All Roads Lead to Murder

by Albert A. Bell

  “What reason would the witches have to kidnap her?” Tacitus asked, running a finger over the pentagram. “Or to help her?”

  “To take vengeance on us for . . . you know.”

  “But Anyte didn’t know that Chryseis was going to be here.”

  “This is Melissa’s planning. She must have contacted Anyte for assistance. She’s devoted to Chryseis, and she’s afraid they’ll be sold to different owners.”

  “Two runaway slave women shouldn’t be hard to find,” Tacitus said.

  “You don’t quite see the problem,” I said. “They’re not just running away by themselves. They have help, people who will give them places to hide. And we’re not the only ones looking for them. We’ve got to find them before Marcellus does.” I shifted my attention to Kallisto and her slavegirl. “It’s very important that you say nothing and caution everyone in this household to keep quiet about what has happened. The fewer people who know, the safer Chryseis will be.” I knew my admonition was futile, even as I gave it. The only way I could keep them from talking would be to cut out their tongues.

  * * * *

  Tacitus, Luke, and I returned to the inn and found Anyte and her acolytes leaving the dining room. I stepped in front of her to block her passage but nearly retreated when she folded her arms across her chest. I knew what magnificent breasts she was covering. What I didn’t know was what other surprises she might have hidden in there. I reminded myself of my uncle’s teaching that all religious spectacles are shams, cheap illusions staged to impress the gullible and undergird the power of charlatans. If he had ever stood this close to this practitioner, he might have revised his opinion.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” she said with just a hint of sarcasm on the honorific. “Will you let us pass?”

  “I need to know where you were last night,” I said too rapidly.

  “The nights are long,” she replied, drawing a smile from her leading acolyte. “Could you be more specific?”

  “After midnight. During the last watch.”

  “I was blissfully asleep by then, my lord.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “Why should anyone have to? Has someone else been murdered?” She lowered her heavily colored eyelids and her voice. “Something you value gone missing?”

  “That is none of your concern.” I tried to throw a little swagger into my voice but failed miserably. Even I could sense that.

  “My whereabouts last night are none of your concern, young man!” she snapped. “I resent this interrogation. You are not a magistrate and you have no authority to detain or question anyone. I have stayed this long only in deference to Rome’s power, but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll feel that way.”

  “Before you change your mind entirely,” I said, “may I ask another question that has been bothering me?”

  “You may ask. I’ll decide then whether I’ll answer.”

  I could sense Tacitus edging toward a pillar for protection.

  “You came from Ephesus to Smyrna to worship Artemis, did you not?”

  “You know that.”

  “I also know that there is a magnificent temple of Artemis in Ephesus. Why come all this distance to worship her in the ruins of an ancient temple?”

  She studied me intently before she answered. “Artemis is worshiped in many ways, young sir. Some places are sacred to her under one name, others under another name. She is the tri-form goddess. And now my patience is almost at an end.”

  She gathered up her robes and I cringed, half expecting her to disappear beneath them in a puff of smoke. But she pushed past me and headed for the stairs in a much more mundane sort of exit.

  Tacitus emerged from hiding. “She’s right, you know. If she left right now, there’s nothing you could do about it.” He can be so supportive sometimes.

  “I’m well aware that she’s right,” I groused. “I just hope the rest of the members of the caravan don’t start thinking about it.”

  “I think she knows something, though,” Luke said. I had almost forgotten he was there, he had been so quiet.

  “You mean because of the crack about someone missing? That could just be a lucky guess, given Chryseis’ recent behavior.”

  “No. I was watching her acolytes,” Luke said. “The way two of them glanced at one another, they know something. I guarantee it.”

  “Well, I don’t have any authority to arrest her or to have her servants tortured. We’ll just have to keep an eye on them and start searching for Melissa and Chryseis on our own. I think we have to assume that Anyte made contact with devotees of her cult in the city and that they have spirited Chryseis and Melissa away.”

  “But where?” Tacitus asked. “There are roads leading out of Smyrna in all directions and boats ready to sail at any time.”

  “East,” Luke and I said together. I looked at him in surprise. Could this cannibal and I be thinking alike?

  “Why east?” Tacitus asked.

  “The only way a runaway slave can be truly free,” Luke said, “is to get out of Roman territory entirely. The roads north and south, and the sea to the west, only lead to other parts of the Roman empire. But to the east lies Parthia. And there lies freedom for an escaped slave.”

  “It’s a long and difficult journey, though, isn’t it?” I said. The geography of this region was vague, at best, in my mind.

  “Their most likely route,” Luke said, “would be to Sardis, almost due east of here. Then through Philadelphia and Antioch of Pisidia. From there the road runs northeast along the base of the Taurus Mountains until it reaches the border with Armenia.”

  “You know this area well,” Tacitus said somewhat suspiciously.

  “A friend and I traveled extensively here when I was younger.”

  “How long would it take them to make this trip?” I asked.

  “Under ideal conditions, at least a month. But I suppose they’re going to be hiding out, perhaps even keeping off the main road. It could take twice that.”

  “What will they find in Armenia?” Tacitus asked.

  Armenia is one of our client kingdoms, semi-independent and kept that way intentionally as a buffer between our empire and that of the Parthians. The Armenians would not encourage Roman slaves to flee to their territory, but they would feel no obligation to return those who did.

  “There are settlements of Jews there,” Luke said, “and on down into the Mesopotamian Valley. They’ve been there for several hundred years. These two women could be absorbed into that community, although Chryseis’ hair would make it hard to hide her among those darker-skinned races.”

  “That’s it!” I said, grabbing Tacitus’ arm. “They’ll have to lie low for a day or two to do something about Chryseis’ appearance. They’ll dye her hair or get a wig, something to disguise her. I think we’ve still got time. Go roust out the boularch Nicomedes. Tell him we need to look for a runaway slave. We’ll need some dogs. Anything that’s good at picking up a scent.”

  “Some big Molossian hounds, perhaps?”

  I cringed. “I can’t make jokes about that yet. Have them assemble at Apelles’ house.” I turned to Luke. “Will you come with us, doctor? If we find her, she may need medical care.” And if we don’t, I may, I thought.

  Luke assented, but before we could set out for Apelles’ house I was accosted by Orophernes.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” he said with his customary bow. “Could I have a private word with you?”

  “I need to speak with my chief spy,” I said to Luke in Latin. He appeared thoroughly confused.

  All I could do was take a few steps away from Luke and huddle on the street corner with Orophernes, who dropped his voice to a whisper. “I thought you’d like to know, my lord, that Lysimachus was seen coming in shortly after dawn.”

  “You do seem to take a peculiar interest in that man’s comings and goings.”

  “His room is across from mine, and I can see through a crack in my door.”

  “So his ac
tivities interest you. Why should they interest me?”

  “Oh, my lord, I saw something unusual this morning. Lysimachus looked entirely worn out and had scratch marks on his face and arms.”

  I wasn’t sure what that information meant, but it seemed worth the couple of coins I fished out of my money bag.

  * * * *

  My request that Luke accompany me was made impulsively, due to my distraction over my concern for Chryseis. I regretted it by the time we had crossed the street. This man was a Christian, a member of an unrecognized cult. If I had knowledge of his participation, wasn’t I obligated to report it to the governor? Now I had saddled myself with him when I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. I didn’t even know how to begin a conversation as we walked. And I had to walk more slowly than I wanted to, so he could keep up with me.

  “So, you were eavesdropping on our service this morning,” he said with a slight smile.

  I spun around. “How did you know?”

  “One of our group saw you crouched outside the door.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t kill me.”

  “Why would we do that?” He appeared to be genuinely surprised.

  “Most secret cults don’t appreciate having people spying on them. That witch from Ephesus certainly doesn’t.”

  “We’re not a secret cult. We proclaim our message openly and would prefer for you to hear it and receive it.”

  “What message is that?”

  “The message about Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “Jesus? Yes, I’ve heard a bit about him. Some sort of revolutionary or bandit, wasn’t he?”

  “I suppose he would look like that to a Roman official,” Luke said.

  “He must have been. Wasn’t he crucified?” That particular form of execution is reserved for the lowest sort of criminals and rebellious slaves. Like Chryseis and Melissa! The government would be within its rights to crucify them if they were captured.

  “Yes, he was crucified.” Luke sounded almost proud of the fact.

  “Who ordered it?”

  “Pontius Pilate, governor of Judaea when Tiberius was emperor.”

  Pilate’s name struck a faintly familiar chord. I was acquainted with two of his grandchildren. They weren’t prominent people in Rome but did mingle on the fringes of my social circle. Perhaps I could ask them about this matter when I got back to the city.

  “But what you don’t understand,” Luke said, “is that God raised him from the dead. He is the son of God.” His face began to glow.

  “Another one of those, eh? Like Hercules?”

  “Could Hercules heal the sick, or calm a storm? Did your gods raise Hercules from the dead?”

  “Everyone knows Hercules is just a myth. If you start claiming that a historical person was the son of God and was raised him from the dead, those claims are hard to verify,” I pointed out. “If not impossible.”

  “Hundreds of people witnessed his miracles and saw him after his resurrection.”

  “Were you one of them?”

  “No, I was just a boy at the time. But I trust the testimony of those who did.”

  “Where are they?” I said, looking around as I would do in a courtroom to emphasize the absence of the witnesses.

  “Their accounts have been written down for all to see. I’ve written a book about Jesus myself.”

  “Anyone can write a book about anything,” I said.

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “My young friend, you’ve read too many books by Skeptics and Cynics.”

  “Regardless of that, what is the significance of eating the body and drinking the blood? Whose body? Whose blood?”

  “The body and blood of Christ. That’s what we see in the bread and wine.” His urgent tone indicated it was very important to him that I understand, even if I couldn’t accept, his message. “Jesus himself ordained the ritual which you overheard us performing. It commemorates his sacrificial death on the cross.”

  “There you are back to his being crucified.”

  “Of course. It’s the heart of our message.”

  “Didn’t Nero execute some Christians in the aftermath of the great fire? So you’ve got the founder of your group executed as a criminal and a recent emperor condemning you as arsonists. Hardly an impressive pedigree.”

  “I’m surprised you cite Nero as an example of anything. That’s the only case where the government has taken action against us, and everyone knows that Nero was deranged and looking for a scapegoat. The governor of Achaia, Lucius Junius Gallio, refused to hear charges against my friend Paul, who was a Roman citizen, as I am. Gallio was the brother of Seneca, whom I’ve heard you quote to good advantage.”

  “A governor’s decisions,” I pointed out, “hold force only in his own province during his tenure. They don’t set policy for the entire empire, or even for the next governor of that province. The government has the right to inquire into the activities of any group, if it may pose a danger to the common safety.”

  “But,” Luke replied with more heat, “what threat do we pose? You Romans simply don’t know who or what we are.”

  “How can we know? The only information we have comes from rumors and charges from your enemies.”

  “I can let you read the book I’ve written about Jesus.”

  One of those in his wagon, I assumed. “And what would that tell me?”

  “You seem to have a scientific mind. A true scientist should examine various sides of a question before he commits himself to one, shouldn’t he?”

  He had me there. Chagrined, I agreed to read his book.

  “I’ll get it to you later today. Apelles’ scribes have been making a few copies. I’m now writing a second book, about the early days of the church and the activities of my friend Paul. He was a leader in spreading the good news of our faith across the Roman world. I’m traveling with Timothy to gather material for that book. Timothy and I both traveled with Paul twenty years ago. Now that generation is dying off. Apelles was one I especially wanted to talk to. He knew Paul in Rome years ago. Our history needs to be written before all the witnesses are gone.”

  “It sounds like an ambitious project.”

  Luke nodded sadly. “I wish I had started a few years ago. People are dying off, like Apelles, and my own strength is not what it was.”

  I needed to ask one more question. “I was especially surprised to see Tiberius Saturninus in your group. He’s from a noble Roman family. Are there many like him?”

  Luke pursed his lips in thought. “There are more Christians in Rome, and more highly placed, than you suspect. Saturninus is a recent convert. He accepted the faith while he was in Syria. He still has much to learn and some old ways to unlearn.”

  “His gambling, you mean?”

  “Precisely. Its grip on him is more powerful than any disease I’ve ever seen attack a man. He can fight against it for a while, like a man on his way to recovering from an illness, but then it seizes him again. As Jesus once said, you cannot serve two masters. Saturninus has yet to learn that.”

  “He is deeply in debt, I gather. Someone, he told me, had paid off his debts to various individuals, leaving him heavily obligated to this one person. He wouldn’t name him.”

  “Yes. He has told me that this man now lords it over him like a little king.”

  A little king! Luke might have missed the pun in Greek, but in Latin it would be Regulus! That’s the very meaning of the name.

  * * * *

  In the alley behind the house three strong hunting dogs soon strained at their leashes, yipping excitedly. The man in charge of them explained in a Greek so ungrammatical it would have made Sophocles weep that ‘all they needs is somewhat to pick up the girlie’s scent.’

  “What about the blanket she was wrapped in after . . . last night?” I said. “She was sweating heavily.”

  Standing at the back door of the house, with the witches’ pentagram glaring at us, we let the dogs pick up the scent from the bl
anket. They turned right out of the alley, headed south. Tacitus and I trotted to keep up as they passed through the city gate by which I had first entered Smyrna and into the necropolis on the south side of town. There the scent gave out, leaving the dogs circling and baying hopelessly.

  “She must have gotten into a wagon or on a horse,” I said.

  “So we have no way of knowing where she might have gone,” Tacitus said glumly.

  “There’s no guarantee,” I said, “but I’m willing to bet they didn’t go south.”

  “Then why come to this side of town?”

  “To get us headed in the wrong direction.”

  * * * *

  As we returned to town the traffic around us grew heavier. The dogs’ handler explained that everyone was turning out for the funeral games in honor of Apelles. He was eager to be finished with our business so he could get a seat. We dismissed him with our thanks and a few coins.

  Near our inn we ran into the boularch Nicomedes, giving orders and sending slaves bustling this way and that. “Any luck?” he asked us.

  “Not yet,” I replied. “We’ll keep looking.”

  “But now you must take some time to attend my games,” the oily weasel said.

  “Your games? Aren’t they being given by Apelles’ family?” That would be the normal protocol. The family of the deceased would put on games to propitiate the gods and to insure that the name of their loved one would not soon be forgotten.

  “Apelles and his family . . . have some peculiar ideas,” Nicomedes said. “They did not wish to sponsor any games, so I’ve decided to step in. The people expect it.”

  It suddenly struck me that the family probably refrained from sponsoring the games because they were Christians and so not concerned with what our gods thought of them. But Nicomedes could stage them as a way of boosting his own popularity, maybe even get himself re-elected. And perhaps quell popular unrest. The crowd would be expecting some such entertainment after the death of a prominent person. He was right about that. And disappointed crowds can turn nasty.

  “I’ve added a few special touches in honor of our guests from Rome,” Nicomedes announced proudly. “And I’ve saved seats for you where you’ll have an excellent view.”