Catilina's Riddle (39 page)

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Meto joined us, smiling and red-cheeked from his climb up to the ridge and back. When I explained what was happening, he immediately volunteered to go down into the well himself.

"No, Meto."

"But why not, Papa? I'm the perfect size, I'm agile and I'm not heavy."

"Don't be foolish, Meto."

"But, Papa, I think it would be interesting."

"Meto, don't be ridiculous." I lowered my voice. "It's far too dangerous. I wouldn't even consider allowing you to do it. That's—" I caught myself. I had almost said: "That's what the slaves are for," then realized how the words would strike his ears.

Then, in the next instant, I realized how the sentiment struck my own ears. Had I really grown so callous toward the men I owned? I had inherited a farm; along with it, had I also inherited the contemptuous attitudes of slave owners like Publius Claudius or dead Cato? Use a human tool until it breaks, says Cato in his book, and then discard it for a new one. I had always despised men like Crassus, who attached no value at all to the lives of slaves, only to their utility. And yet, I thought, give a man a farm and watch him turn into a little Cato; give him mines and property and sailing ships and he becomes a little Crassus, no doubt. I had turned away from Cicero precisely because it seemed to me that he had become the very thing he had once despised. But perhaps such a course is inevitable in life—wealth necessarily makes a man greedy, success makes him vain, and even the least measure of power makes him careless of others. Could I say I was any different?

These thoughts flashed through my head like a bolt of lightning.

"You can't go down into the well, Meto, because I'm going down myself."

The words surprised me almost as much as they did Meto.

"Oh, Papa, now who's being foolish?" he protested. "I should go.

I'm so much younger and more supple." The slaves, meanwhile, looked at us in frank astonishment.

Aratus laid a hand on each of our shoulders and took us aside.

"Master, I would advise you against doing such a thing. Much too dangerous. That's what the slaves are for. If you take on such a task, you'll only confuse them."

"The slaves are here to do as I tell them, or in my absence, as Meto tells them," I corrected him. "And while I'm down in the well, it's Meto who will make sure that you oversee them properly, Aratus."

He grimaced. "Master, if you were to be hurt—may the gods forbid such a tragedy!—the slaves would be liable for terrible punishments. For their sake, I ask you to let one of them perform this task."

"No, Aratus, I've made up my mind. Don't contradict me again.

Now, how does this harness fit?"

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Did I hope to prove something by this escapade? If I wanted to demonstrate that I was not like every other slave owner, I could hardly have chosen a less thoughtful way to show it, for the slaves were anxious and miserable. If I needed to prove to myself that I was still young enough to face danger without flinching, I should have looked in a mirror to bring myself back to reality. Perhaps I thought to earn Meto's renewed respect, when in fact I was once again shunting aside his assertion of his own manhood. I acted on a wild impulse, and only later I thought, This seems the sort of mad thing that Catilina might do!

Aratus, looking glummer than I had ever seen him, oversaw the mechanics of the operation, testing the ropes and fitting the harness over my shoulders. Meto, looking disappointed, was left with little to do. The slaves removed the iron grate from the well and then winced as I climbed into the breach. I was handed a torch. The slaves formed a line and took up the rope, then fed it toward me hand over hand. As I descended step by step, the edge of the well rose and the sky shrank to a round hole above me.

It was not as hard as I had thought it would be. I simply walked backward down the side of the well, carefully placing one foot behind the other. The rope stayed taut, steadying my weight. Above me I could see Aratus and Meto peering down at me, both of them frowning and blinking at the bits of ash that rose from my burning torch.

"Master, be careful!' Aratus moaned.

"Yes, Papa, do be careful," echoed Meto.

The hole above grew smaller and smaller, until it was the size of a small plate. "More rope?" called Aratus.

I glanced over my shoulder. I still could not see the water. "Yes, more rope."

I descended step by step and kept peering over my shoulder until at last the circle of water glistened beneath me, flashing like liquid fire where it was lit by the ruddy torchlight and as black as obsidian where it was covered by the shadow of my body. There appeared to be something smooth and pale in the water, like a large stone showing just above the surface. The walls all around were undamaged. The closer I got, the harder it became to twist my neck far enough around to see the water.

I descended until I was just above the surface. "Keep the rope taut!"

I called.

"Yes, Master!" cried Aratus, his voice echoing down the shaft. His face was a dark spot amid the small circle of bright light above.

I intended to turn over, taking small steps until I faced the water.

I had almost succeeded when my foot encountered a loose stone in the wall. With a splash, my legs swung downward.

The slaves holding the rope were not ready for the sudden tug. The rope went slack for just an instant and I slipped into the water up to my

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neck. The rope went taut again, pulling my shoulders above the surface.

Water splashed my face. I sputtered and coughed.

I had managed to keep the torch above the water. The fiery light caught on the jagged stone walls and the splashing water, creating a jumbled array of light and shadow all around. With my free arm I thrashed about for something to hold on to. There was a large object in the water with me, lodged stiffly between opposite walls of the well. It gave way as I clutched at it, then it began to bob alongside me. It was cold and fleshy to the touch. I shuddered and felt my bile rise.

I cried out—not a scream of terror but a sharp yelping cry such as a dog makes when its tail is stepped on. Echoing up to the mouth of the well, it must have sounded quite hideous. The slaves above heard it and panicked. The rope jerked hard at my shoulders and I began to rise against my will.

I cried out for them to stop, but perhaps the well twisted my words and they thought I was crying for help. I clutched at the thing in the water, repulsed by it but not afraid of it. The weight of it held me down.

The slaves pulled harder, sending a hot stab of pain through my back, but I held fast to the thing in the water. I thought I understood what I had seen, but I had to be sure.

The slaves pulled so hard that I began to rise out of the water, bringing the thing with me. I clutched it with both hands, keeping hold of the torch as well so that its flame flickered close to my face. Before the agony in my shoulders compelled me to release the thing, letting the heavy weight slip back into the water, I was sure of what I had seen.

From somewhere above I hear Aratus cry, "Heave!" I surged upward so swiftly that the torch slipped from my hand. It bounced off my foot and twirled flaming into the water, where it expired in an explosion of steam. Heaving and straining, the slaves lifted me up, like a deus ex machina on a stage. I careened from side to side in the darkness, legs flailing, shoulders banging against the walls. I hardly felt the pain and the jarring in my teeth. My head was too full of the thing I had seen in the water.

It was a body. And it had no head.

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P A R T T H R E E

CONUNDRUM

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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - F O U R

arkness had fallen by the time the body was removed from the well.

D On the first attempt, a slave was lowered into the shaft carrying with him a second rope, which he harnessed around the corpse's shoulders. The shivering slave was pulled up, looking queasy and pale, and then the body.

The sight of the naked, bloated, headless corpse emerging from the well was so grotesque that several of the slaves cried out in horror and loosened their grip on the rope. The rope escaped, sliding like prickling fire through the hands of those who tried to hold it, whipping through the air like a mad serpent. From deep inside the well came the sound of a great splash. An instant later the end of the rope followed the body down the shaft, like a snake disappearing into its hole with a contemptuous flick of its tail.

This disaster unnerved the more superstitious of the slaves. I heard voices all around me whisper the word
"lemur."
Looking about in the uncertain light of dusk, I couldn't tell which of the slaves had said it.

They all looked equally frightened. It was as if the word had been whispered by the warm, dry breeze itself.

It was then that I realized that the well had been doubly poisoned.

First, by the pollution of the corpse's bloated, decaying flesh. Then again by the very fact of its presence in the well. The slaves would consider the spot unholy now. They would shun the place, avoid any errands that sent them there, avert their eyes when they passed, perhaps refuse even to drink from it again, fearing it was haunted by the dead man's shade.

It was only thanks to Aratus's mastery at dealing with the other slaves that we were able to stage a second attempt, even as the sun was

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setting. The slave who had descended the well balked at doing so again.

None of the other slaves was willing to volunteer. Aratus selected one of the men, who quailed at the task. Aratus threatened him with a beating and even struck him across the back. The slave acquiesced and allowed himself to be fitted into the harness. What other choice was there? To go myself was out of the question after the wrenching that had been done to my back and shoulders, and I refused to let Meto make the attempt. In the end, I acted as any other slave owner would have and allowed my foreman to coerce one of the slaves into doing it against his will. I could almost hear the shade of dead Cato mocking me.

This time, the shock of the corpse's appearance was not so great, and the men managed to keep their grip. Still, the sight was unnerving—

the waxiness of the bloated flesh, the gaping wound at the neck, the terrible absence where the head should have been. The body was pulled onto the paving stones. A pool of water gathered beneath it and trickled in various directions. The slaves cried out and jumped back rather than let the water touch their feet.

I looked toward the house and saw Bethesda's silhouette at one of the windows. I had sent word to her to keep Diana away, and to keep herself away as well. What was she thinking now, gazing out at the group of frightened slaves gathered around the well in the gathering gloom?

She would know the truth soon enough. Everyone on the farm would know—there was no way to keep the catastrophe a secret, as I had with Nemo.

I called on Aratus to bring more torches so that I could see the body by a better light. The slaves milled restlessly about, eager to be gone from the place. I told Aratus to dismiss them for now, but to see that all the slaves were gathered together outside the stable within an hour. I stooped beside the body, wincing at the stabbing pain in my shoulders and at the cuts on my elbows and knees where the rough walls of the well had scraped the flesh. Meto, holding a torch, knelt beside me.

"Well, Meto, what can you see?"

He swallowed hard. Even by the ruddy torchlight he looked pale.

"The flesh is so bloated, it's hard to say. I'm not sure where to begin."

"Make a list in your head. Either-or, as the philosophers say. Man or woman?"

"Man, of course."

"Old or young?"

"About the same as Nemo?" he said uncertainly.

"Why do you say that?"

"The gray hairs among the black ones on his chest. And the way his joints are all knobby. Not a boy, but not an old man either."

"Dark or fair?"

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"It's hard to tell much about his skin, the way it's all swollen and discolored, though I would say it looks weathered by the sun. The hair around his sex is dark."

"Slave or free?"

"Slave," he said, without hesitation.

"Because?"

"From where I was standing I saw his back as the slaves pulled him out."

I reached down to turn the body over but the weight was too much for my injured shoulders. Meto put down his torch, knelt beside me, and helped me tip the corpse.

"There," he said, picking up his torch and pointing. By its lurid glow we saw the proof of the man's slavery. His back and shoulders were covered with scars. Some were old, almost faded away, while others were vivid and fresh. He had been regularly beaten while he was alive.

"What caused his death?" I asked.

Meto bowed his head, considering. "Obviously he was killed before he was put in the well, since his head is off. Unless his head is down there, too." He glanced at the well and swallowed hard.

"I think not. I didn't see it, and neither did the slaves who went down after me. But again, as with Nemo, you're assuming he was murdered. We don't know that. There's no visible wound, except where the head's been cut off, and as with Nemo, that probably happened after he was dead. Who's to say how he died?"