I groaned inwardly. Even if I were not distracted by the loss of Chryseis, the last thing I would want to do would be to attend one of these inhuman spectacles. I find the blood and gore repulsive. I was stymied, though. With no idea where to begin a search, I could not authorize enough men to comb the entire city. Perhaps I should curry favor with Nicomedes by going to the games. I would try to block out what was happening in front of me and consider my options in the search for Chryseis.
Tacitus, on the other hand, was eager for the bloodletting to begin. “If we expect to get cooperation from the local authorities,” he pointed out in Latin so Nicomedes wouldn’t understand, “in this search for Chryseis and for Cornutus’ murderer, we’d better make a goodwill gesture and attend the games.” He dashed into the inn to put on his toga, the requisite garment for any upper-class Roman on such an occasion.
I stood by the door, as though I could postpone the inevitable. Luke nodded his head. “I suspect Tacitus is right,” he said, also in Latin. “I share your disdain for the games, my friend. In some ways you are a person with a kind of godly spirit, but your position in society requires you to go this time.”
“You, of course, have no such obligation,” I said drily.
“None whatsoever.” Luke smiled without being smug. “I will retire to my room and give some thought to the puzzles besetting us.”
“At least the time won’t be entirely wasted,” I said. “Oh, please tell Tiberius Saturninus I’d like to talk to him this afternoon.”
I trudged up the stairs, rousted Damon, and got into my second-best toga. I hadn’t anticipated that I would need even one of the cumbersome things during this trip, so I had sent most of my wardrobe home by ship. I hoped there was a laundry nearby equipped to handle this type of load. Washing and drying a toga is not a task to be undertaken on the fly.
I decided to have my slaves and Cornutus’ accompany me to the games. They would provide an escort through the crush of the crowd and I could keep an eye on Cornutus’ people more easily than if they were being held somewhere in the inn. Allowing them this diversion might also improve their attitudes toward me. I sent my overseer Trophimus to assemble everyone on the street in front of the inn.
Coming down the stairs I ran into Marcus Carolus. He jumped right over the usual formalities and courtesies and asked, “Is there any news about the girl?”
I pondered my reply carefully. Carolus’s concern for Chryseis was endearing in a way but also unsettling. Other than a bit of shared Germanic ancestry, what was there about her that was causing him to fixate on her? I decided to heed the advice I had given Kallisto and her slave. “She has recovered completely from her injury on the stairs. The last time I spoke with her she was feeling well.” I felt like a slave, telling enough of the truth to serve my purpose but concealing a lie that could lead to the necessity of an even bigger lie.
“Would it be all right if I visited her?” Carolus asked.
That quickly was I caught. How much could I tell him?
Carolus sensed at once that something was not as it should be. “What is it?” He pressed his broad face close to mine. “What’s wrong?”
“All right.” I looked around to be certain that no one was within earshot. “The truth is that Chryseis and Melissa have disappeared, sometime during the night.”
“Again?” Carolus exploded. “By the gods! How do you Romans rule an empire when you can’t keep track of a single slave girl? Is anyone searching for her?”
“We hired some dogs this morning and tracked her to the necropolis on the south side of town. The dogs lost the scent there. She may have gotten onto a horse or into a wagon.”
“Why would they go south?”
“I’m not sure they did.” I was taking him more and more into my confidence without making a conscious decision to do so. “Perhaps they started in that direction to throw off anyone who might be searching for them.”
“Who is searching?” Carolus’ voice rose in anxiety.
“At the moment, no one,” I said, putting up my hands to fend him off. “I would be if I didn’t have to attend the funeral games for Apelles. I expect to be back on the hunt by this afternoon.”
“But you’re wasting precious time!”
“Calm yourself, Marcus Carolus. I’m in a difficult situation here. I have no authority to order an extensive search. With these games about to begin, I’m not sure I could even find anyone to help me. I doubt the women are going to get far in the next few hours. Most likely, they will travel by night and hide during the day. A few hours’ delay isn’t going to make much difference in finding them.”
“Perhaps not to you,” he said in disgust and turned on his heel and stormed out.
XII
WE WERE BARELY IN OUR SEATS when Nicomedes, directly across the stadium from me in the box reserved for the sponsor of the games, waved a white cloth, signaling for the games to begin. A roar went up from the crowd, including Tacitus in my right ear, as a massive gate, at the end of the arena to my left, slowly opened and the procession began to wend its way around the arena. Behind wagons carrying images of the gods the performers—gladiators, animal trainers, acrobats, and athletes—marched proudly and saluted the crowd. This much was familiar from the few times I had attended the games in Rome.
Nicomedes’ games were small by comparison with those staged in Rome, but then everything is small by Roman standards. Like the Circus Maximus, this elliptical stadium was more suited to horse racing than to the type of games to be staged today, but it seated only twenty thousand, barely a tenth of what the Roman Circus held. The divider running down the middle blocked our view of what was happening on the other side, so we saw only half of the procession at a time.
In deference to Greek tradition, and while people were settling into their seats, he began with athletic competitions going on simultaneously in different parts of the arena. Any reader of Homer could recognize the allusion, as it were, to the funeral games of Patroclus in the Iliad. First several chariots ran a short race, followed by contests in archery, footraces, and a boxing match. The only one that interested the crowd, though, was the boxing. It was the only one that offered the prospect of any blood being spilled, especially since the combatants were outfitted with the Roman—and definitely not Homeric—caestus.
Nicomedes gauged exactly how long to let these rather benign competitions run. It was as though he sensed the precise moment when the crowd began to shift in their seats. At his signal, six prisoners were then brought in, stripped naked and forced to carry pieces of the crosses they would be crucified on. Each prisoner was held down by two guards while a third drove the large nails into his flesh, just behind the wrist bone and above the ankle. One poor fellow resisted violently and almost broke away, to the delight of the crowd. One of the guards brought his knee up to the man’s groin and put an end to his struggle.
The crosses were hoisted upright and three were set up facing our side of the stadium, with the other three facing the other side, so that everyone would have a splendid view. A herald announced the crimes for which these men were being executed and signs were nailed on the crosses beneath their feet. One was a murderer, two were slaves who had assaulted their masters, and the other three were highway bandits who had preyed on caravans such as ours. I wouldn’t deny that they deserved punishment, perhaps even death, but why this way? The wretches on the crosses wept, pled for mercy, or cursed the crowd. Some in the crowd taunted them back and threw messy bits of food at them. I noticed that Damon was moved to tears by this display. He muttered something about forgiving people because they didn’t know what they were doing.
One thing did puzzle me. Victims of crucifixion can sometimes take two or three days to die. I didn’t think even the most blood-thirsty crowd would find much entertainment in that long a wait. I leaned over to Tacitus. “They won’t be dead by the end of the games, will they?” I asked.
“Oh, their throats will be cut later in the day,” he replied as
matter-of-factly as if he were explaining some aspect of the stadium’s architecture. “Or maybe they’ll be disemboweled. Whatever the crowd wants.”
And it would be done without my presence, I resolved at once, no matter how big an affront to our host that might be.
On Nicomedes’ next signal the gates at both ends of the arena swung open. From my left emerged a band of fifteen or twenty men and women—more condemned prisoners. Out of the opposite gate the animal trainers brought their charges into the arena—a pack of lions, tigers, and other ferocious hunters. The trainers released the big cats from their leashes and prodded them with sharp sticks toward the miserable little band, who just then realized the enormity of what was happening to them.
Some pounded on the gates behind them, but they were closed as irrevocably as our yesterdays. Others ran around the arena as though they might find some cranny where they could take refuge. The ones who were running attracted the animals’ attention first. A woman actually tried to climb one of the crosses, but a tiger caught her by the heel and dragged her down. The crunching of her bones could be heard at least as far as our seats.
To distract myself from the mayhem, I surveyed the crowd. Their faces displayed a kind of rapture, or ecstasy, similar to what I saw on the faces of those women worshiping Hecate. Why are people so drawn to this form of ‘entertainment’? Why am I so repulsed by it? Am I being arrogant? Is love of the games a measure of one’s lack of education or sophistication? Then why is Tacitus, every bit as educated and sophisticated as I am, screaming like a madman over every drop of blood that soaks into the sand? And why is Damon, the slave, covering his ears with his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on his lap?
I was relieved to note that Marcellus was also at the games, seated prominently next to the sponsor’s box. At least he couldn’t be up to any mischief as long as he was here. Or was I being too optimistic? (I couldn’t let myself say ‘sanguine’ in these circumstances.) Regulus was in Rome, but he was creating trouble here in Smyrna. I was sure of it. People of his sort don’t need to be physically present in a spot to exercise their baleful influence.
As I observed Marcellus, a man came up to him and whispered something in his ear. Marcellus listened intently and nodded his head but appeared displeased. Good. Whatever displeases Marcellus must have some virtue to it.
Pairs of gladiators were next on the program. Much as I hate to admit it, that type of display even had Homeric sanction, although Achilles did specify that the fight would end when blood had been drawn, not when one man stood over another and slit his throat from ear to ear.
I endured the slaughter until the midday break. Even then, while the crowd was getting something to eat or relieving themselves and an awning was being drawn over the seats to protect us from the sun, Nicomedes had arranged for one of the crudest forms of combat. A group of condemned men and women were brought into the arena wearing leather headcoverings which blindfolded them and which they could not remove. Each person carried a sword or club but no shield. At the signal they began flailing around blindly. When these random blows found a mark, the crowd hooted and yelled instructions such as, ‘Look out to your right!’ Sometimes the crowd would deliberately mislead the combatants. The purpose of this little exercise in barbarism is to force the criminals to execute one another. The sight brought to mind Seneca’s comment that ‘In the morning men are thrown to the lions and bears; at noon they’re thrown to the spectators.’
When Tacitus returned to his seat I told him I was leaving. Damon immediately asked if he might accompany me. I agreed and asked Tacitus to look out for the slaves who chose to remain.
I walked rapidly back to the inn, regretting that I was wasting time when I could be searching for Chryseis. Damon kept pace, walking alongside me more like a friend than a slave accompanying his master. To blunt his presumption a bit I asked him, “How long have you been a Christian?”
Damon was as frightened as he had been when we discovered that Chryseis had gotten out of the room he was supposed to be guarding. “How did you know, my lord?”
“I was in the garden at Apelles’ house yesterday morning when your group was gathering for your ritual. I saw you and the others, Luke among them, assembling. Luke and I have talked a bit about it. How did you become a part of this group? You’ve been a slave in my uncle’s house and in mine for most of your life.”
“A slave your uncle purchased about ten years ago was Christian. She talked with others of us about it.”
“You mean there are other Christians in my household?”
“A few, my lord.”
I knew I could ask him who and where they were—either in my house in Rome or on one of my estates—and he was expecting me to, but at the moment I didn’t feel like pressing the point.
My silence unsettled him. “What are you. . .going to do, my lord?”
“I see no reason to do anything. I’m unsure of your group’s legal status. I’ll inquire about that when we get back to the city, you can rest assured. I am more concerned that you deserted your post when guarding Chryseis’ door than that you follow some obscure cult. As long as the cult doesn’t teach slaves to rise up against their masters, I see no immediate reason for concern.”
“I assure you, my lord, it doesn’t. Christians are taught to accept their position in life as ordained by God.”
“Then how are you different from the Stoics?” I asked.
“We believe that God cares for each of us,” Damon said, “not that he is an impersonal force dishing out fortune or misfortune at random.”
“What proof do you have of this belief?”
“That he sent his son to teach us and to die for us.”
“This son, that would be Jesus, the one you call the Christ?”
“Yes, my lord.” He glanced at me with a look of amazement and distrust that I knew something I wasn’t supposed to know.
“He was crucified, wasn’t he? Just like those men we saw back there?”
“Yes, my lord. I’d never seen a crucifixion before.” He clutched his stomach. “I had no idea of the horror of it, of what Jesus must have gone through.”
“And you worship someone who was put to death like a common criminal?”
“I don’t worship him. I worship God.”
In answer to my quizzical look, he continued, walking sideways and gesturing as if in his rising excitement at being allowed to speak freely, he was totally forgetting his place as a slave.
“I believe Jesus is the ultimate messenger of God, a means of expressing God’s will to us in a way humans can grasp. By calling him God’s son, we mean he is closer to God than anyone has ever been and speaks for God in ways that no prophet ever has. How can we comprehend God himself unless we can see him in a form that makes sense to us? Even in the Greek and Roman myths the gods take shapes that humans are familiar with in order to communicate with us. And Jesus was raised from the dead on the third day, my lord.” he suddenly clasped his hands together and looked down, remembering who and where he was. “ I’m sure Luke explained that to you.”
“He told me what you claim. I’m not sure anyone can ‘explain’ something so totally illogical. I’m surprised that a man as learned as Luke would be taken in by such a pack of lies. The simple fact, Damon, is that the dead do not rise. Not one of those men we saw crucified today will ever see another sunrise.”
“With God all things are possible, my lord.”
* * * *
My plan was to get out of my toga, eat a quick lunch, and assemble a few people to help me search for Chryseis. Three seemed the minimum number I could get by with. I knew we would be going into the temple of Artemis in old Smyrna. If the witch was involved in this disappearance, Chryseis was there or had been there. Damon could be trusted to hold the horses, but whom would I get to go into the temple with me? All of my slaves and Cornutus’ would be at the games until dinner. Marcus Carolus would assist me, I was sure, but Androcles, the innkeeper, told me he hadn’t seen
Carolus in several hours. Shortly after my conversation with him before the games began, Androcles reported, Carolus had stormed out of the inn, not to be seen since.
As I was pondering my dilemma, Luke and Timothy entered the dining room and sat down with me.
“I’ve been trying to find Tiberius Saturninus for you,” Luke said. “But no one has seen him since he left Apelles’ house after our worship this morning.”
“We’re afraid he may have found some gamblers,” Timothy added.
“Or some gamblers may have found him,” I said. The sinister-looking man and his muscular companion had not yet redeemed my pledge of ten tetradrachmas. Perhaps their scruples demanded that they take it out of Saturninus’ hide.
“If we find him,” Luke said, “we’ll try to keep him here until you can talk to him. May we know what you want to ask?”
“It’s a money matter.”
“Better not tell him that,” Timothy said tiredly. “He’ll just go back into hiding.”
“I gather he’s not one of your more successful . . . students? What do you call people who join your group?”
“We call them our brothers and sisters in Christ.”
I could see Timothy getting more nervous with each word Luke spoke. He obviously didn’t like to talk about such matters openly. But Luke, like any old man who can see the end of his life drawing nearer every day, was less and less concerned with what a Roman magistrate might think about his cult. Or do to him for belonging to it.
“Jesus once told a story,” Luke said, “about a man sowing seed. It was a parable about how people receive our message. I’m afraid Saturninus is one whose faith sprang up quickly, like a seed that has a shallow root. It withers in the heat. You can read the whole story in my book.”
“I’ll look forward to that. Right now I’m looking for someone to accompany me on a short ride. I think I know where Chryseis is. Everyone else is too consumed with Nicomedes’ games to go with me now. I don’t want to lose any more time than I already have.”
All Roads Lead to Murder Page 18