The Corpus Conundrum

by Albert A. Bell

  “That wouldn’t be appropriate. They’re in mourning. Now, I need to talk to Naomi. I know she’s waiting for you outside the door, so please send her in as you leave.” I turned her toward the door.

  “What do you want to talk to her about?”

  “I’d like to pretend that I have at least some privacy in my dealings with my servants. Please send her in.”

  I could hear a brief exchange of words between the two women before Naomi came into my room. Naomi would tell Mother everything I told her. I knew that, but I still wanted to keep the pretense of some privacy in my conversation with a servant.

  “What can I do for you, my lord?”

  “I think we have two Jewish women under our roof, but they don’t know it yet.” I explained to her what I had learned about Saturninus. “Isn’t it circumcision that makes a man a Jew? And wouldn’t his daughters then be Jews?”

  Naomi shook her head. “There are people other than Jews who circumcise their males, my lord. Not many, but some. We Jews reckon descent through the mother. If Saturninus had stopped living as a Jew and married a Gentile woman, his daughters would not be considered Jews.”

  I had to think about that. Saturninus had not looked like a Jew, but Jews had been living outside of Judaea for hundreds of years. I wasn’t even sure what a Jew looked like. And there was no way to know whether Livilla had been Jewish. The name was Roman, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could have been a freed slave who took the name of her master’s family. “Should I tell Myrrha what I know?”

  “What purpose would that serve, my lord?”

  “I always want to know as much as I can about ... anything.”

  “Those women have suffered a lot, my lord. Chloris is just now learning who her mother is, and who her grandparents were. They must feel like soldiers with someone hurling things at them from a catapult. Would it help to heave another stone on them?”

  I dislike tension during a meal. It disturbs the digestion. To shorten the time we would have available to talk, Tacitus and I went to the library on our way to the triclinium and asked Hylas to read something.

  “What would you like, my lord?”

  I was too dizzy to come up with a title, so Tacitus spoke up first. “May I claim the right of a guest and suggest a reading?”

  Something made me leery about saying yes, but he was my friend and my guest, so I concurred with a very slight nod.

  “How about the werewolf story from Petronius’ Satyricon? Do you have a copy of that down here? I know you do in Rome.”

  “As a matter of fact, we do, my lord. The old gentleman”—everyone’s way of referring to my uncle down here—“enjoyed it a great deal. You know, that fellow Trimalchio really is a satire of the princeps—”

  I held up my hand to stop him. By now everyone knew the tasteless buffoon Trimalchio in the story was intended to be Nero, but no one needed to say it aloud, even though Nero was long dead. An insult to one princeps can be taken as an insult to every princeps, especially by the current one.

  I turned to Tacitus in disbelief, waving my hand at the room full of scrolls. “Out of the hundreds of things you could have chosen, why in the world do you want to have that read?”

  “It seems appropriate, doesn’t it, given everything that’s happened the last few days?” he said with an impish grin.

  “But a werewolf?”

  “Granted, it’s not an empusa. If you don’t like the idea, suggest something yourself.”

  “I can’t seem to think of anything right now, and I won’t take back my word to a guest.”

  “And friend?”

  “About that I’m less certain right now.”

  When we entered the triclinium the windows were open. If the wind stirs up the sea, the very slightest flecks of spray can come in the windows, but everything was calm today. I took my place as host on the high couch. My mother reclined below me. Tacitus took the honored guest’s position on the middle couch with Licinius Strabo above him. The low couch was unoccupied. Behind Mother sat Naomi and some other favored servants. Tacitus had two of his servants to wait on him. I had supplied a few to tend to Strabo’s needs.

  It was already midday, so for this prandium Mother kept the menu light. We had boiled eggs, cheese from Saturninus’ shop, apples from last year’s store, beans, fish with garum—which I noticed Naomi ate—and bread. A plate of honeyed dates would be the final course.

  As we settled ourselves on the couches Hylas came in, carrying a scroll. He took his place at the foot of the high couch, to be out of the way of servants bringing food to the table.

  “What are we going to hear?” Mother asked.

  “Something which Tacitus requested,” I said in order to deflect any blame from me right from the start. Mother looked at me suspiciously over her shoulder.

  Hylas looked at me with uncertainty and I nodded. He got to the point in the story where the soldier, who is the werewolf, stopped among the tombstones outside of town, took off his clothes, laid them in a circle, and urinated around them. Having done that, he turned into a wolf and ran off.

  At that point Mother said, “Hylas, please stop.” She shifted to her right elbow and turned to me, disappointment on her face. “Gaius, I don’t see how this is appropriate for a reading at a meal, although I can see some are enjoying it.” She shot a baleful glance at Tacitus and Strabo, who had been unable to suppress their amusement.

  “Your son thought my choice ill-advised, lady Plinia,” Tacitus said, working to keep a straight face. “It appears he was right. I’m sorry to have given offense. I only meant to offer some light entertainment after the difficult days this house has experienced recently.”

  “I accept your apology, Cornelius Tacitus. But I don’t wish to hear any more of this piece. Ever.” She waved Hylas away. “It has entirely spoiled my appetite.”

  She was getting off the couch when Myrrha and Chloris appeared at the door of the triclinium. They were dressed in white gowns, as a sign of mourning, but their faces could hardly contain their happiness. Myrrha looked as though she had shed years along with the secrets she’d been harboring. Chloris kept looking at her mother as though she had never seen her before. And she hadn’t, of course, not as her mother. Between them they carried Saturninus’ strongbox.

  “May we come in, sir?” Myrrha asked.

  “By all means.” I motioned for the serving women to clear the table in front of our couches.

  Myrrha and Chloris placed the strongbox on the table with a thud. “This may seem an odd time,” Myrrha said, “but we would like to open this now.”

  “Here? Wouldn’t you rather do it in private?”

  “No, sir,” Chloris said. “My ... mother and I”—she had to pause to let the gasps of the servant women die down—“my mother and I are afraid that people who hold us in low regard will think we tampered with the contents of the box. We think it best that it be opened in front of a number of witnesses. All sorts of witnesses.”

  I was relieved to have something to divert attention from the fiasco of the werewolf story, so I said, “All right, if that’s what you want. Go ahead and open it.”

  “You’ve got the key, sir,” Chloris said.

  “Oh, yes.” I touched the leather strap with the keys around my neck. I had put them on before I came to lunch, even though I wasn’t sure what they were for. They were something important, I felt, but I couldn’t remember what.

  I got off my couch, steadied myself for a moment until the room stopped spinning, and walked around to stand next to the table. “Let me make it clear to everyone in this room that Myrrha and I removed this box from its hiding place in Saturninus’ shop last night. She gave me the key then, but we did not open it. The key has been in my possession until this moment, so she has not opened the box. I know stories are going to fly out of this room this afternoon. Please try to keep them close to the facts.”

  The women turned the box so everyone on both couches would be able to see the
contents. The servants behind the couches stood and craned to look over us. I gave Myrrha the keys and she inserted the smaller one into the lock, which opened smoothly. Saturninus kept it in as good condition as the rest of his equipment.

  As the lid went up, Myrrha, Chloris and I blocked the view of others in the room. I saw coins—mostly silver and gold—and two leather pouches that were sure to contain written documents.

  “We should count these later,” I cautioned as the women ran their hands over and through the coins. “Let’s look at the documents right now.”

  The larger document was, in fact, Saturninus’ will. “It says it was dictated to Livilla,” I read.

  “Papa couldn’t read nor write,” Myrrha said. “He could carry numbers and things in his head and memorize what was read to him, but he couldn’t read. He said the letters always looked jumbled up to him. My mother tried to teach me, but I never could make sense of it. I would look at the letters one time, and I could make some sense of ’em, but when I looked at the same page a bit later, the letters looked different, like somebody’d switched ’em around, jumbled ’em up. I guess I’m just too dumb to read. Chloris isn’t, though. She’s a very smart girl.”

  “This will bears Saturninus’ mark and his seal,” I announced. I let Tacitus examine it. “It leaves all of Saturninus’ property to his daughter Myrrha and his granddaughter Chloris. I vouch for its authenticity.”

  “So do I,” Tacitus added, handing the will back to me.

  I rolled the papyrus up, tucked it back in its cover, and returned it to Myrrha. “You should let Hylas make a copy of that for me to keep here, just in case anything happens to that one,” I said. “I can add a note attesting that it’s a true copy.”

  Chloris had removed the second document from its cover. “It’s a letter from Livilla to her daughter and granddaughter.” She seemed to take a moment to figure out who was meant. “Oh, that’s us.”

  “Would you read it to us, sir?” Myrrha said, taking the letter from Chloris and handing it to me.

  “It might be better to wait on that,” I said. “It could contain something personal.”

  “Don’t matter,” Myrrha said. “I don’t want people to think I’m keepin’ any secrets.”

  I could take her point. She was trying to establish herself in a new position among people who had known her for twenty-five years as “the whore.” The oldest people in the area might remember that she was Saturninus’ daughter, but for most it would be a secret unless someone got garrulous. From Licinius Strabo down to my servants, she had an audience of people of various ranks in Laurentum whom she now had to convince to accept her as the owner of a cheese shop.

  “I did talk to my mother a few times over the years,” Myrrha said, “when Papa wasn’t around. She was a dear woman. She wouldn’t write nothin’ bad.”

  “As you wish.” I opened the letter and was about to read when Chloris held out her hand to me.

  “Will you let me read it, sir? It is to my mother and me.”

  As dizzy as I felt, I was actually glad to accede to her request. I touched the bandage on my head and handed the letter back to her. She began to read:

  Livilla to her daughter Myrrha and granddaughter Chloris, greetings.

  I don’t know when, or if, you will read this letter. My heart has ached for all these years to call you mine. I’ve lost my children and my husband, even though we’re all still living in the same place. How many times I longed to hold you both and kiss you. I spent so many hours watching you, my beautiful granddaughter, playing and growing up. I wanted to laugh with you, but I couldn’t. And I couldn’t comfort you after that awful day.

  Chloris stopped reading and put the piece of papyrus down.

  “It might be better if you read the rest in private,” I cautioned.

  “No, sir,” Myrrha said. “We’ve been nursin’ that wound for fifteen years, keepin’ it covered. It’s time to let it air so it’ll heal. Go on, Chloris.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Go on, I said.”

  Picking up the letter again, Chloris read:

  I know what that awful man Licinius Macer did to you. I also know who killed him, my darling children, but I am afraid to put it down in writing. Even after my death that knowledge could cause my family untold grief. Saturninus refused to press a charge against Macer and, once justice had been dealt to him, I guess there was no reason to pursue his killer. We should just be thankful the whole business was settled, Saturninus said. I have left a clue to the secret in our family’s quarters, if anyone wants to look, but there doesn’t seem to be any point in bothering with the matter now. I only wish I could have eased your pain, Chloris, if I couldn’t save you from it.

  Chloris stopped reading again and wiped tears from her eyes. As she handed the letter to me, everyone turned to look at Licinius Strabo.

  Strabo sat up on his couch and took a sip of his wine. His eyes met mine and he did not drop his gaze. “The woman was right. Macer was an awful man, even if he was my cousin. Whoever killed him did us all a favor.” He turned to face Myrrha and Chloris. “On behalf of my family, I apologize to you for whatever he may have done.”

  Strabo must have felt very strange apologizing to women he had coupled with numerous times. I wasn’t sure the apology was entirely sincere, but at least he offered it.

  “Does the letter say anything more, Gaius Pliny?” he asked.

  I ran my eye over the last paragraph. “Only a few words about how much she regrets the way their lives have turned out and how much she loves Myrrha and Chloris.” I handed the document back to Myrrha. “I would treasure that and keep it in a very safe place.”

  I wished I had something of the sort from my father. The only thing I have to remember him by is the bust that stands in a corner of the garden of our house in Rome.

  As Myrrha put the letter back in the strongbox she picked up something else and held it up for everyone to see—a little box with a strap on it. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “It’s called a phylactery,” Naomi said, stepping around the couches and standing beside Myrrha. “Jewish men wear them.”

  “Jewish men?” Myrrha turned the thing over, clearly uncertain how to feel about what she had found. “How do they wear a box?”

  “They fasten it on their arm or on their head,” Naomi said, taking the box and showing how it would be tied onto a man’s arm. “The strap on this one would fit around an arm. It contains words from our Law.” She opened the box and drew out a small piece of parchment with Jewish writing on it. She mumbled something that sounded like “Shema Israel”and then a few more words I couldn’t decipher.

  “Why would my father have one of these?” Myrrha took the object back and let Chloris examine it with her.

  I felt it was my turn to step in. “Your father was circumcised. We believe he was Jewish. This seems to confirm our suspicion.”

  Myrrha shook her head. “Papa never said nothin’ about bein’ Jewish. Mama neither. Don’t other people trim off the ends of their mentulas?” She ignored the gasp that went around the room as she used the crude term.

  “Not among Greeks and Romans,” I said. “Some around the eastern end of the Mediterranean do.”

  “But Papa’s father was a Roman legionary. How could they be Jewish?”

  Naomi patted Myrrha’s shoulder. “He’s not the first, or the only one. Some Jews live among Gentiles so long that they become like them and don’t want to admit to being Jews. It looks like your father chose to give up his Jewish identity. He even married a woman who was most likely a Gentile.”

  “So we’re not Jews?” Chloris asked.

  Naomi shook her head.

  “Meanin’ no offense,” Myrrha said, “but I’m just as glad. We’ve got so many new things to get used to right now.”

  I could understand what she meant. In this small town, to be recognized as a Jew would mean merely to become an outcast for a different reason.

  Myrrha was
locking the strongbox when Tranio came into the triclinium and whispered close to my ear, “My lord, there’s something that needs your attention.”

  I took him to a corner of the room. “What’s the matter now?”

  “There’s a body floatin’ in the bay, my lord.”

  XV

  As we made our way down the stairs in the cliff to the beach I had to stop at one point and sit down.

  “Are you all right?” Tacitus asked as my mother looked on, wringing her hands with worry.

  “I’m dizzy. The wine doesn’t seem to be wearing off as fast as I thought it would. I’ll be all right in a moment.” I touched the bandage on my head.

  But I was still feeling strange when we got to the bottom of the stairs. The body was a man’s, floating face-down, with his arms spread out, like Icarus must have looked after the wax melted and he was stripped of his wings. That much I could tell from the beach, but with my boat at the bottom of the bay, I had no way to retrieve him.

  “Do you think it might be Apollodoros?” Tacitus asked.

  “I’d prefer it be someone who has no connection to me.”

  “The way you’ve been drawing dead bodies the last couple of days, I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  “Sadly, neither would I.” I hadn’t told Tacitus what Aurora had reported about Regulus’ meeting with Aristeas. I didn’t want him to know about her role as my spy. Nor did I want him making jokes about my suspicions of Regulus. If Regulus knew Aristeas was coming down here, he would have sent someone to follow him, I was sure. What if this was one of Regulus’ people?

  “Could he be the man who threw the rock at your boat this morning?” Tacitus asked.

  “I didn’t get a good enough look at that man to be able to identify him.”

  A voice called out from behind us. “Do you need some help, neighbor?”

  I turned to see Lucius Volconius, owner of one of the other villas on the shore, coming down to the beach. He was older than me, but not of my father’s or uncle’s age. The way his hair was thinning and his jowls sagging, though, he soon would look like that generation. His skin was leathery from the time he spent outdoors on the water.