anything than talking to me.
“If you can do it quickly.”
“I don’t know where I’ll be sleeping tonight. Have you made arrangements?”
“Yes. You and Phoebe will share the same room you had last night, but the door won’t be locked.”
“Thank you, my lord. You’re very generous.” She seemed relieved. I wondered if she thought I might expect her to sleep with me. She started to turn away, but Tacitus stopped her.
“I have a question for you, Melissa,” he said, “as long as you’re here.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I’m trying to reconstruct last night in my own mind, which was a bit clouded with drink, I admit. Where were you when Cornutus returned from the bath yesterday evening?”
“Phoebe and I had gone out to get some supplies for the next stage of the trip. When we returned he was already at dinner.”
“Did you join him?”
“First we stored our purchases in one of our wagons. Then we came in to dinner.”
“You didn’t go upstairs before dinner?”
“No, my lord.”
“When you were taken upstairs to be locked up for the night, did you stop by Cornutus’ room, perhaps to see how he was doing?”
“No, my lord. I wanted to, but Androcles wouldn’t let me.”
“So you didn’t know that Cornutus and Pliny had changed rooms.”
“No, my lord. I didn’t learn that until this morning.”
* * * *
We had told Androcles that we were going for a ride up Mt. Mastusia, to watch the sun set over the bay. It was a weak excuse, but I felt we needed some pretext, and one that would put us leaving town in a different direction than the women. We took Damon with us, to watch the horses while we spied on the ritual. My plan was to leave the horses well out of sight and walk whatever distance we had to in order to get close to the temple.
We rode about half a mile east, then left the road and cut across country, going north and west until we came in sight of the old city of Smyrna. Finding a secure spot behind a ridge for the horses, we left Damon with them and approached the ruins on foot. The Lydians did a thorough job of razing the city. In addition some of the ruins had been cannibalized for newer building projects. Wind-blown dirt had filled in over part of it. Trees were growing here and there, sometimes out of the middle of what used to be houses. In the fading daylight the city looked like the carcass of a giant beast, picked clean by scavengers. There was no sign of any gathering or procession.
“What if it’s all a great joke on us?” Tacitus said.
“That wild-haired witch doesn’t joke,” I replied. “Of that I’m certain. Whatever’s going to happen will take place after dark. We still have some time to look the city over and find a hiding place.”
Tacitus followed me as I entered the old city by merely walking up to the ruined wall and stepping up onto it and then over it, like Remus stepping over Romulus’ wall at the founding of Rome. Thanks to a broken inscription, it didn’t take us long to identify the remains of a temple of Artemis located at a crossroads. From the little I’ve read of this goddess—whether she be called Artemis or Hecate—I do know that she is somehow connected with crossroads and woods. Though this temple and its sacred precinct were in ruins, the ashes at one spot near its center gave clear evidence that a fire had burned there fairly recently. The ashes lay on a large flat stone, into which had been cut a five-pointed star, similar to one of the symbols on the witches’ black wagon.
“This must be where everything will happen. We should be able to get a clear view from up there.” The spot I had picked out was what remained of the exterior back wall of the town’s theater. It had the advantage of being back in the direction of the place where our horses were hidden.
“If you really want a good look,” Tacitus said, “why don’t we disguise ourselves as women and mingle with the crowd?”
“Very funny. It’s getting dark. Let’s get ourselves hidden.”
“Just a minute.” Tacitus stepped to the corner of the temple platform, where the wall was about waist high, lifted his tunic, and began to urinate.
“What are you doing?”
“If I’m going to hide someplace, I want to go in with an empty bladder.”
“But somebody might notice . . .”
He waved his hand dismissively. “People—and animals—use these old buildings all the time. Who’s going to care?”
I couldn’t undo what he was doing, so I started down the temple steps. He caught up with me at the bottom and we headed for the ruins of the theater.
Greek theaters from several centuries ago, when this one was built, were dug into a hillside. We Romans construct our theaters wherever we please, using our superior skill with the arch to provide the support. This particular theater was situated so that the audience sat looking out over the city. The wall I chose for a hiding place had been the back of the stage. Riddled with nooks and crannies from which actors once played scenes from the upper story of a house or the top of a hill, it offered concealment from all sides.
After what I estimated to be about an hour in hiding, I was beginning to wish I had relieved myself and to wonder if Tacitus had been right about this being some gigantic joke, the sort of prank that local people sometimes play on travelers. The moon had risen, gigantically white on this cloudless night. The tumbled stones of old Smyrna glowed eerily in the soft light, but nothing was happening.
I was on the verge of swallowing my pride and suggesting we go back to the inn when I heard a dull murmur, almost like bees, that seemed to come from all sides at once. Torches appeared on the horizon, a few at first, then dozens. Groups of women were approaching the old city from north, east, and south, chanting as they came. We couldn’t have left now if we’d wanted to. The women filed into the ruined city and gathered in the courtyard in front of the temple we had visited. I couldn’t estimate their number, with all the movement, but there certainly were several hundred, many of them carrying torches. These they stuck into crevices in the ruins of the temple and the wall surrounding its precinct.
Drums and flutes began to play the most alluring, seductive music I had ever heard. I even caught myself swaying to its rhythm. The women started to dance, slowly at first, then working themselves into an ecstasy as the tempo of the music increased. Some of them shrieked and howled. We watched in amazement as they stripped off their clothes and began anointing themselves and one another with some kind of oil or ointment.
“I’m glad we aren’t down among them in disguise,” I whispered to Tacitus.
“Just imagine what fun it would be,” he said, “until they discovered the trick.”
Anyte, our traveling companion from Ephesus, strode regally up the steps of the temple. She wore a headdress with what appeared to be snakes on it. From that distance I couldn’t tell if they were moving or if the flickering torchlight made them appear to be. Except for her jewelry she was nude but wore a long red cape with mystical symbols embroidered on it. The cape flowed behind and around her as a light breeze off the ocean caught it. In each hand she carried a scepter.
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br /> “Who would have thought,” Tacitus whispered, “that so magnificent a body was concealed under all her robes and trinkets?”
When Anyte assumed a ceremonial pose at the head of the steps, with her scepters crossed over her breasts, the music came to a crashing halt and all the women lifted their heads to their priestess.
“O, tri-form goddess,” Anyte intoned with her eyes closed. “O, goddess of many names, be present among your worshipers this night! Be present within each of us! Accept our sacrifices and our devotion!”
The crowd parted to allow passage to the five women who traveled with Anyte. Each had a fierce Molossian hound on a leash. The dogs seemed agitated and wouldn’t stop barking. Their handlers had difficulty getting them to climb the steps. When they reached the platform, the dogs pulled their handlers from place to place, sniffing as though they were tracking an animal. They showed a keen interest in Tacitus’ corner. The handlers pulled them away only with a great effort.
“You wanted to know who would be interested,” I said. “That’s who.”
“Those are the kind of hunting dogs that Artemis set upon Actaeon,” Tacitus said with a gulp. “I don’t like the look of those dogs.”
Some of the women piled up wood which they brought in with them on the flat stone with the five-pointed star cut into it. They all seemed to know their tasks and needed no instruction. At a gesture from Anyte the women with the dogs took up positions at each of the points of the star. The dogs kept sniffing, straining at their leashes, and barking. They all had their snouts pointed in our direction.
“By the gods,” Tacitus muttered. “You don’t think they’ve picked up our scent, do you?”
One woman, who appeared from her headdress to have some secondary authority in the group—though it’s difficult to determine rank when everyone in a group is naked—threw her torch onto the pile and ignited what quickly became a huge fire. As Anyte chanted an incantation, she waved the scepters over the fire, shaking one or the other hard on each pass. Explosive plumes of colored smoke billowed from the fire whenever she did this. The crowd of women raised a ululating cry every time it happened. I realized that she was shaking some kind of powder into the fire. A cheap trick to inflame the minds of the masses. And it was working.
Now a ram with gilded horns was led forward. Its bleating could barely be heard over the women’s chanting and howling. Such animals are usually sedated before being sacrificed, but in this case several of the nude women wrestled the thing down. Anyte handed her scepters to her assistant and drew a knife from a pocket on the inside of her cloak. She stabbed the ram in the belly and split its gut open. The ram jerked and thrashed—the way Cornutus would have if he’d still been alive when he was eviscerated. Blood spurted everywhere.
Anyte appeared to be doing some cutting and sawing on the animal. Then she thrust her hands in and yanked out the entrails. Blood streamed down her forearms. She took a bite of the entrails, raw and still quivering. I thought it was the heart, but in the eerie light I couldn’t be sure. The rest she scattered around within the five-pointed star. The women who had been holding the ram down threw the carcass onto the fire.
“Did you see that?” I whispered excitedly to Tacitus. “They sacrificed a ram.”
“And rather crudely, too,” Tacitus replied.
I grabbed his arm, hardly able to keep my voice to a whisper in my excitement. “But don’t you see the connection? Cornutus’ seal isn’t just any horn; it’s a ram’s horn. And the way this animal was cut open, it’s exactly the way Cornutus was cut up.”
Anyte extended her arms, and the crowd of women fell silent as one person. Her cape fell back, exposing a body reminiscent of some of the better statues of Aphrodite.
“Release the hounds of Hades!” she proclaimed in a voice so monstrous and deep I thought someone else was speaking. “Let them devour this sacrifice as the dark goddess devours her enemies!” The dogs’ handlers untied their leashes. But the dogs surprised everyone by bolting down the temple steps into the crowd of women, cutting their own path through the hysteria as they headed straight toward our hiding place.
“Run for it!” Tacitus cried, but he was talking to my back. Scrambling down a narrow stairway and sprinting over the unfamiliar terrain in the dark—even under the full moon—was almost as unnerving as knowing what was behind me. And gaining on me. I was nowhere near the horses yet and running out of breath when something whizzed past me. The lead dog yelped, stumbled, and fell face-first in the dirt. Again something zipped past me and the dog closest to Tacitus dropped without a sound. A third dog was taken down by some force, and the remaining two slowed their pace, sniffing at their fallen brothers and whimpering. Tacitus and I dropped over the low ridge and grabbed our horses’ reins from Damon.
By now the women were taking up the cry. An unearthly shriek pursued us, like the wind howling through a crack in a wall. Having narrowly escaped Actaeon’s fate, I had no intention of being torn apart like King Pentheus by this bunch of crazed women.
“Ride east!” I yelled. “Ride east!”
VIII
A LOW-LYING VALLEY RUNS EAST of old Smyrna, so we had easy going, even in the moonlight, and were able to outdistance the naked mob. When they were out of sight, we turned southwest until we picked up the main road back to the new city of Smyrna. Only then did we slow the horses to a walk and spare enough breath to talk. My first question was for Damon.
“What did you do? How did you stop those dogs?”
From under his tunic he pulled out a small pouch on a string around his neck. He opened it and showed me a leather strap, broader in the middle and tapering at each end. “It’s a shepherd’s sling, my lord. You can hurl small stones with it. I doubt I killed the dogs from that distance, but at least I stunned them.”
“Where did you learn this skill?” I asked in amazement, wondering how a master could ever know all he needs to know about his slaves. I had known Damon since my early childhood. He was no shepherd, even if he was named after a mythical one. His duties had always been carried out in the house.
“It’s something I picked up from a story I heard, my lord. I practice when I’ve finished my other duties. I carry it with me whenever we travel.”
“Well, we owe you our lives,” I said. “There’ll be no more talk about punishing you, I assure you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
I wished I was as sure that the Ephesian witch would be so forgiving of the men who profaned her holy rites.
* * * *
Sleep was a stranger to me that night. Every noise I heard sounded like a threat. Was that Anyte’s foot on the stairs? Or was Melissa coming back for another try at avenging her family, now that she knew which room I was in?
At some time well before dawn I despaired of sleep and went upstairs to roust Glaucon, the slave who served as my scribe. He was sleeping in the room next door to Melissa and Phoebe. Their room, I noted, was on the back of the building, the same side as Cornutus’. Where exactly it was in relation to Cornutus’, I couldn’t be sure. Could Melissa have lowered herself somehow—perhaps with Phoebe’s assistance—and entered through the window, thinking she was about to kill me? But wouldn’t she have recognized her own master and lover, even in the dark? Cornutus and I did not remotely resemble one another, and she had intimate knowledge of his body.
Glaucon didn’t grumble as much as he might have when I woke him. He had been my uncle’s scribe for ten years. My uncle habitually got up several hours before dawn and dictated correspondence or worked on whatever book he was writing. Glaucon had led a relatively easy life since he began working for me. I usually rise early, but I write by myself for a couple of hours before calling Glaucon in to take down a revised copy of my work.
By the time the sun came up I had composed the letter which I had to send to Rome today. I took the version I had dictated to Glaucon and read it one final time, just to be sure the tone was right. It would have been a difficult letter to write, even
if I had known the recipient. It needed a sympathetic tone, yet one that was also straightforward, since I was a stranger to both the victim and his father. I did know the older man by sight, in the way everyone in our circle in Rome knows everyone else, but we had never met formally. I couldn’t remember ever struggling with a letter this much.
G. Plinius Caecilius Secundus to L. Manilius Quadratus,greetings.
It is my unpleasant duty, sir, to report to you the death of your son, Lucius Manilius Cornutus, under the most unfortunate circumstances. While returning from Syria to Rome to be at your side, he was murdered in an inn in Smyrna. An investigation of this heinous crime is underway, and I am confident that the guilty person or persons will be brought to justice by the time you receive this letter. Cornutus’ body is to be burned today. I myself will assume responsibility for delivering his ashes to you for burial. I am also taking responsibility for your son’s slaves and his other personal belongings and will see to it that those are delivered to you as soon as possible.
After Glaucon made a copy for my records, he rolled up the sheet of papyrus, tied it securely with a piece of wool cord, and sealed it with wax into which I pressed my seal. The action reminded me of the mysterious document which Chryseis was carrying in her bag. Or was I making too much of it? No slave of mine would have any reason to be carrying a sealed document unless he was delivering it to someone. My curiosity about the contents of the document was strong enough that I was tempted to take advantage of Chryseis’ lack of memory to open it . . . What was I thinking? I couldn’t do that. To violate her trust would be tantamount to violating her.
Glaucon retrieved a small leather pouch from among his supplies. I enclosed my letter and applied my seal to the cover of the pouch as well.
The slave whom Marcellus proposed to send as a messenger was waiting downstairs. I had interviewed the man the previous afternoon. All he could tell me was that he helped Marcellus to bed before midnight. It’s difficult to get accurate reports of times during the night. Everybody says that things happened ‘around midnight.’ The slave reported that Marcellus was as drunk as he had ever seen him. He ordered one of his slave women to be sent to his room to sleep with him. That led me to talk to the woman. She informed me that Marcellus did not have sex with her. He was asleep by the time she got into bed with him. She did claim that she was in the room all night. She had difficulty sleeping because of Marcellus’ snoring. I wondered how someone could verify that, since the only other person in the room was deep in a drunken stupor. Why had Marcellus sent for this woman, when he probably knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything with her? Did he just want someone to verify where he was during the night?
All Roads Lead to Murder Page 11