All Roads Lead to Murder

by Albert A. Bell

  Tacitus, aghast at my effrontery, could hardly contain himself until all the women had filed out. He grabbed my toga and jerked me around to face him. “Are you crazy? What if that witch did kill Cornutus? She won’t stop at doing somebody else in. Or putting some kind of spell on them.”

  “I can’t think of any way she could hurt me. I have nothing here that it would grieve me to lose. But I do remember that the main character in the Satyricon was rendered impotent because he spied on the rites of Priapus. That would certainly be a heavy punishment for you.” I couldn’t suppress a smile. “Something you ‘value above all else’.”

  * * * *

  As long as we already had the dining room to ourselves, we asked Androcles for an early lunch, which Pamphile promptly brought to us. But she practically threw it on the table and ran away without even looking at us. I think she was petrified that Anyte would learn that she had told us about the ritual. At least she hadn’t informed on us. Yet.

  Before we could begin eating, Orophernes skulked into the room. He stood such a respectful distance from our table that I wasn’t sure at first if his business was with us. But we were the only people in the room.

  “What is it, Orophernes?” I finally asked. Pronouncing his name made me feel the way Demosthenes must have felt when he put those pebbles in his mouth to improve his oratory.

  He took a step closer. “Forgive me, Gaius Pliny, for interrupting your meal, but I believe I have some information that you will find interesting. Even valuable.”

  Probably, I thought, no more interesting or valuable than something a dog might drag home. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Last night, a couple of hours after dark, I observed Lysimachus returning to the inn. He was sweaty and clearly agitated.”

  “And what significance do you attribute to this?”

  “I suspect he was one of the men who spied on the witches’ ritual. Should I tell her? Do you think she would reward me?”

  I could see that Tacitus was having difficulty suppressing a laugh. “With no more proof than a sweaty brow,” I said, “I would hesitate to expose a man to Anyte’s wrath. Let’s keep this between us for now. Thank you for telling me.”

  I thought I had dismissed him, but he continued to stand by our table until I caught on. I fumbled under my tunic, fished out a few coins, and handed them to Orophernes. My leading spy bowed and backed out of the room, almost bumping into Marcus Carolus on his way in.

  “May I join you?” the big German asked.

  “Please, do,” I said, sorry that we would have to postpone sharing a laugh over Orophernes’ performance.

  Tacitus called to Pamphile for another helping of whatever gastronomical disaster we were flirting with. The beefy German settled himself across the table from us and attacked his meal the way his forefathers must have fallen on Varus’ legions in the Teutoburg Forest. There would clearly be nothing left but bones.

  He paused amid the devastation and asked, “Any news about the girl, Chryseis?”

  “I’m pleased to report that she’s well and is staying in another location where she will be safe.”

  Carolus raised his cup in a toast. “That’s a relief. She’s a sweet girl. Here’s an offer for you. Why don’t I buy all of Cornutus’ slaves? It would save anyone else the trouble of escorting them back to Rome.”

  There was only one of Cornutus’ slaves he was concerned about. Somehow I didn’t think his interest in her was sexual. But I was afraid that, if he were to get control of her, I would never see her again.

  “I’m afraid no one but Cornutus’ father can make decisions about disposing of his property,” I said, drawing myself up to exert whatever authority I could against this behemoth. I sometimes wondered how long Rome would be able to resist the power of the Teutons, poised up there above the Rhine and the Danube, like an avalanche waiting to bury us. “All we can do is hope that Manilius Quadratus is still alive when we get back to Rome. Cornutus’ will must be read and everything sorted out according to law. Until then I’ve assumed guardianship, and I assure you that Chryseis is safe.”

  “You’re a fair man, young sir,” Carolus replied. “I’ll rely on you to keep Chryseis . . . and the rest of Cornutus’ property . . . out of the clutches of that villain Marcellus.”

  He redeemed himself somewhat in my eyes by sharing my low opinion of Marcellus. But I didn’t want to continue that topic of conversation, even in Latin, in so public a place. “I gather you’ve been out this morning,” I said, inviting him to tell me what he’d been doing without actually asking.

  “Yes, I’ve been making arrangements to sell my load of silk and spices.”

  “Wouldn’t you get more for them at Rome?” Tacitus asked in surprise, voicing my thought.

  “I would, but I’m worried about the safety of my stuff while it’s stored in Androcles’ stable. Someone has been poking around in it already.”

  I almost blurted out the truth.

  “I don’t trust these damn Greeks for the blink of an eye,” Carolus said. “Better to get rid of it at a lower price than risk losing it entirely. In fact, I need to go meet the man who’s coming to have a look at the silk now.” He wiped his mouth on a corner of his tunic and excused himself from the table.

  Tacitus leaned back with his mouth twisted in disgust.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “His table manners too crude for you?”

  “No, it’s this wretched food. I know you think Cornutus was poisoned, but I wonder if this fish might have killed him without any assistance.”

  “This might have made him sick, but it’s not lethal. No one else who ate here that night died. A poisoner can’t poison the common pot and expect to kill only one person.”

  Tacitus turned his food over on the plate with a knife and sniffed at it warily. “Maybe the regular customers build up a resistance to it, like people who take small doses of poison so they can’t be harmed if someone decides to do them in. I’d like to have someone who knows about poisons look this over, to see if they could identify what’s in it.”

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

  “What idea? I was joking.”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about the food. But your suggestion made me wonder if we can see whether someone who knows poisons could make an educated guess about what might have killed Cornutus.”

  “How could anybody do that? His body’s already been burned.”

  “I know. But we can describe his symptoms. Different poisons have different effects. We have several witnesses, including yourself, so we should be able to put together an account that could enable a knowledgeable person to figure out what was used.”

  “But you’ve announced that Cornutus was killed with a knife. If you start asking about poisons, you’ll alert everybody, including the person who poisoned him.”

  Sometimes Tacitus’ acuity was as annoying as it was helpful. For the moment the poisoner thought he (or she?) was undetected. That could make him relax and fall into a mistake.

  “I’ve got it!” I said. “Let’s find Androcles.”

  We finally located the loathsome innkeeper in the brothel section of his establishment.

  “What can I do for you lads?” he asked unctuously. “Looking for a bit of company during your midday rest?”

  Tacitus’ eyes brightened, but I said, “No, thank you. I’ve been having some trouble sleeping at night. Do you know anyone who could mix me up a potion?”

  “How long do you want to sleep?” Androcles replied archly.

  “Just a few hours during the night will suffice.”

  “Well, for anything in that line, you want to see old Philyra. Just go down this street to the bathhouse—the one you’ve been to. Turn left there, go four blocks, then turn right. Her shop is in the middle of that block. She can mix up anything you need.” He winked.

  * * * *

  Tacitus and I set out at once for Philyra’s shop. I hoped I didn
’t arouse too much attention by not sending a slave to do this sort of mundane task. By midday the paving stones were heating up. The garbage and human waste dumped in the streets during the night was reeking. A good rain was needed to flush everything into the sewers. As in any town, the merchants displayed their wares on the sidewalks in front of their shops, forcing passersby to walk in the filthy streets. Covering our mouths and noses with scented handkerchiefs, we picked our way very carefully, hopping from one dry spot to another, like children playing a game.

  We found Philyra’s shop easily enough. The hag sat on a stool inside the door, scratching her right buttock. Her clothes hung on her like rags thrown haphazardly over a scrawny bush. Her cheeks had sunk in over her missing teeth. Jars of various sizes—some bearing arcane markings—crowded the shelves lining all the interior walls of the shop except for a door in the back, which I suspected led to her sleeping quarters.

  “Good mornin’, my lords,” she croaked as she staggered off her stool. Obviously she had already had a considerable quantity to drink. “What’d ye be in the market fer t’day?”

  I explained my need for a sleeping potion.

  “Got just the thing.” She shuffled over to a jar and spoonedpowder into a packet made of used papyrus. “This’ll fix ye right up. Put three pinches in yer wine at dinner tonight and ye’ll sleep like a innercent chile.”

  I paid her and we turned to leave. Then, as if an afterthought, I asked her, “Could you tell me what drug a person had taken, if I described the symptoms?”

  Philyra was cagey in her response. “I could make some sorta guess at it, my lord. Mind ye, I’m no expert on poisons. But some drugs perduce reactions sim’lar to others.”

  I described Cornutus’ symptoms—drowsiness, numbness of the limbs, sensation of being cold—as best I could, considering I was relying on second-hand accounts. Tacitus added a detail here and there. The old crone listened to us attentively, scrunching up her face to focus through the alcoholic fog enshrouding her.

  “It sounds to me, my lord,” she finally said, “that it were aconite or hemlock. Either one will chill the blood and numb the arms and legs. Aconite can also perduce a tinglin’ sensation on the skin.”

  “How would such drugs be administered?”

  “Usually in wine. ’Member the description of Socrates’ death by Plato?”

  “Of course! The hemlock was mixed in wine, he drank it, and when he began to feel the effects, he lay down.”

  “Layin’ down lets the drug work faster,” Philyra said.

  “You’re very knowledgeable,” Tacitus said, a bit nervously. “Do you have such drugs in your shop?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I’ve studied the lore of herbs an’ roots since I were a chile, my lord, but I sell only medicinal ones. There be no aconite or hemlock in this shop.” She waved her hand unsteadily around the place.

  “How could such a drug be administered in front of other people?” I asked.

  “There be a thousand ways,” Philyra replied. “Or so I’ve heard. A poisoner is like a magician. He makes ye look at somethin’ over there while he’s doin’ his business over here. Distracts ye. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  I took a few more sesterces from my money pouch and gave them to the crone. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “I could be more helpful still,” she said.

  My damnable curiosity was piqued, and a few more coins jingled into her withered palm to satisfy it.

  She looked around as though concerned that someone might overhear her. Then she leaned toward me. The wine on her breath did not quite mask the odor of her body. “Aconite be used to invoke Hecate,” she whispered. “Her devotees smears themselves with an ointment containin’ the drug. The tinglin’ sensation is said to be a sign of their possession by the goddess. Legend is that Hecate created the drug from the foamin’ mouth of the hell-hound, Cerberus.”

  IX

  ON OUR WAY BACK TO OUR ROOMS we came to a food shop, what we would call a taberna in Rome.

  “Lunch at the inn was awful,” Tacitus said. “Why don’t we get a bite here?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said, “but I’ll have a cup of wine.”

  Like most such shops, this place had no room for customers to sit down. Tacitus was given some bread dipped in olive oil and we both got some watery wine in a cheap, undecorated cup, which we were expected to return. We stood on the sidewalk eating.

  While we ate I glanced around at the other customers. Some dozen or so people were crowding around the door of the taberna. Groups like this are interesting to observe just to try to figure out their ethnic background. Babylonians, then Persians, then Greeks have dominated this area for so long that the original native population has disappeared as a pure strain. Some of the worst characteristics of each group seem to have been emphasized by this blending.

  As I watched today one fellow almost started a riot among the bystanders when he pulled his own wine cup from a bag. The taberna’s owner didn’t want to let him use it because it was bigger than the taberna’s cups and the wine was sold by the cup. The man became quite cantankerous.

  “I don’t want to drink out of a cup that any pox-ridden whore could have used!” he sneered. The taberna’s owner quickly filled his cup just to shut him up because he could see his other customers were getting restless.

  “I wonder if that was Marcellus’ reasoning,” Tacitus said as he and I emptied the rest of our wine in the street and returned our cups.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? At dinner the last two nights Marcellus has used his own plate and cup instead of the inn’s. I thought a man who carries his own strigl with him all over the empire—”

  “I’m not going to let you bait me about that again. You heard what doctor Luke said. It’s eminently sensible.”

  “So is bringing your own napkin to dinner. We all do that. Your own plate and cup—doesn’t that qualify as eccentric behavior?”

  * * * *

  When we returned to the inn I settled in my room to make a few notes before resting. Following my uncle’s model, I have begun to keep my own records of interesting bits of information and my observations and conclusions about them. Philyra’s tidbit about aconite begged to be recorded.

  Leaving the door to my room open because of the heat, I was engrossed in my writing when my concentration was broken by Damon’s voice.

  “My lord,” he said solicitously, “I was wondering if you needed anything before the midday rest.” He was still trying to make up for letting Chryseis get away. Slaves don’t normally come looking for work.

  “No, thank you, Damon.” I expected him to leave, but he remained standing in the door. “Is there something else?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord.” He stepped into the room and closed the door. “I just ate lunch with one of Marcus Carolus’ slaves. He said some things I found puzzling. I thought I should mention them to you.”

  “So you two were gossiping about your masters?”

  “Slaves have little else to talk about, my lord.” How long would I have to put up with his impudence just because he had saved my life? “One can always start a conversation among other slaves by mentioning a few faults of one’s master.”

  “And what faults of mine did you mention?”

  He seemed to sense he was treading into dangerous ground. “They need not be real faults, my lord. One can make up anything, just for the sake of conversation.”

  I had made him squirm enough. “So what did this slave say that you thought worth reporting?”

  “His name was Euergetes, my lord.”

  That was a subtle reminder that he was an individual, a person, someone with a name. One of Damon’s constant complaints was that slaves were deprived of their standing as human beings. I guess he’d been listening while he read all those philosophical treatises to my uncle and me. So, this fellow was a Greek. At least the name was. It meant ‘Good w
orker’. But sometimes slaves are given ironic names. He might be the laziest slave Marcus Carolus owned.

  “What struck me,” Damon continued, “was his complaints about what a poor businessman Marcus Carolus is. He said Carolus had spent the morning selling off his silk and spices at a fraction of what they would bring in Rome.”

  “Yes. Carolus told me about the transaction. He’s afraid of having his merchandise stolen out from under him while we’re stalled here.”

  “But, my lord, Euergetes says this is typical of the kinds of unpredictable decisions Carolus makes. Sometimes he decides to go on business trips that don’t make much financial sense. They’ve spent the last year in and around Antioch, to little purpose. The trip was not really necessary or particularly profitable. Carolus paid too much for the silk and spices. But they could have salvaged something on this trip if they hadn’t left so soon, in Euergetes’ opinion.”

  I’m sure the lift of my eyebrow told him what value I placed on this slave’s evaluation of Carolus’ business acumen. “What makes him so sure of that?”

  “Well, my lord,” Damon continued nervously, “Euergetes says another caravan was due to arrive in Antioch in a few days with more goods from the east, including some slaves. A servant from the caravan was sent ahead to alert everyone to its arrival and to make arrangements for lodgings. He said they had several extraordinarily beautiful women from China among the slaves—delicate, almost childlike creatures. Such exotic slaves could have been sold for an enormous profit in Rome. But Carolus wouldn’t stay. With only two day’s notice he decided to return to Rome. His slaves were ordered to pack practically overnight. One was left behind to see to shipping most of their belongings and merchandise. It’s as though there was some reason that Carolus just had to be in this particular caravan.”

  “If you miss a caravan, you can’t always predict when the next one will leave.”

  “Euergetes knew of another one planning to leave several days later, my lord. It wouldn’t have hurt to wait, but Carolus wouldn’t hear of it.”