The Corpus Conundrum

by Albert A. Bell

  “That seems a clumsy sort of ruse,” Tacitus said. “If you tried it on me, I would come back in the night and kill you.”

  “I sometimes feared that, sir. And I feared that someone might come after us for Aristeas’ blood. I was always careful to stress that drinking one vial would make a person immortal, but a second vial would kill him.”

  “So why would someone want all of the blood?” Tacitus asked.

  “In order to sell it himself,” I said, “or because he wants to make a large number of people immortal.”

  “A large number? As in an army?”

  “Or at least a bodyguard.” Such as the Praetorians, I thought, but did not say it. “If you and Aristeas were traveling together,” I asked Apollodoros, “why did he show up at my house in Rome and then here by himself?”

  “We got separated. We had come to a disagreement over keeping our scheme going. Aristeas had grown tired of it. The money never mattered to him as much as it did to me. As I said, he was starting to believe he actually had some divine gift and should learn how to use it. Five days ago I woke up and he was gone. I can’t understand how he got so far away so quickly.”

  “Like a bird flying the nest?” Tacitus asked.

  “Exactly, sir. After a couple of days I gave up trying to track him and tried to anticipate where he might be going. I suspected he would go to Pliny’s house because we had looked at the passage in the Natural History where Aristeas is mentioned.”

  The flames reached the top of the pyre and Aristeas’ shroud and tunic caught fire. The flesh began to sizzle.

  “Back in the atrium,” I said, “when I told you he was dead, you said you knew this would happen. Why did you think someone wanted to harm him?”

  “I’m afraid we were too convincing in some of our performances. Aristeas appeared to be as dead as any man could be. In their panic, not wanting to believe they had killed him, men would prod him, shake him, pinch him—nothing would rouse him. But the next morning, when they came to pay me, Aristeas was on his feet, walking around, asking for something to eat.”

  “How did they react?” Tacitus asked.

  “Some felt they had been tricked.”

  “Well, hadn’t they?”

  “Sir, I honestly don’t know. I was coming to see things about him that I didn’t understand.”

  “Did you ever see him at the moment he came back to life?”I asked.

  “Yes, sir, a number of times.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. He just opened his eyes as though he had been taking a nap.”

  “You never saw anything ... flying back to him?”

  “No, sir. And nothing flying out of him either, in spite of what your uncle wrote.”

  “My uncle was merely reporting what others said, and about another Aristeas. He never saw that Aristeas or this one, or vouched for the accuracy of the report.” I felt like I was losing the distinction between Herodotus’ Aristeas and the man on the pyre. Who was Aristeas of Proconnesus? Could they both be?

  “Of course not, sir.”

  We could smell the burning flesh now. I turned to Daphne but did not touch her. “I know this is difficult for you, to see and hear your father’s body being consumed. When my uncle died, I could hardly watch. I had to stay, though, because in Rome family members are required to. You need not feel such an obligation.”

  Daphne lifted her head and fixed her gaze somewhere above the pyre. “The body is just a vessel for holding the soul for a time, and the soul is the person. When the vessel is damaged—just as when a jar is cracked—it cannot hold anything anymore and is no longer useful. We abandon the jar without a backward glance. So with the body.”

  “But don’t you want to know who ... broke the jar?”

  Daphne shrugged. “I suppose that matters to some.”

  “What if someone drained the jar before it was broken,” Tacitus said, “and poured out a precious vintage of wine?”

  I could see from the change in her expression, even under her make-up, that Daphne knew what he meant.

  The body was completely engulfed in flames now. I had told Tranio to apply pitch generously to the top layer of the pyre. It seemed to be having the effect I intended.

  “I’ve seen enough,”I said. Aristeas was no kin of mine, so I wasn’t obligated to stay until the body was completely consumed. “I’ve assigned some men to tend the fire. I’m going inside.”

  “I’d like to stay, sir,” Daphne said.

  “You’re welcome to do so. We’ll be on the terrace when you care to join us.”

  We were almost through the house when I noticed Hylas standing at the door of the library, obviously wanting to speak with me. Tacitus and I walked over to him.

  “My lord, there’s something I think you should see.”

  Those are some of the direst words in any language.

  “Chloris,” I said, “will you accompany Apollodoros? We’ll join you as soon as we can.”

  “I doubt my presence would be welcome,” Apollodoros said. “I’ll just return to my room. Will you be locking me in again?”

  “We can dispense with that. Chloris, I’ll find a room for you in a few moments. Why don’t you wait on the terrace?”

  Tacitus and I followed Hylas into the library. He had several scrolls out on the main work table.

  “I don’t mean to add to your distress, my lord,” Hylas said, “but I have pulled together several passages which mention Aristeas, and there are some ... unsettling similarities.” He pulled out two sheets of papyrus. “I’ve made a copy of what I’ve noticed. First, the passage from Herodotus which you’ve already seen. Notice the references to Apollo and the raven. Aristeas was ‘inspired by Phoebus Apollo’ to travel to various places.”

  “The raven appears in a story about Apollo, doesn’t it?” Tacitus asked. “He sent it to keep watch on some pregnant lover of his. When the bird reported the girl’s infidelity, Apollo killed her and changed the raven’s feathers from white to black.”

  “Yes, my lord. The girl’s name was Coronis. Apollo also killed her lover, Ischys, but he saved the child, who became Asclepius.”

  “This is all nonsense,” I said.

  “But, my lord, I remembered the work of an obscure writer, Apollonius, from about three centuries ago. We have a copy of his Historiae Mirabiles because your uncle was interested in what you might deem fantastic tales. I copied the pertinent passage. As you can see, Apollonius reports that Aristeas’ soul would leave his body, which remained ‘in a state between life and death.’”

  “Just as we found him.”

  “ ‘Lifeless but not dead’ was how you first described him to me.”

  I nodded. “There were no signs of life—no breath, no pulsing of the heart—and yet none of the signs of death either—no stiffness, no odor, no decay.”

  “I’m not familiar with this Apollonius,” Tacitus said. “He specifically mentions Aristeas?”

  “Yes, my lord. He says his soul, like a bird, would travel about until it was ready to return to the body. It would sometimes be gone for long periods.”

  “And your uncle did record that Aristeas’ soul left his body in the form of a raven,” Tacitus said. “The evidence is piling up.”

  “Evidence of what? That we’re reacting like frightened children to our nursemaids’ stories?”

  Tacitus sat down beside me. “Consider that you have two strangers in your house. One is named Apollodoros, Apollo’s Gift, and the other is named Daphne, the girl Apollo pursued until she was changed into the laurel tree. And look here, in Herodotus. Next to the statue of Apollo, the people of Metapontum put up a statue of Aristeas, surrounded by laurel.” He tapped the word ΔΑΦΝΑI in the text.

  “There has to be some other explanation,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Does there? Can everything be explained?”

  “Are you saying that Aristeas’ murder has something to do with all of this nonsense about gods and souls?”


  Tacitus sighed. “I’m saying I don’t know what is nonsense and what isn’t. I wasn’t the one who saw a mark that isn’t there any more.”

  Hylas put a scroll down in front of me. “My lord, Apollonius tells another story about a man’s soul leaving his body. This man was named Hermotimus. His enemies burned his body while it lay defenseless so his soul would have nothing to re-enter.”

  “Does it say his body had a huge gash across the throat?”

  “No, my lord, it doesn’t.”

  “Then what relevance does that have right now?”

  “My lord, aren’t you burning Aristeas’ body?”

  I jumped up from the table. “I’m going back to check the pyre.”

  Tacitus kept pace with me. “Surely you don’t think—”

  “I think I’m going mad, or dreaming. I’ll feel safer when I see that body reduced to ashes and scatter them myself, but I’m not sure even that will restore things to normal.”

  “Whatever happened to that piece of cloth with his face on it?”

  I hadn’t thought about the cloth since I handed it to Tranio. “I’ll have Tranio get it out when we go back in the house. He stashed it somewhere safe.”

  We could see Daphne still keeping vigil by the pyre, with Chloris and my watchmen as her only companions. The heat had forced them all to move back.

  “Your men did a good job of it,” Tacitus said as we watched from a distance. “It’s holding together well.”

  I nodded, reluctant to disturb Daphne. Flames as high as the roof of the stable engulfed the pyre now. The lower levels had turned to glowing coals and the top level was sinking, as should happen. The distorted figure of Aristeas could still be seen, drawn up like a man who was cold or in pain. “It does look like everything is under control,” I said with a sigh of relief.”

  Tacitus slapped me on the back. “And not a raven in sight.”

  I ordered food to be brought to the bath. Since it was almost dark we used the indoor bath and ate while we cleansed ourselves of the stench of death. Afterward we sat on the terrace while Hylas read to us from Cicero’s Laelius, a dialogue on friendship. When he came to the line, “Friendship is possible only between good men,” he stopped.

  I turned to find him looking at Tacitus and me. “Is something wrong, Hylas?”

  “No, my lord. It’s just that sometimes the words one reads take on a new meaning. I’m sorry for the interruption.” He went on with the next line.

  As the sun went below the horizon Tacitus said, “It smells like the pig’s done, even if Aristeas isn’t.”

  Before we could get up Blandina came out to the terrace. “My lord, Saturninus, the cheese man, would like to see you. Shall I bring him in?”

  But Saturninus was right behind her. “Sirs, I’m sorry to barge in like this, but it’s life or death.”

  “Whose?” I asked, standing in surprise.

  “It’s Myrrha, sir. Scaevola is on his way to Rome with her.”

  “Why is he leaving at night?”

  “I think he wants to get her away before you can do anything about it. Please help her, sir.”

  I saw the lift of Tacitus’ eyebrows. Something wasn’t right, and he felt it too. Saturninus hated Myrrha and Chloris. “Why didn’t you send a servant with a message?”

  “Sirs, there’s no time to tell the whole story.”

  “It will take Scaevola half the night to get to Rome and there won’t be anyone around for him to turn Myrrha over to until morning. I feel like I’m stumbling around in the dark already. People keep revealing little surprises as it suits them. I need to know why you consider it so important for me to help Myrrha.”

  “Could we be alone, sir?”

  Blandina didn’t wait for me to send her off the terrace. She picked up a tray, bowed, and left.

  Saturninus watched her until she closed the door. Then he turned to us, wringing his hands. “Sirs, the whole truth is ... I haven’t said these words in twenty-five years. The truth is ... Myrrha is my daughter.”

  “Your daughter? But I’ve seen you practically spit in her face.”

  “Please, sir, I’ll tell you the rest of it while we go after her.”

  “Saturninus, I have no authority here. I can’t just grab a prisoner from the elected magistrate of the town.”

  “Sir, I am a Roman citizen. My father served in the legions—the Second Augusta—and got his citizenship when he retired. I have his diploma.” He waited while I sorted through the implications of what he’d just said.

  “And the daughter of a citizen cannot be sentenced to the arena without some sort of trial.” It was a principle of law known to everyone in Rome. We don’t refer to women as citizens in the same sense as men, but they enjoy the protection afforded to their male relatives.

  “Does Scaevola know you’re a citizen?” Tacitus asked.

  “I’ve lived in that town all my life, sir, and so has he. We know all of one another’s secrets.”

  “So that’s why he’s rushing her to Rome before we can stop him.” I said. “He can claim he didn’t know she was your daughter or didn’t know you were a citizen, and it’ll be too late to correct his ‘mistake’.”

  “There you go, sir,” Saturninus said as proudly as my tutors used to when I correctly parsed a line of poetry. “Will you help her?”

  “By all means, but you will owe me an explanation of Homeric proportions afterwards.”

  “That you shall have, sir. That you shall have.”

  I told Tranio to round up a half dozen of the biggest servants on the place and arm them. I would have taken more, but that was all the horses we had on hand and there was no time to borrow any from the neighboring estates.

  There was only one mounting stone in the paddock. As I waited my turn I could see that the funeral pyre was burning low. The servants tending it were still stoking it and stirring up the embers, but the flames had died down until they were no higher than a man’s waist. Aristeas’ body was no longer recognizable. Tomorrow, when the pyre cooled, we would sift through it and pull out whatever was recognizable as parts of his body. Having him tied to the boards should help keep his remains together. The intense heat would char the bones enough that they would crumble and could be put in an urn for me to carry out to scatter on the bay.

  Or I might just throw the whole thing overboard so it would sink to the bottom. Ashes and bits of bone would float, no doubt, and I didn’t want that to happen. Stories are already circulating of Christians snatching bits of the bodies of their executed fellow-believers to venerate. I don’t want anyone to be able to form a cult of Aristeas.

  Chloris entered the paddock by herself, with a gown draped over her arm. When Saturninus groaned at the sight of her, Tacitus and I exchanged a glance. The expression on his face revealed the truth. She was Myrrha’s daughter, not her sister, and thus his granddaughter whom he had never been able to hold or kiss. But who was her father? The first answer that came into my head was one I had to reject immediately.

  “Sir,” Chloris said, deliberately looking away from Saturninus, “one of your women let me have this. Would you let Myrrha wear it? You know what a mess she was the last time we saw her. I’m sure she’s worse now.”

  I took the gown from her, draping it over the horse I was going to ride. “I’m glad you’re so confident that we’re going to get her back.”

  “Yes, sir. I do trust that you will.”

  “Where’s Daphne?” I asked, glancing over her head.

  “She wanted to be alone, so she walked into the woods.”

  The anxiety I was feeling made me snap at her. “Why did you let her do that? I have more I want to ask her about.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. She needed to be by herself.”

  I stepped onto the mounting stone and boosted myself onto the horse. I was getting control of the animal when Apollodoros came into the paddock.

  “May I ride with you, sir?” he asked.

  The request surprised me, bu
t no more than anything else that had happened the past few days.

  “This could be dangerous.”

  “I know, but I’m no longer welcome here. Your mother would be happier with me out of her sight. This is a way to repay your hospitality.”

  I looked down on him from my horse, glad that he was realistic about the situation, but suspicious of his motives. He didn’t strike me as the heroic type. “Keeping you locked up all night is hardly what I’d call hospitality.”

  “I’ve known worse.”

  “All right. You can come with us. But you’re not going anywhere else until I’ve gotten some answers.” I motioned for one of my servants to give up his horse and give Apollodoros his sword. I could see relief all over my man’s face.

  We were all mounted and about to ride out when Tranio ran into the paddock. “My lord, I can’t find that Daphne creature.”

  “I don’t have time to sort this out. She was headed into the woods.” I pointed in the direction Chloris had indicated. “Find her. Do not rest until you do.”

  XIII

  We galloped through Laurentum in the last rays of daylight, scattering a few stray dogs and two drunkards on their way home—the Long and the Short of it, I thought.

  According to Saturninus, Scaevola was encumbered by the wagon carrying Myrrha. That worked to our advantage, but Scaevola had a good head start and several former legionaries in his entourage. He was one of those men of modest means who, in an effort to emulate men of my class, take on the most disreputable sort of men as clients, just to increase the size of the crowd at his door in the morning.

  We’d been riding about half an hour when I saw a wagon and several horsemen ahead of us. I signaled for my small force to stop. Tacitus brought his horse up beside mine.

  “I don’t see any choice but a direct attack, do you?” he asked. “Do you think we could get them off their horses? It’s so damnably difficult to fight from horseback, even if you have the training, and we don’t.”

  “I’d like to see if we can negotiate first. We know he’s just trying to get around the law. He thinks we don’t know Myrrha is a citizen’s daughter. Once we confront him, perhaps we can make him hand her over.”