All Roads Lead to Murder

by Albert A. Bell

  From something in his voice I suspected Florus had no real heart for executing the slaves. He seemed to be defending himself against himself. I decided to take one more risk.

  “Excellency, why not send them back to Rome for execution? The emperor is always looking for victims for the games. It’s difficult to keep up with the demand. Tacitus and I could insure their delivery since we’re going there anyway.”

  Florus studied me suspiciously, like a child trying to divine which hand holds a prize. “That might not be a bad idea,” he finally said. “It would show my adherence to the law and provide the emperor with something he needs as well. Yes, let’s do it that way.”

  I sighed with relief that I had bought Melissa some time. Of course, she might not consider that a favor after her beating.

  “Now,” Florus said, “so much for business. Please join us, gentlemen.”

  Tacitus and I settled ourselves in chairs between Florus and his two guests.

  “This job is so demanding,” Florus said. “I hope neither of you ever have to be governor of a province. It’s an honor I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. If I’d known what a burden it was going to be, I don’t think I would have stood for the consulship.”

  His comments surprised me, to put it mildly. The consulship is the pinnacle of a Roman man’s political career. After holding it, we are required to govern a province somewhere as a proconsul, unless health or some other complication prevents us. But our focus is always on the glory which the consulship brings to us and to our families. I had known from the day I made my first appearance in court, four years ago, that the consulship was my goal. The minor offices I’d held so far were just stepping stones toward that objective. But if it wasn’t a desirable prize . . . ?

  “Let me introduce you to these distinguished gentlemen.” Florus gestured to the other two men at the table. “This is Callicrates, head of the local library, a man who shares my own interests in scientific research.” He indicated the older man. “His companion is Plutarch from Chaeronea. He is on his way to study in Alexandria.”

  “Our paths have crossed,” Callicrates said, “though you may not remember. We were in the bath a few days ago when you came in, shortly after your arrival in Smyrna, I believe.”

  “I thought you were familiar for some reason,” I said.

  “We were sorry to hear of the death of your friend, Cornutus,” Plutarch said. “He was an impressive, vigorous man. It’s hard to imagine he was so brutally murdered only a short time after we saw him.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Did either of you suffer any ill effects from the wine Marcellus bought for us?”

  Tacitus’ eyes bulged. I thought he was going to choke on his bread.

  “You see, I was a bit ill later that evening,” I continued, “and I was wondering if it might have been something I ate or drank.”

  Callicrates and Plutarch shook their heads and looked at one another.

  “Just to refresh my memory,” I said as Tacitus coughed, “Marcellus’ slave went out to order the wine, didn’t he.”

  Callicrates and Plutarch nodded.

  “But a slave girl from the bath brought it in and handed a cup to Cornutus and one to Marcellus.”

  “That’s correct,” Plutarch said. “Then the rest of us took whichever cup we wanted.”

  “That’s as I remember it,” I said. “Thank you for confirming that.”

  Florus looked at me impatiently. “Is there some point to these questions, Gaius Pliny?”

  “Probably not, excellency. Please, continue with whatever conversation you were having before I came in.”

  “We were discussing natural phenomena,” Florus said. “The sort of thing your father wrote about so brilliantly. Callicrates was describing a place on the bay where the rising waters behave in a most peculiar manner. I want to go out to see it. Would you like to come along? I’m told it’s a short ride. We’ll be back in time for a bath and dinner.”

  Since I had missed dinner the previous evening and deprived Florus of the opportunity to discuss my uncle’s work, I felt myself under a kind of imperative to make amends by accompanying him. Perhaps an afternoon’s diversion would help clear my mind. I was making no progress in finding Chryseis or determining who killed Cornutus. This jaunt would be a complete waste of time, I was sure. My uncle would have been eager to see the thing, but what could I possibly learn from some hole in the ground?

  XIV

  IT WAS ALL I COULD DO to force myself to eat so I would be fortified for the trip out to the bay. Hearing that Cornutus’ slaves were being tortured sickened me. What had poor Phrixus ever done to deserve such treatment? And Phoebe, I knew from my own conversation with her, was good-hearted and perhaps a bit simple-minded.

  Florus, Callicrates, Plutarch, Tacitus, and I set off on horseback just after noon. We were accompanied by some of Florus’ soldiers and Callicrates’ slaves. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to actually travel alone. Most Roman aristocrats can’t even go to the latrine without an entourage. On this day, though, what I most longed for was a hat to shield my sensitive eyes from the sun. At least the breeze off the water diminished the heat.

  It was in fact a short ride west along a road that ran beside the bay toward the town of Clazomenae. After a couple of miles Callicrates called us to a halt, and we dismounted. The coastline at this point was a low cliff with no beach at all. The waves breaking on the rocks below were close enough to spray us.

  “Lovely view,” I said. “But I don’t see anything unusual.”

  “Follow me,” Callicrates said, gathering his cloak around him against the sea breeze.

  He led us twenty paces or so farther up the coast to a spot where the ground appeared to have collapsed, leaving a hole shaped like a letter C. The ground around the hole was the lowest spot on the shore as far as we could see in either direction. The soldiers and slaves stood back while we stood on the rim and looked down into it at the water lapping at the rocks.

  “I wanted to come out here now,” Callicrates said, “because this phenomenon can only be observed when the water is rising, as it does in the spring when the rivers are running full. For whatever reason, it’s especially noticeable at the time of the full moon.”

  The little basin or cup-like enclave continued to fill, as the water approached the lip of the hole. I studied it intently, waiting for some surprise. Tacitus was less patient.

  “What’s so amazing about rising water?” he whispered. “In Rome we wouldn’t walk across the street to watch this.”

  “Well, this is the provinces,” I replied, provoking a short laugh from him.

  “I wonder what they do when it rains?” he said. “Declare a holiday so everybody can celebrate the miracle?”

  Callicrates silenced us with a glance, as he might talkative students in the back of his classroom. “When I bring students out here,” he said, “I like to show them the power of my learning, for I now forbid the water to rise any further.” He held out his hands as if to stop it, like a magician.

  And it stopped! The water was still coming into the basin. That was clear because it was still rising along the rest of the shore, but it wasn’t coming up any higher in the hole. By now it should have been almost up to the rim of the basin and in danger of overflowing onto the land. Even Tacitus was awed into silence. I knelt as close to the edge as I dared and peered over.

  “Your father, the great Pliny, would have enjoyed this, wouldn’t he?” Florus asked.

  “He would have taken a keen interest,” I said. “No offense to your magical powers intended, Callicrates, but what is the secret?”

  Callicrates laughed pleasantly. “A disbeliever, are you? Well, I wish I could tell you the secret.”

  “Oh, come now,” Florus said. “You brought us all the way out here, and you refuse to divulge the secret? That’s no way to treat your guests.”

  “No, I mean I wish I knew the secret so I could tell you,” Callicrates said.

/>   I stood and brushed my hands together. “Are you serious? You don’t know why the water doesn’t rise any farther?”

  “No one does,” Callicrates said, and he seemed almost proud of his ignorance.

  “How long has this basin been here?” Florus asked.

  “It appeared in the last year of Nero’s reign. There was a particularly bad storm that winter, and the ground collapsed at this point.”

  “And in fifteen years no one has discovered the cause of this phenomenon?” I asked.

  “Not for lack of trying,” Callicrates replied. “I myself have tied one of my slaves to a rope and lowered him into the water to try to gain some understanding of it.”

  “Have you gone into the water yourself?”

  He stepped back, as if he thought I might be about to throw him in. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re interested in finding the cause. Your slave’s only concern was to keep from drowning.”

  “Surely you aren’t suggesting that I put myself in danger of drowning,” Callicrates said.

  “My uncle put himself in the path of an erupting volcano. A pool of water hardly seems a challenge in comparison to that.”

  Callicrates drew himself up, as though I had offended him deeply. “Young man, you have some very peculiar ideas.”

  “I suppose they appear that way,” I said, “but I’ll have an explanation for this before we leave today.”

  I pulled off my tunic and handed it to Tacitus, who draped it over his shoulder. Then I jumped into the water, feet first.

  “You fool!” Florus shouted. “What are you doing?”

  The water was much colder than I expected, and I gasped. The sound I made must have startled Tacitus. He stepped toward the rim of the pool.

  “Gaius Pliny! Are you all right?”

  “Yes!” I shouted back. “I’m fine.” If my voice hadn’t been quavering so much, I might have sounded more convincing.

  I swam the few feet toward the edge of the pool. A ring of rock protruded most of the way around the basin, about a foot below the rim. I became aware of a current in the water pulling me toward that ring. The water came up to the ring but would not rise above it. Taking a deep breath, I submerged myself and tried to inspect the ring by sight, but the water was swirling too much for me to see anything.

  I surfaced and, like a stick floating wherever the water wants to take it, let myself be carried to the point where the current seemed strongest. There I braced myself against the rock with my feet and left hand and ran my right hand along the lower side of the rock ring. Even with my teeth chattering, I smiled.

  Now I became aware of commotion around me. Florus must have ordered his soldiers to rescue me. Several of them were kneeling on the rim of the basin and extending their spears. “Grab on, sir!” they shouted.

  I waved them off and swam over to a spot where the rocks in the wall of the basin provided sufficient footing for me to climb. When I emerged on land I was surrounded by soldiers and scholars like nymphs attending Aphrodite. Tacitus toweled me off with my tunic, and then I slipped it on. Florus commanded one of his soldiers to give me his cloak. For that I was grateful, since I couldn’t stop shivering.

  “I thought you hated the water,” Tacitus chided me.

  “I do. But my uncle insisted that I learn to swim. Any Roman who expects to make long sea voyages should know how, he said. It might save his life in the all too likely event the ship sinks.”

  Florus regarded me with his arms folded across his chest. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, young man. Do you ever do anything in the traditional way?”

  I met his gaze. “If it will achieve the results I need,” I said, “I have no objection to following tradition.”

  “You promised us an explanation,” Callicrates reminded me.

  I let him wait another moment while the chattering in my teeth subsided a bit more. “It’s quite simple, actually. There’s a narrow fissure under that ring of rock. The water runs in there, down through a series of channels, I suppose. It may drain back into the bay. Or maybe there’s a grotto. The ground under our feet must look like a piece of rotten wood or a honeycomb. Considering the erosive power of water, there will certainly be further undermining of the shore along here and the area we’re standing on will eventually collapse, as this section did.”

  Several of the soldiers stepped back immediately.

  “So that’s how it’s done!” Callicrates said.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s how it was done.”

  “You seem to be taking particular pleasure in your discovery,” Florus said.

  “Oh, I was just thinking . . . how my uncle would have reacted to it.”

  Callicrates put a hand on my arm. “May I offer my condolences on your loss, even at this late date? It was a great loss for everyone who loves learning. Your uncle’s books hold an honored place in our library. We have a lovely illustrated copy of the Natural History. We would be pleased to have you visit us while you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

  On the ride back to Smyrna I signaled to Tacitus and he and I dropped behind the others.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Since you’ve proved so adept at making inquiries in low places, could I ask you, when we get back to Smyrna, to see if you can find the slave girl who brought us the wine that first afternoon in the bath?”

  * * * *

  My mind was still spinning with my inspiration—it felt like a kind of madness, just as Plato said—when we returned to our rooms to gather our bath necessities. I had formed a plan to prove how Marcellus had poisoned Cornutus. My only frustration now was that the assistance I needed wouldn’t be available until tomorrow; all the shops were closed as people made their way to the baths. This was one of those times when I wondered how anything gets done in our society, given the amount of time we spend eating, bathing, and attending games, plays and other forms of amusement.

  When I reached my door I found a slave standing there, shifting from one foot to the other as though he had been waiting for quite a while. “My lord, my master, Marcus Carolus, requests that you honor him with a visit to his quarters.”

  “Now?” I protested. I really did want a bath.

  “It’s a matter of the greatest urgency,” the slave said, “about the girl Chryseis.”

  That name was all it took to get me to follow him to Carolus’ room, which was on the same floor as mine but in a wing running at a right angle to my section of the building. This section, on the north side of the building, was cooler than where I was staying. Carolus jumped up as soon as the slave opened the door. The two slaves with him in the room scrambled to their feet. He looked like a man in genuine distress, his eyes red and vacant, his hair a mess.

  “At last!” he said. “Thank you, Gaius Pliny, for coming.”

  “Do you know something about Chryseis?”

  He groaned so loudly—almost a roar—I thought he must be in pain. “I have done . . . an incredibly stupid thing. And now Chryseis is in danger because of me.”

  He was making me agitated. “Please, Carolus, tell me what has happened. Is Chryseis all right?”

  He slumped down on his bed and held his head in his hands. The two slaves resumed their seats on the floor in a corner. “Young sir, I foolishly sent some men to find her.”

  “What? Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

  “Because no one else was doing anything. You were going to games. The governor was taking his time getting here. I thought I knew where she might be, because of the witches’ sign that was left on the door. I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

  “Then those were your men who raped Melissa? These men?” I gestured angrily toward the two slaves.

  “No. No. I hired some local thugs.” He began to cry. It amazed me to see tears flow from a man so big and intimidating, like discovering a waterfall at the top of a mountain.

 
; “I never intended for anything like that to happen. Or for her to suffer the beating she did. I would gladly have taken her place under the lash.”

  “It’s as much my fault as anyone’s. I found her. I didn’t have to bring her back here. But none of that will be much comfort to her. We’re both a couple of stupid bastards.”

  He wouldn’t even look up. “I deserve every insult you can throw at me. But no one was doing anything.”

  “If you knew where Chryseis was, why not just send your own slaves to get her? Why hire someone?”

  “I couldn’t keep her here. I needed someone who could hide her for a couple of days until this mess is cleared up and I could get her out of here.”

  “All right. Let’s get to the point. What has happened?”

  “My plan backfired. The men I hired were supposed to take Chryseis to a hiding place of theirs and notify me. Instead, they’re demanding a ransom for her. They’re threatening to cut off one of her fingers if I don’t respond by tomorrow. And another finger for each additional day that I delay paying them.”

  He held out a sheet of papyrus with a swatch of golden hair held to it by a glob of wax. I took it and read a crudely written note. “Who delivered this?”

  “It was slipped under my door while we were eating lunch today. No one saw who brought it.”

  “Whoever wrote it barely knows Greek.”

  “The man I dealt with wasn’t Greek. He told me his name was Matthias. We had some trouble settling the deal because his Greek was even poorer than mine. He talked to the other two in some other language.”

  “Matthias is a Jewish name.”

  “We didn’t discuss religion. This man looked and sounded like every other cutthroat I’ve ever dealt with.”

  “Do you have any idea where they’re holding her?”

  “No. I told them not to tell me, so I could lie better if somebody asked me if I knew where she was. I don’t think I would hold up under questioning as well as that dear, brave woman endured the whip this morning. And that Marcellus can make anyone trip over his own words.”