“I have a feeling he’s more accustomed to the place than we are,” Tacitus whispered, “and less likely to make any noise.”
Without saying anything else, we made our way down to ground level and were about to turn toward the front of the house.
“No sign of any intruder,” Tacitus said. “Maybe the boy was imagining things.”
A flicker of movement came from our right, toward the back of the house. It couldn’t have been more than the flapping of a tunic as someone moved, a speck of something noticeable just because it wasn’t entirely black.
“I’m not imagining that,” I said, “are you?”
“No. We’d better go see who’s there.”
Tacitus started toward the movement, but I put a hand on his chest to stop him. “We can’t leave Calpurnius completely unprotected. This is the only way in or out. You stay here, in case somebody tries to sneak by. I’ll go.” I pulled my sword from under my tunic.
“He’s probably more scared of you than you are of him,” Tacitus said.
“Which could make him fight even harder.”
I stepped into the tunnel leading to the back of the house. I could still see Tacitus’ torch behind me when I passed a tunnel diverging to my left. Sticking my torch into it, I could see only blackness, with no sign of anyone’s presence. After a few more steps a tunnel opened off to my right. This time I took a couple of steps into it, only to find that it ended abruptly, as though someone had changed his mind about digging it.
Ten paces farther on, the main tunnel turned sharply to the right. I estimated I was close to the back wall of the house by now. If I made the turn, I would lose sight of Tacitus’ torch, but I had to know who else was down here with us and what danger he might pose. With one last look at the speck of light shed by Tacitus’ torch, I turned the corner.
Calpurnius’ crew must have been looking for something valuable in this area, or scavengers had been hard at work here. Side tunnels opened off the main one, left and right, every few paces. When I saw some scraps of animal bones in a tunnel to my right, I turned into it. Kneeling over the bones, I thought I detected teeth marks on them. Was someone so hungry that he gnawed the bones?
I heard the movement behind me but did not have time to react to it before a blanket dropped over me and someone shoved me into the side of the tunnel. My head struck the hardened ash and I collapsed. Although I never lost consciousness, I was stunned long enough for the attacker to run away. The blanket smelled like someone slept in it or wiped his bottom with it, or both perhaps. When I whipped the stinking thing off me, my torch was extinguished.
Or had the blow to my head caused me to go blind?
The darkness was so complete I could not see my hand in front of my face. I pulled my hand closer and closer until it touched my nose, but I could not see it. The Sibyl must be laughing now, I thought. When she told Aeneas that the journey back out would be difficult, at least he had whatever kind of murky light would exist in the underworld, if the underworld existed.
Groping around me, I could not find the torch but I found my sword. I had that much comfort, even if I couldn’t see anything to use the weapon on. The metal blade didn’t even glimmer. Someone could be looming over me right now, ready to strike, and I would be oblivious. I stood and shook my head to clear it. That only made me dizzier.
My breathing was labored as I felt the darkness embracing me, smothering me. I didn’t know where I was or which way to turn. Had I spun around when I was pushed into the wall? Or was it just my head that was spinning? Was I still in the side tunnel? Or was I back in the main tunnel? If I was in the main tunnel, which way should I turn to get back?
An odd thought raced through my mind. A blind person would actually have an advantage over me in such a situation. He or she would not notice the deprivation of sight but would be accustomed to depending on feeling or hearing. Such a person would probably have had a better chance of surviving the eruption of Vesuvius.
“Tacitus!” I yelled, but the sound seemed to die a few feet in front of me, absorbed into the porous ash. I redoubled my effort. “Tacitus!”
I thought I heard something. Was it a response to my call? Where was it coming from? I turned in one direction, then another. Something furry scurried past my foot. I yelled in revulsion when it brushed against me.
A rat! And the damn thing nipped me.
I moved forward, swinging my sword hand back and forth like a peasant harvesting grain with his scythe or—more heroically—a legionary cutting a swath through the ranks of the enemy. My hand banged into the wall and the weapon clattered to the floor of the tunnel. Falling to my hands and knees, with panic constricting my throat, I felt around until I found it. The rustling of the rats seemed to be getting louder. Did they think I was going to be their next meal? Once my hand gripped the hilt again, my breathing slowed.
As I stood up I decided that I needed to take a different approach to getting out of here, a more reasoned approach. If I couldn’t see where I was going, I would have to feel my way. With my left hand on the wall of the tunnel, I inched forward, still moving my right hand back and forth with the sword, just not as vigorously as before. All the time I kept calling Tacitus’ name. If only I could be sure I was moving toward him and not away from him.
After a few steps I felt nothing with my left hand. That was an opening, but how many openings had there been? Was this opening the main tunnel back to the front of the house? I peered into it and called Tacitus.
Nothing.
Unless I was in fact blind, I should see his torch. I had seen that torch until the main tunnel took that sharp turn to the right. How many paces had I gone after I made that turn?
Finding the wall on the other side of the opening, I continued my slow progress until I came to another opening. Were there two openings on this side as I was coming in? Was this the direction I was going when I came in?
By now it didn’t matter. I just wanted to keep moving. I found the wall on the other side of the opening. Leaning more heavily against the wall, as though it would afford some protection from the rats, I took a few more steps. Before I was ready for it, the wall ended and I fell. When I looked up, I saw a speck of light—Tacitus’ torch! I felt like a sailor must feel when he catches his first glimpse of the light glinting off the tip of Athena’s spear as he rounds Cape Sunium. Wiping tears from my eyes, I scrambled to my feet and walked as fast as I dared in the dark toward that beacon of hope.
“Whoever you are, stop right there!” Tacitus called.
“It’s me!” I shouted back.
“Gaius Pliny?” He took a few steps toward me. “What happened? Where’s your torch?”
I reached out and touched Tacitus’ arm, needing that reassurance that I was in fact safe. “Someone jumped me and knocked it out of my hand.”
“So there is somebody back there. Do you want me to go back with you and help you find him?”
“Maybe later and with reinforcements. There are too many places he can hide. There are rats back there, too. One of them bit me.” In the light of Tacitus’ torch I could see the mark on my foot. “Let’s see if Bastet has anything for that.”
“She’ll probably want to cut your foot off,” Tacitus said.
As we entered the collapsed atrium I called out, “Calpurnius! Bastet!”
“We’re here, my lord,” Bastet responded, stepping out of Calpurnius’ room. “My master is asleep, so please lower your voice.”
“Have you seen anyone else down here?” I asked, not lowering my voice.
She took my elbow and guided me away from the door to Calpurnius’ room. “Why, no, my lord. Were you expecting someone?”
If I’d had a piece of bread, I could have sopped up the sarcasm dripping from her voice.
“No. I wasn’t expecting to get bitten by a rat either.” I held up my foot. “Can you do something for me?”
“Have a seat, my lord. I’ll get an ointment.”
I recalled what Au
relia had said about spitting out potions that Bastet gave her. But, if the woman was getting something she intended to use on Calpurnius, I had to assume it was harmless. Otherwise I would have been dubious about letting her take care of me. Her entry into the room must have awakened Calpurnius. He came to the door and watched as Bastet tended to my foot.
“You didn’t see anyone come down here after we left?” I asked Bastet.
“No, my lord.”
“What’s that?” Calpurnius said. “You saw someone else down here?”
“Yes. Someone is hiding at the other end of your house.”
Calpurnius scrunched his face in anxiety. “Do you think he poses a threat?”
Salving my foot and wrapping a bandage around it, Bastet said, “I doubt there’s any harm in him, my lord. He’s likely just one of the slaves whose masters were killed in the eruption. No one knows how many there are. They have no place to go, unless they want to be someone else’s slaves, so they live like rats, burrowing into these houses and scrounging for whatever they can find.”
“What can be left, after five years?” I asked, wondering what would keep even real rats alive.
“There’s no food left, my lord, but they forage off the countryside, catch fish in the bay, and retreat to whatever kind of hole they can dig for themselves in the ruins.”
That described Ferox’s life perfectly.
“She’s right,” Calpurnius said. “My estate on the south side of Pompeii was destroyed. I lost almost a hundred slaves. How many died and how many ran away, I’ll never know. I’m sure many who did survive have died by now. Bastet tells me she reduced their number by one this morning.” His voice displayed a touch of pride.
“Gaius Pliny had a little run-in with this fellow,” Tacitus said. “I think we should hunt him down.”
Calpurnius shook his head. “I think Bastet’s right. He won’t hurt anyone. His greatest fear is being caught. Some of them get too bold—or too hungry—and go into houses closer to Naples. Occasionally the magistrates will round up a batch of them, especially a short time before the elections, to show they’re dealing with the problem.”
“The captain of the ship who brought us down here said he’d delivered some to Rome,” Tacitus said.
“It’s a problem that will correct itself in another year or two,” Calpurnius said dismissively, “as the last of them die off. Now, I hate to be rude, but have you brought me something to eat?”
Arrogant people don’t really hate to be rude. They just say that so they can get their way. “Yes, we have,” I said, “but the food comes with a price.”
“I know, I know. More questions. I hope what you’ve brought is worth humiliating myself.”
Bastet began taking out the cheese, bread, dried fish, apples, and other items Aurelia had hastily assembled. Calpurnius sighed as he took his first bite. I gave him time to savor it and wash it down with a bit of his wretched wine.
I decided not to ask him about his father and Sabina, at least not now. “You were telling us earlier that you were able to absorb the cost of the blackmail until Vesuvius erupted.”
“Yes. The bastards weren’t particularly greedy, or they were particularly stupid. They really weren’t asking for much.”
The sum he mentioned made me suspect the blackmailers were very poor people to whom such a small amount would seem significant. Or perhaps they knew they had to suck the life out of Calpurnius slowly, like a tick on a dog, or he might try to find out who they were. I could see how Calpurnius, with his resources, might have tolerated the blackmailers, the way a dog can become so accustomed to a tick that he hardly even scratches. Until disaster struck.
“So after the eruption you had to start selling pieces of your property.”
Calpurnius nodded as he bit into an apple. “I started with pieces that were the farthest away.”
“The estate in Sicily.” His head came up when he heard that. “We’ve gone through your records.”
“Over Diomedes’ vehement protests,” Tacitus added.
Calpurnius grunted. “He’s a good man. Very loyal.”
“Did your marriage have financial motives?” Tacitus asked.
“I have to confess that it did. My father is old and I thought I could wait until he died to start selling off properties closer to home, but he shows no sign of wearing down. He must have absorbed some power of longevity from his beloved Egypt. Nothing in that place ever dies. It just gets older and drier. I finally decided I had to get married. Aurelia was the ideal match. Her father is already dead, and her grandfather can’t live forever.”
“You bastard!” I said. “All you wanted was her money?”
Calpurnius held up a hand to calm me. “At the time I thought so, but I have come to love and adore her. I would lay down my life to protect her.”
“That’s easy for a desperate man to say.”
“Gaius Pliny, Bastet tells me that my child will be a daughter. She’s never been wrong about that. To show you how much my wife and family mean to me, I will ask you right now, in front of a witness. Will you marry my daughter Calpurnia when she comes of age?”
I was already being herded into one marriage I didn’t want. But at least this one wouldn’t happen for fifteen years or so. I might be dead by then. “We can talk about that once we’re out of here.”
“I don’t think I’m coming out of here. I need an answer now.”
Taking on such an obligation meant I would have legal responsibilities to Aurelia and her daughter—if the child was a daughter, but that was only an even chance. Her survival to a nubile age was also doubtful. Half the children born in Rome die before they’re five. Placing no trust in Bastet’s ability to foretell the gender of an unborn child, and needing to keep Calpurnius talking, I held out my hand. “I agree to your proposal. If your child is a daughter, I will marry her when she comes of age.”
Calpurnius shook my hand with surprising firmness for an injured man who hadn’t eaten in several days. Tacitus placed his hand over ours. “Thank you, Gaius Pliny. Thank you, Cornelius Tacitus. That takes an enormous weight off my mind.”
“In return,” I said, not releasing his hand just yet, “I expect you to tell me the rest of this story, so I can protect my future wife and mother-in-law.”
Calpurnius shook my hand again and chuckled. “Funny how it sounds when you put it in those terms. Almost like Caesar referring to Pompey as his son-in-law when they were the same age.”
It sounded funny to me, too, to imagine Aurelia as my mother-in-law when she was five years younger than I am.
Calpurnius drew a deep breath until the pain of his broken rib made him grimace. “But you’re right. You need to know everything I know. The problem is, I don’t know much more.”
“I gather that marrying Aurelia gave you the money you needed,” I said to prompt him.
“It allowed me to sell off more of my property. It made sense to reduce the size of my household when I combined it with Aurelia’s. But then the blackmailers deceived me.”
“You just can’t trust criminals these days,” Tacitus said.
“Unlike in the glorious days of the Republic.” I jabbed him. “What did they do?”
“They left a note at the book shop, raising the amount of money they were demanding and threatening Aurelia if I didn’t pay. The marriage that I thought would relieve my burden ended up increasing it. And they demanded even more when we learned Aurelia was bearing a child.”
“If they know that much about your family, they’re getting information from someone in your house.” I looked at Bastet, but she met my gaze without blinking.
“Was it Amalthea?” Tacitus asked. “Is that why you killed her?”
Calpurnius sat up as far as he could. “Why do you even suggest that?”
I knew that line of inquiry would lead nowhere. Calpurnius had not killed anyone. By now I was sure of that. “Have you failed to pay the blackmailers?”
“Yes. This month I just coul
dn’t do it.”
“So they killed Amalthea as a warning, a way of showing you that they could attack your household whenever they chose.”
“But why her? I barely knew the woman’s name. She meant nothing to me.”
Even Bastet flinched to hear her master say that about a servant.
“She had a routine,” I said. “They knew where she would be at a certain time, and they knew they could lure you out there, using the code word from your letter. The attempt to kidnap Aurelia was another, more direct, warning because they thought you had sent for us.”
“Bastet tells me Aurelia is all right,” Calpurnius asked, his voice rising in anxiety. “And the child.”
“They’re both fine,” I said. “Aurelia is frightened, of course, but she seems to have suffered no ill effects.”
Calpurnius slumped back on the bed and blew out a long breath. “Thank the gods for that.”
“Better to thank Gaius Pliny, my lord,” Bastet said. “He drove them off. I didn’t see any gods fighting them.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Gaius Pliny. My debt to you is far deeper than I can ever repay.”
“I’m not worried about getting repaid,” I said. “What does concern me is that the attackers knew precisely where to find your wife, the very room she was in. That information could have come only from someone who knows your household well and has some grudge against you—some reason to betray you.”
“The first name that comes to mind,” Calpurnius said, “is Sychaeus.”
“Your former slave who’s missing the small finger on his right hand?”
Calpurnius blinked like a man with a bright light shining in his face. “How did you—”
“That doesn’t matter. You sold him six months ago, didn’t you? In a group of slaves, to a man in Capua.”
“Yes. You really have been through my records, I see. Sychaeus was one of those slaves that you tolerate because he works hard, but you wish he weren’t such an unpleasant fellow. And after Bastet had to take off his finger he became openly hostile and resentful.”
“He couldn’t accept that we did it to save his life,” Bastet said.
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