As I left the room with Tacitus trailing behind me I could hear the women talking in consternation. The last thing I heard was my mother saying, “I’ll talk to him. Now, let’s work on that second verse.”
“You’re not rid of him yet, you know,” Tacitus said.
“She can talk all she wants. He leaves tomorrow morning.”
“Shall we make a wager on whether he eats dinner here tomorrow evening?”
“I wouldn’t take your money. It’s my house and I will make him leave.” What I really feared was that I would lose the bet.
I noticed a light coming from the library. Grateful for the distraction, I said, “Let’s see if Hylas has found anything about Aristeas in my uncle’s work.”
“He’s working long hours at it.” Tacitus’ voice brightened. “Or perhaps he’s finishing my copy of Catullus.”
It’s highly unusual for a scribe to light a lamp or a candle in a library. The scrolls and the wooden boxes in which they’re kept pose a serious fire hazard, so most work on them is done during the daylight hours. I require the scribes in all of my libraries to keep buckets of water in each corner of the room.
Hylas stood when Tacitus and I entered the library. I quickly waved him back down on his bench and looked over his shoulder. “Have you found anything about Aristeas in my uncle’s work?”
“Yes, my lord. And I didn’t have to look far, only into the seventh scroll of the Natural History.”
“What does he say?”
Hylas pointed to a spot on the scroll that was open before him. “He tells about a man named Hermotimus of Clazomenae, who could leave his body and see things some distance away that only those present at that spot could know. His enemies burned his body, though, depriving his soul of its resting place. At the end of that passage he mentions that ‘the soul of Aristeas of Proconnesus was seen flying out of his mouth in the shape of a raven.’”
“A raven? By the gods!”
Tacitus looked over Hylas’ other shoulder, then up at me. “You said you saw a raven on the roof of the stable where you stashed Aristeas’ body, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and he had a mark on his chest that looked like a raven’s head.”
“But, my lord,” Hylas said, “your uncle dismisses these stories. He says that in the account he read ‘a great deal of fable-telling nonsense follows.’ ”
“That describes Herodotus perfectly,” Tacitus said, “especially that bit about Aristeas appearing in Metapontum two hundred years after the last time anyone saw him.”
Hylas nodded. “Probably so, my lord. And he thinks the story no more believable than that of a man who slept in a cave for 57 years without growing any older.”
I followed Hylas’ ink-stained finger as he drew it along a line on the scroll. My uncle did seem to discredit the stories, even as he reported them. The man who slept for 57 years supposedly became an old man in only 57 days, although he lived to be 157 years old.
“That’s ridiculous,” Tacitus said. “About as believable as the adventures of ... Odysseus.”
I wanted to agree with him, but I hadn’t seen a man who claimed to be Odysseus and had some sort of mark on his chest. What I had seen was a man who appeared to be dead but wasn’t, or who was dead and then was alive again.
As the sun at last dipped below the sea, Tacitus and I stood on the terrace, sipping wine, watching the sky darken, and trying to make sense of all that had happened today. Apollodoros’ song-fest in the triclinium had finally broken up and Mother had set the servant women to a few neglected tasks. Then, with Naomi in tow, she sought me out.
“Gaius, I need to talk to you,” she said as she came across the terrace, wrapping a cloak around her against the evening breeze.
“He will have to leave tomorrow, Mother. There’s nothing more to talk about.”
“But why, dear?”
“He’s disrupting the household, and he claims that his father—the man we found in the woods—is over seven hundred years old.”
“What harm is that little delusion doing to you, Gaius?”
“That man, Aristeas—if that is really his name—came to our house in Rome, looking for me. He was not on our land by accident, Mother. He and Apollodoros want something.”
She shivered as the wind picked up and waves began breaking on the rocks below. “Why don’t you ask them what they want, dear?”
“Do you think Apollodoros would tell me?”
“I believe he would. He’s a sweet young man.”
“I think he wants to skin me alive, if not literally, then in some symbolic way. To take something that I value away from me.”
“Why on earth would he want to do that?”
“I don’t know, and that’s why I want him out of my house.”
Mother jutted her chin up at me, a sure sign of her determination. “But I want him to stay, and I’m your mother.”
“My lord,” Naomi said, “pardon me, but it might be wiser to keep him here, where you can watch his every move.”
Tacitus drained his cup and spoke up. “She has a point, you know.”
“And we did not have a bet.”
Mother looked from one to another of us in puzzlement. I wasn’t going to explain what we meant, but Tranio saved me from the necessity.
“My lord,” he said in an apologetic tone, “there’s someone to see you.”
“At this hour? Who is it?”
“A young woman, my lord.”
“Do you know her?”
“No, my lord.”
“Wonderful! Yet another stranger at my door. Well, bring her in, and give her servants something to eat, I suppose.”
“There’s no one with her, my lord.”
Tacitus, Mother, and I exchanged glances.
“She’s traveling alone?” I said.
“At this hour?” Mother chimed in. “She must be lost, or separated from her party. Bring her in right away.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Could we move inside?” Mother asked. “It gets so chilly out here in the evening.”
“Certainly,” I said. “We’ll talk to her in the arcade. Bring her in there, Tranio.”
“Right away, my lord.”
“I’ll have the women bring some lights,” Mother said as she and Naomi followed Tranio off the terrace.
“This has been a most interesting day,” Tacitus said.
“And this will be the perfect ending to it. A body disappears into thin air in the morning and a woman appears out of nowhere in the evening.”
“Do you suspect a connection?”
“You know I don’t believe in coincidences.”
The woman whom Tranio escorted into the arcade had black hair, which she wore loose and unkempt. Her eyes were dark, glistening in the light of the torches which the servants had lit along the length of the arcade. She wore a gray linen gown and a mantle—not quite as long as her gown—of the same color and material, which she kept wrapped around her, with her arms crossed in a X-shape, as though she was trying to keep herself warm. Something about the gesture was oddly familiar. I couldn’t tell her age, in part because of the thick layer of white make-up on her face. She wore no shoes. That seemed to be the fashion for people who were dropping in on me these days.
“Thank you for seeing me so late, sir,” she said in Greek. Her voice was weak, as though she was tired from a long journey.
“May I ask your name and why you’re here?”
“Oh, Gaius,” Mother said, “don’t be so rude. Please, dear, sit down. May we get you something to eat or drink?”
The woman remained standing but began to sway. “Thank you, my lady, but no. I won’t trouble you for long.” She put a hand on the arm of a chair to steady herself.
“Are you ill?” my mother asked.
“No, my lady—” She sank to her knees.
“Help her!” Mother told her servants.
Two of the women got to the woman and helped her lie down on the floor. Tacitu
s and I stood over her. I noticed a dark stain beginning to appear on her cloak, just below her shoulder.
“I think she’s bleeding,” I said.
“We ought to take a look at it,” Tacitus said.
When I tried to move her hands to see if she had been injured, she cringed.
“Please don’t touch me, sir.”
“You’re hurt. I just want to help you.”
“It’s nothing. I scraped myself on a sharp branch as I was walking through your woods.”
“It looks serious. Let us help you.”
“Please don’t—” Before she could say any more, she passed out.
“See if you can tell what’s wrong,” I told the servants. I turned my head to avoid embarrassing anyone and elbowed Tacitus to make him turn away. My mother knelt down with them and began pulling at the woman’s cloak and gown.
“Oh, my,” Naomi muttered. “Her skin—it’s got scaly patches all over it. It looks awful. And look here, my lady.”
“Gaius, I think she’s been cut,” Mother said. “Here on her shoulder.”
“Can I look?”
“Yes, dear,” Mother said. She’s decent.”
“Too bad,” Tacitus muttered.
The gash was just below the girl’s shoulder. “I don’t think it’s that bad,” Tacitus said.
“I agree. If we wrap it up tightly now, we can see how it is in the morning.” I sent a servant to get some pieces of cloth to wrap around the wound.
“Make sure it’s linen,” my mother said.
“What difference does it make.”
“All of her clothing is made of linen. Some religious cults won’t eat or wear anything that comes off of an animal. She’s not wearing shoes—no leather. I don’t want to put wool on her and violate some principle of hers.”
I shook my head in disgust at another example of my mother’s devotion to bizarre ideas.
As we dressed the wound the woman began to stir. “Please don’t touch—”
“You’re all right,” I said. “We’ve stopped the bleeding.”
“And we used linen,” Mother said.
“Thank you.”
“Get her some wine and something to eat,” I ordered. “Would cheese and some bread suit you?”
“Thank you. I would be grateful.”
We helped her sit up and lean against the wall of the arcade while she ate and drank a bit.
“You can rest here tonight and we’ll try to help you tomorrow.”
“That’s not necessary, sir. I just need to know where my father is.”
“I can’t tell you that,” I said, “because I don’t know who your father is. Or who you are.”
“My name is Daphne. My father is the man you call Aris—”
She broke off and all of us turned our heads as a commotion arose in the hallway leading to the arcade. Suddenly Apollodoros burst in on us.
“You!” he shouted. “What are you doing here?”
The woman seemed to gain strength from somewhere as she jumped up. She seemed to grow larger and she stretched out an arm, her finger pointing right at Apollodoros, who stopped in his tracks.
“You!” she snarled. “What have you done with my father?”
VII
I stepped between Daphne and Apollodoros before they could get any closer to one another. “What’s going on here? What are you two talking about?”
They both began yelling at once.
“Stop it!” I said. “I won’t listen to this. You’ll speak one at a time, in a reasonable tone, or I’ll throw you both out. I don’t care how dark it is.”
“Oh, the dark suits her just fine,” Apollodoros snapped.
Daphne crossed her arms over her chest again, drawing her cloak around her. “Don’t start spreading your pack of lies about me.”
Tacitus stepped in between them and pointed to one, then the other. “I take it you two know one another.”
“She has been my Nemesis—and my father’s—for years,” Apollodoros said. “Wherever we go, she pursues us, like the Furies hounding Orestes.”
“Because he’s not your father,” Daphne said. “He’s my—”
“Enough!” I shouted. “Enough. Apollodoros, I’ve heard your story. Tranio, take him to the room where he’s staying, and make sure he doesn’t leave. I’ll listen to what Daphne has to say, then I’ll talk to Apollodoros again.”
Over the last couple of years I’ve learned that, when there is contention between two people, it’s wiser to question them separately, out of one another’s hearing. It helps me spot the lies each one is telling and keeps them unaware of any contradictions in their stories. Even if two people are in agreement about what lie they’re going to tell, they will eventually slip up when questioned separately.
“We could just turn the two of them loose on one another,”Tacitus suggested in Latin. “It would make for an interesting fight. Let the winner have Aristeas and we’d be done with him.” He looked from Apollodoros to Daphne and back. “Frankly, I’m not sure where I’d put my money.”
“You’re not helping me,” I said. In fact, his suggestion had a certain appeal, and I was equally ambivalent about who might win. In spite of her injury, Daphne exuded confidence and strength, a good match for Apollodoros’ passion. “We can’t let the winner have Aristeas—if that is his name—because we don’t know where the man is, and I don’t want to admit that at the moment.” I studied Apollodoros’ and Daphne’s faces to see if either of them understood what we were saying.
“Naomi,” my mother said, shifting us back to Greek, “would you go with Apollodoros? Please see that he’s comfortable and has whatever he needs.”
Twisting her mouth, Naomi nodded to my mother and gave me a glance as she followed Tranio and Apollodoros out of the arcade. Before I could say anything to Daphne, Mother took charge.
“Now, dear, please, sit down and let’s talk.” She gestured to a chair and sat down, but the young woman remained standing, as did Tacitus and I.
“Thank you, my lady. I know this is an odd time of day for a visitor, but it was the time that suited me best.”
“Because of your travels?” Mother asked.
“No, my lady, because I’m more comfortable in the subdued light of evening.”
“Oh, my son has trouble with his eyes, too. Bright light can give him a headache. Is that true for you?”
“Something like that.”
I lost my patience. “Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for my father. I had followed him to this area, and I saw your announcement in Laurentum. Two women in a tavern told me where to find your house, so I came here.”
“Two women? Was one red-haired?”
The woman nodded. “Like a daughter of Menelaus.”
“But if Aristeas is your father and Apollodoros’ father, then aren’t the two of you brother and sister, or half-brother and half-sister?”
“I am no kin of that lying bastard who calls himself ‘Apollo’s Gift’.”
My mother stood again. “You have no reason to impugn him. And I’ll thank you to watch your language in my house.”
“I see he’s already begun to cast his spell over you, my lady.”
“Young woman, you are abusing our hospitality,” my mother said.
“Not as much as Apollodoros did my family’s.”
“This sounds like a complicated story,” I said. “Why don’t you stay the night and we’ll talk in the morning?”
Daphne looked alarmed. “No, I can’t stay here. Apollodoros will kill me if he gets the chance.”
“Apollodoros isn’t going to kill anyone,” Mother said. Her attitude toward the woman had shifted to obvious hostility. No one could accuse her new favorite of anything. “If it would make you feel any better, though, we can post guards on your room and his.”
Just like we did on the stable, I thought.
“No,” Daphne said, shaking her head vigorously. “No, I can’t stay here tonight. I just wan
t to know if you can tell me where my father is.”
“Why do you think I would know anything about him?”
“Because this is the last place I can trace him to. He was on his way here the day before yesterday.”
“Being on his way here isn’t the same as being here,” Tacitus observed.
“But there was no trace of him between Laurentum and here,” Daphne said.
“No trace?”Tacitus almost mocked her. There are so many places to hide between Laurentum and here, a legion would have a hard time finding him.”
“A legion could not search for him the way I did.”
“What do you mean by that? How could a lone woman, on foot—?”
“You’re making assumptions, sir.”
“Stop it,” I said. “We need to get the whole story, and we will get it before you leave.”
Daphne turned to face me, dropping her hands in front of her like someone about to be shackled. “Am I your prisoner then?”
“What?” my mother said. “How dare you talk to my son that way? You came here willingly, and you may leave any time you like—”
“Be assured that I will.” She drew her arms across her chest again.
I ignored her impertinence and her arrogance. “But if you want me to help you find ... this man, you need to tell me whatever you know about him.”
“Please, sit down,” my mother said, making one more gesture of hospitality. “We’ll just have a nice talk.” She put her hand on Daphne’s elbow to guide her to a seat, but the young woman grimaced and jerked away from her.
“Don’t touch me!”
“She means you no harm,” I said. “None of us means to hurt you.”
Daphne turned to my mother and bowed her head. “Forgive me, my lady. It’s just that I have ... a strong aversion to being touched.”
Naomi came back into the arcade and resumed her position at my mother’s side. She was followed by two servant women carrying wine, bread, and cheese.
“Is our guest settled comfortably?” Mother asked.
The Corpus Conundrum Page 10