DEATH
IN THE
ASHES
A FOURTH CASE FROM
THE NOTEBOOKS OF
PLINY THE YOUNGER
†
ALBERT A. BELL, JR.
MMXIII
PERSEVERANCE PRESS | JOHN DANIEL & COMPANY
PALO ALTO | MCKINLEYVILLE, CALIFORNIA
This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies,
institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes.
All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.
Copyright © 2013 by Albert Bell
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-56474-772-3
A Perseverance Press Book
Published by John Daniel & Company
A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.
Post Office Box 2790
McKinleyville, California 95519
www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance
Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423
Cover: Ruins, House of Neptune, Herculaneum
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bell, Albert A., (date)
Death in the ashes : a fourth case from the notebooks of Pliny the Younger /
by Albert A. Bell, Jr.
pages cm
ISBN [first printed edition] 978-1-56474-532-3 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Pliny, the Younger—Fiction. 2. Tacitus, Cornelius—Fiction.
3. Rome—Fiction. 4. Historical fiction. 5. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.E485D45 2013
813’.54--dc23
2013003898
For Judy Geary
in appreciation of her friendship
and strong encouragement
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
CAST OF CHARACTERS
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am ambivalent about author’s notes. Sometimes I read them, often not. I wanted to write this one, though, because I am working with a new publisher and deeply appreciate the opportunity Perseverance Press has given me to continue this series.
As any author discovers when writing a series, there are positives and negatives. I like Pliny and Tacitus and would hate to miss the chance to continue telling their stories. I welcome the opportunity to develop some of the characters, even minor ones, who have appeared in earlier books.
But how do I use characters from earlier books without giving away their plots? One mystery author whom I will not name gives away so much of the plots of her earlier books that I find I can start reading at any point in her series and not have to read the previous books. So, how do I make this story stand alone while, at the same time, making it feel connected to the other books—previous and yet to come—in the series? I hope I’ve succeeded.
For the first time I’m including a list of characters. I hope it will help readers keep the characters clear but will not give away any “spoilers.” Please see the end of the book for the Cast of Characters, both real and fictional, and a Glossary of Roman Terms.
As I always do, I need to express profound thanks to my writers’ group, the West Michigan Writers’ Workshop, for their penetrating critiques each week. In no particular order, just visualizing them around the table: Steve, Dan, Roger, Vic, Norma, Jane, Dawn, Carol, Lisa (both of them), Sheila, John, Sarah, Paul, Bill, Karen, Nathan, Christine, Alyssa, and Joyce. The regulars and not-so-regulars have all had a hand in making me a better writer than I was twelve years ago, when I joined the group.
I also owe a long-standing debt of gratitude to my wife, Bettye Jo, for her patience and support. Someone once said, “A writer’s hardest job is to convince his wife that he’s working when he’s sitting back with his feet propped up.” My wife, I’m glad to say, understands how much my writing means to me.
I
“I’m afraid we’re going to be late,” I said to the throng of clients gathered in my atrium for the morning salutatio. “And we cannot be late.”
My servant Aurora, who attends to my personal needs, put her hand on my cheek, which she had shaved half an hour ago. Running a finger along the narrow, dark red stripe which she had sewed on herself, she adjusted my new toga one more time. Her hand rested for a moment over my heart, which seemed to surge toward her. “Good fortune, my lord…” she said aloud, then added in a whisper, “Gaius.”
Aurora is the daughter of my late uncle’s mistress, Monica. She and I have been friends since she, along with her mother, came into our household when we were both seven. Until she began her monthlies, she called me Gaius. From the day she arrived in our house, though, my mother has tried to insist that she address me properly, as domine, “my lord.” The first time Aurora called me that, we both broke out laughing. But as my voice changed and my beard began to grow, she fell into the habit of addressing me as a slave should address her master, no matter how many times I told her she didn’t have to if no one else could hear us.
My clients chattered around me, pleased with the extra donative I’d given them this morning, but I hardly noticed. How could I notice anything with Aurora standing this close to me, with her olive skin and dark eyes complemented by her yellow stola?
As children Aurora and I played together. As we matured, though, my mother made certain we became more aware of the gulf between us. Mother deeply resented her brother’s relationship with Monica, and has sometimes done things to hurt Aurora, especially after her mother died. I recognize Aurora’s feelings for me, and I can’t deny mine for her. But I don’t know what to do about them.
“Gaius!” my mother called from across the atrium where she and her servant and friend Naomi were observing us. My clients fell silent. “Gaius, your mother-in-law is waiting in the Forum.”
I knew she was talking more to Aurora than to me. And Pompeia wasn’t my mother-in-law—not yet. My fate might be sealed, as surely as the fate of a sacrificial animal being led to the altar, but I wasn’t going to give up. The priest’s hammer hadn’t fallen on my forehead yet, and sometimes the victim breaks away and throws the crowd into a panic as it flees.
But who was I kidding? The victim is always caught.
From her left hand Aurora removed a ring and dropped it into the sinus of my toga. “For luck,” she said. We had found the ring on one of our adventures in Laurentum when we were eleven. A large, chunky thing made of bronze, it bears an image of the goddess Tyche, the Greek version of Rome’s Fortuna. We have a custom of passing it back and forth between us when one of us feels the other one needs a bit of luck, even though neither of us believes in such a thing.
“Thank you,” I said, suddenly aware of an intense longing for this dark-haired Venus.
“Gaius, you mustn’t disappoint Pompeia.” Mother was stalking across the atrium, her blue stola billowing around her,
with Naomi in tow.
I touched Aurora’s hand and held her dark eyes with mine for another moment. Then she bowed her head and stepped aside, and I started for the door, inhaling one more whiff of her perfume, imported from Egypt, which I had given her on her last birthday. My steward Demetrius held the door open as I led a crowd of thirty men out into the street. “Good fortune, my lord,” he said as I passed him.
I patted the sinus of my toga. “I believe I have it.”
Looking over my shoulder as the door closed and we gathered on the sidewalk, I made certain my scribe, Phineas, was close to me and carrying his writing case on a strap over his shoulder. He had designed it himself so that he could carry it under his arm, as he was now, or rest it on his belly to make a writing desk. The red-haired young man, the son of Naomi, is adept at the rapid writing known as Tironian notation. This morning he would take down my speech and my opponent’s in the case I would be prosecuting in the Centumviral Court. I had dictated a copy of my speech as I worked on it. That copy I had in the sinus of my toga and intended to read it over as I walked, but I sometimes get flashes of inspiration while I’m speaking, so I wanted to have a record of exactly what I said during the trial. Some of my friends would enjoy reading it. And being able to read my opponent’s speech at my leisure would allow me to see what points in my own speech were vulnerable to attack.
“How many clients do you think Cornelius Tacitus will bring with him, my lord?” Phineas asked.
“He said he can muster fifteen or so.” With Tacitus coming from his house on the other side of the Aventine Hill, I wouldn’t know the size of his retinue until we met them in the Forum.
The curl of Phineas’ lip told me what he thought of Tacitus’ reinforcements. “Oh, that many?”
“Being Agricola’s son-in-law,” I said, “has put Tacitus in an awkward position, and he knows he shouldn’t put pressure on his clients to appear with him in public. I’m sure they’ll be vocal, though, whatever their number.”
“Do you think it wise, my lord, to have someone so closely associated with Agricola supporting you so visibly?”
Phineas doesn’t like Tacitus. I’ve known that for some time. But Tacitus and I are friends, and not in the sense of people to whom I’ve granted my formal amicitia. “Tacitus and I will stand by one another,” I told the scribe, “no matter what anyone thinks of his father-in-law.”
Of course, all that matters is what the princeps thinks of Agricola, and Domitian makes no secret of his jealousy and hatred of his most successful general.
I started down the hill toward the Forum. The largest men among my clients stepped in front of me to clear a path on the crowded sidewalks. After several days of rain the morning was clear and crisp, even a bit cool for the Kalends of October. As I took out the copy of my speech, for some reason an image came to my mind—Pompey, leaving the safety of his trireme, in the little boat taking him to shore, reading over the speech he intended to give before Ptolemy, the Egyptian boy-king, but murdered before he could set foot on shore.
“At least you’ll be able to speak outside, sir,” one of my clients said on my left. I was glad to be snapped out of my unhappy reverie.
“Yes. That will make everything more bearable.” When the court has to meet inside, the basilica is divided into sections by heavy curtains. The air becomes oppressive and the only light is from torches and the clerestory windows. Speakers’ voices are muted, so that we have to strain to get our points across.
I unrolled the small scroll containing my speech, but all I had on my mind right now was Aurora. Many men of my class would simply force themselves on a female slave. I could never do that. If I freed her, I still would not be able to take her as my wife. My mother would never speak to me again if I even suggested such a thing. She must suspect that I’ve thought about doing it, though. That’s why she arranged a marriage for me, even though I am, at just past twenty-three, still somewhat young to marry. I suppose Aurora could become the sort of mistress or common-law wife that Monica was for my uncle, but, as independent-minded as she is—for which my mother says I’m to blame—I don’t think she would accept that role, or that it would suit either one of us.
We had just come to the next corner when I heard a voice calling from my right, “Gaius Pliny! Gaius Pliny!” I didn’t want to stop, but my clients must have assumed I did. I turned, peering through the crowd of men who surrounded me like the palisades of a fort, and saw Valerius Martial waving his hand and running toward us.
Martial holds a place on the periphery of my friends. Two years ago I gave him a piece of property, a small farm north of Rome, because he has a child by a woman who is a former slave of Marcus Aquilius Regulus. I am indebted to the woman and the animosity between my family and Regulus is deep-seated, so I was pleased to be able to assist them—her, really. Martial divides his time between the farm and his apartment here in the city. His poetry is all the rage among my circle, and he has flattered me in one of his poems. At times he does amuse me, but overall I find him abrasive. I would never trust him or work with him the way I do with Tacitus.
“Gaius Pliny! Thank you for stopping.” He caught his breath. “I was afraid I would miss you.” He held out a small green bag with the handle of a scroll protruding from the end. “For you. My latest collection.”
“Thank you.” I took the scroll from him. “I’ve got some more urgent reading right now”—I held up my speech—“but I will give this my full attention when I return home.” I handed the scroll to Phineas, who put it in his writing box.
“You’re on your way to court?”
I nodded. “The Centumviral Court. My future mother-in-law is prosecuting a man who stole some money from her late husband’s estate.”
“Future mother-in-law? I hadn’t heard. Who is she?”
“Pompeia Celerina, widow of Livius Macrinus. My engagement to her daughter was announced three days ago.”
“Congratulations. When is the wedding?”
“The date’s not set, but it’ll be after the Saturnalia.” I was going to be adamant about that.
“How did this all come about?”
I didn’t really have time for this small talk, but some things I couldn’t say at home. “My mother and Pompeia are cousins. They’ve apparently been planning the marriage for some time, without bothering to inform me or ask my opinion in the matter.”
“Well, congratulations or commiserations, whichever is appropriate.”
“I’ll let you know when I decide. In either case, thank you. You’ll get an invitation to the wedding.” I hadn’t planned to invite him, but now it would be awkward not to. “Would you like to accompany us?”
Martial glanced up the hill. “I’m afraid I have another obligation this morning, and I’m late.” He is among Regulus’ clients, a fact which does not endear him to me.
“Regulus has already gone down to the Forum,” I told him. “He went past my house a short while ago.” Regulus’ house is only a short distance from mine, higher up on the Esquiline. I don’t have to spy on his movements because he always makes a great show when he passes my house—everything short of blowing trumpets and pounding drums.
“Oh. Then I guess I…need to go this way.” Martial turned and started down the hill toward the Forum.
“Come for dinner tonight and read your book for us,” I called after him.
“I’ll plan on it. Thank you.”
“My lord,” Phineas said at my elbow, “we really are going to be late. Your future mother-in-law will be most displeased.”
“And out a good bit of money if she has to forfeit her case because I’m not there.” I glanced at the sun, now fully visible over the peak of the hill. “All right, we need to make up some time.”
The usual route from my house to the Forum would be down the hill, past the Iseum, the temple of Isis, and turning right to go past the Ludus Magnus, the gladiators’ training ground, and the Flavian Amphitheater. While not the most direct route, it is
the safest. Looking down the hill this morning, though, I could see what looked like a crowd already forming on the street that ran past the Ludus Magnus.
“Are games being held today?” I asked.
Several of my clients nodded. I pay so little attention to the games and chariot races and other such shows that I wasn’t aware any were scheduled. I knew my clients would rather be there.
“We’ll never get through that crowd in time, sir,” one of my clients said.
“Then we’ll have to go through the Subura.”
The clients who were closest to me gasped. “The Subura? That’s awfully dangerous, sir.”
“We’re a large enough group,” I assured them, “and it’s daylight now. I think we’ll be safe if we keep moving. Phineas comes down here every few days with your mother, don’t you, Phineas? And you’ve even brought my mother on occasion.” I was horrified when I first heard that my own mother had come down here with her slaves to attend some religious ritual.
“Yes, my lord,” my scribe replied with his head down, “but we don’t attract the kind of attention this group will.”
“It can’t be helped. I have to get to the Forum quickly. This is the shortest way. We just need to keep moving.”
We took the street leading behind the Portico of Livia, dedicated by the deified Augustus to his wife, turned left onto the Clivus Suburbanus, and followed it until it ran into the broad street known as the Argiletum. The Argiletum cuts directly through the Subura, the lowest point in Rome in more ways than one. In the Subura the city’s human dregs settle as inevitably as the lees at the bottom of an amphora of wine. Today, as we came down the hill toward it, the place had a particularly fetid smell from all the water that had collected there during the last few days’ rain, washing the garbage from higher spots down with it.
We were making good time, but with each step I felt more doubts about my decision. Even though the Argiletum is broad, it is a channel that holds as many dangers as the strait Odysseus had passed through. We were now surrounded by no mythological Scylla and Charybdis waiting to snatch sailors off their vessels. Every man lurking in an alley looked like a thief or a cutthroat. The merchants shoving their shoddy wares under our noses were just more blatant about their thievery.
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