“It’s fortunate that Novatus came along when he did.”
“I suppose so.”
Aurelia turned to face me and rested a hand on her belly. “Why do you sound dubious?”
“Novatus says he had an informant in the taberna. He supposedly heard a man say something about narrow-stripers and setting a trap, and he told Novatus.”
“We’re surrounded by spies, aren’t we?”
I was more aware of the truth of her statement than she could ever know. “But I find it difficult to believe that anyone planning an ambush would have revealed enough details that Novatus could come right to the spot.”
“He would have reasoned that you were coming back here, wouldn’t he? There’s only one road from Naples that you could take. He was bound to find you.”
“I suppose so, but why did he kill the dart-thrower before I had a chance to question him? Before I had a chance to even learn his name?”
“Do you think the man knew something Novatus didn’t want you to know?”
I looked at her with a new degree of respect. She was asking more pointed questions than Tacitus would have. He blunders around and often says something helpful, mixed in with a lot of nonsense. Aurelia had hit the target as deftly as the dart-thrower had in the taberna. “I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right. And his men couldn’t catch the attackers on the other side of the road. He rounded on them because of their ‘ineptitude,’ but maybe they weren’t really trying to catch them. I simply don’t know how much we can trust Novatus.”
“I wish I knew how much we can trust her,” Aurelia said softly, nodding toward Bastet as she made her way across the garden, holding two cups. Her gait was as stately as a priestess approaching the altar of her god.
“My lady,” the Nubian said sternly, “I told you to stay in bed.”
Aurelia didn’t answer. “Do you have something that will help these men?”
“I believe so, my lady.”
Aurelia turned to me. “Shall we try it on your slave first, to see how he responds?”
“I don’t think we have time for that. Let’s give it to both of them. They’re going to die without it.” And probably with it, I thought.
Tacitus and Antullus were in neighboring rooms. I reached for one of the cups, but Bastet, with a barely perceptible shift of her hands, held the other one toward me. I took the cup I had originally intended to and signaled for Bastet to go to the servant’s room. Aurelia and I entered Tacitus’ room.
“How is he?” Aurelia asked the servant woman who was tending to him.
“He’s very hot, my lady. I think he’s getting worse. He’s not saying much of anything now.”
I would have been glad to hear of Tacitus’ silence if it hadn’t been a possible omen of his imminent death. Standing over the bed, I put a hand on his shoulder. “Cornelius Tacitus, can you hear me? It’s Gaius Pliny. I need for you to drink something, to make you feel better.”
Tacitus’ eyes opened and the irises rolled back under his lids. His body shook, drenched with sweat. Aurelia held his head up and still while I poured Bastet’s potion into his mouth.
“A little at a time,” she said. “Give him a chance to swallow it.” She smoothed his hair, glistening with sweat, away from his face.
When Tacitus had consumed the entire contents of the cup, I hoped to see some immediate improvement in his condition, but he continued to breathe hard and to sweat profusely. Sending the servant woman to get more water and cloths, Aurelia began sponging Tacitus’ head and chest herself. I took a cloth to his legs, trying to avoid being kicked. About half an hour later his breathing slowed and he stopped thrashing around on the bed.
“Is he dying?” I asked.
“No, I think he’s past the worst of it.” She took a dry cloth and wiped his forehead. “See, he’s not sweating now.”
“Can you stay with him for a moment? I want to see how Antullus is doing.”
Bastet and the servant woman assisting her were standing in the garden when I emerged from Tacitus’ room. From the expressions on their faces I knew the answer to my question before I asked it. “Is he—”
“He died, my lord,” Bastet said. “I’m very sorry.”
I grabbed the cup she was holding. There was still about a quarter of the potion in the bottom.
“Why didn’t you give him all of it?”
“He died before he could finish it, my lord.”
“Drink the rest of it,” I ordered her.
“Why, my lord?”
“Don’t question me, woman. Just drink it.”
Bastet put the cup to her lips and appeared to drink the rest of the potion. Then she turned the cup upside down.
“I want to see you swallow it,” I said. When she had appeared to swallow the liquid I said, “Now open your mouth.”
She complied and I ran my finger around the inside of her mouth, daring her with my eyes to bite me. She had indeed swallowed the potion.
“Why are you humiliating me this way, my lord? Inspecting me like a man looking at a horse’s teeth?” She spat, barely missing my feet.
“You tried to give me that cup,” I said.
“It was the one nearest to you, my lord. Both cups contained the same potion.”
“Then why is Tacitus alive and Antullus dead?”
“Which man was struck first, my lord?”
“Antullus was.”
“He was also the smaller man, my lord. The poison had more time to spread and less of an area over which to spread.” She drew herself up and set her chin. “Let us speak frankly. Do you suspect me of some wrongdoing? Do you have any proof?”
I held her gaze. Suspect? Yes. Able to prove? “No.”
She snorted derisively. “I should hope not. I have been a loyal servant of my lord Calpurnius for over twenty years. I nursed his mother through her last years and I’ve seen my lady Aurelia through a difficult pregnancy, even though she ignores much of my advice.”
What could I say? I barely knew the woman. My mistrust of her was based on instinct—a dislike of her regal manner, her general demeanor—not on rational thought, and I had adopted Aurelia’s misgivings. Bastet had swallowed whatever was in the cup without any hesitation. But, a part of my mind whispered, experts in poison usually take small doses of the stuff over the years, as Nero’s mother Agrippina did, building up immunities to doses large enough to kill a person almost instantly.
But what reason would she have to kill Tacitus—or anyone else? No matter how much she hated Rome for enslaving her, she must know what would happen to a slave who murdered a citizen, especially someone of Tacitus’ class. The crowds in the arena clamor for entertainment. Exquisite tortures would be devised for someone as exotic as a Nubian princess.
“May I be excused, my lord?”
I had not yet kept her in my presence long enough, I thought. She might be asking to leave so she could make herself vomit and expel what she had drunk, also a common tactic for poisoners. Without arousing her suspicion, I could not detain her any longer. Unless—
“First I want you to take a look at Tacitus. He seems to be doing better, but I’d like your opinion.”
“Very well, my lord.”
When she entered the room Aurelia stepped back, almost in deference to the Nubian. Bastet felt Tacitus’ head, put her ear to his chest for a moment. She lifted the blanket which Aurelia had drawn up over him.
“He seems to be sleeping calmly,” she said. “He is much cooler, and he has expelled a large quantity of urine. That’s a sign that his body is cleansing itself. He will be better by tomorrow, I think. I’ll send someone to clean him up and change his clothes and bedding. I would recommend that he stay in bed for the next day, if my opinion in such matters means anything.” She gave Aurelia a glance that spoke volumes. “Is that all you require, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
“Then I will prepare to return to my lord Calpurnius in the morning.”
; As Bastet left the room one of Aurelia’s other servants stood at the door. “My lady, my lord, the messengers you sent to Puteoli to inquire about Proxena have returned. They say they have news, both good and bad.”
XIX
Can we meet them in your library?” I asked Aurelia. “I want to be in a closed room so we won’t be overheard.”
“Don’t you want to be in here, where we can keep an eye on Tacitus?” Aurelia said.
“I’d rather be somewhere else right now.” I was grateful beyond words that Tacitus seemed to be recovering, but the stench in this small room was becoming unbearable. Aurelia gave the order to bring the messengers to the library and accompanied me there. I stood while she sat on a scribe’s bench.
I did not want Thamyras to hear this report. He had no idea that I was trying to find his woman, and I did not want him to hear anything until I’d had a chance to evaluate this information. Hope raised and then dashed is worse than no hope at all.
“You made the trip in good time,” I said when the messengers entered the library. “Your effort will be rewarded. What did you learn?”
“We found the man who bought the woman Proxena, my lord.”
“Did you ask if he would be willing to sell her?”
“He can’t, my lord.”
“Why? Has he already sold her?” I didn’t have time to keep following a slave’s trail from master to master.
“Worse than that, my lord. She died two years ago when an illness swept through that house.”
My shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It will be devastating news for Thamyras,” Aurelia said.
“We’ll have to consider how we’re going to tell him.” I knew we would have to tell him. There are no secrets among servants in a house, no matter how stringently the master insists or what punishments he threatens. “Get yourselves something to eat, and do not say anything to anyone.”
“But, my lord,” the man said hesitantly, “there is more.”
“Oh, yes, the good news. What is it?”
“Proxena had a child, my lord. She gave birth seven months after she arrived in the house.”
“Seven months?” Aurelia sat up with interest. “So she was already pregnant when she left here.”
“It seems so, my lady.”
“Then the child must be Thamyras’. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy, my lady—a handsome little fellow.”
We thanked the messengers again and sent them off to get something to eat.
“You know what we have to do, Gaius Pliny,” Aurelia said, “or at least what you have to do. After what you’ve told me about Calpurnius spending all our money, I’m not sure what I can afford.”
I nodded. “Don’t worry about anything. It shouldn’t cost much to purchase the boy. Raising a slave child costs money and you never know if he’s going to be a good enough worker to justify the investment.”
“Is the master more willing to invest if the slave is his own child?”
“Well…I’m sure your father…I didn’t mean.…” Aurelia seemed so natural in her current status as my equal that I kept forgetting that she’d been a slave when I met her.
“And what if the master is in love with the slave?” A smile played on her lips.
The room suddenly seemed warm and close. “I…that is.…”
Aurelia stood, with some effort, and put a hand on my arm. “Why, Gaius Pliny, I didn’t think you were ever at a loss for words. I wasn’t really sure how you felt, but there’s something about the way you react when anyone mentions her. And you keep touching something on that strap around your neck that I suspect has some connection to her.”
“How I may, or may not, feel doesn’t matter.” I could not look Aurelia in the eye. She had already guessed too much. One more glance and I was afraid I would tell her everything. “There’s…nothing that…can be done.” Stating it passively took the responsibility off me.
“Oh, dear Gaius, there’s always something that can be done. The only question is whether you’ll do it in time.”
“Now is not the time.” I took her hand off my arm and straightened my tunic, resisting the urge to touch the Tyche ring as I did so. “We were talking about Thamyras and his son. I’ll purchase the boy and give him to Thamyras. Or I could free him, if you—”
“By all means, I’ll free Thamyras. That won’t cost me anything. He and the child can stay here and continue to mind the garden for us, if that’s what he wants.”
“I can see a certain justice in it. We took Philippa’s father away from her, so we should seize on the opportunity to bring a father and his son together.”
“Yes, there is a kind of balance about that,” Aurelia said, holding her hands up like a scale. “As much as there can be in such an imperfect world as ours.”
“I’ll send someone tomorrow to see if we can make the arrangements.”
“And I’ll draw up the document for Thamyras’ emancipation. Calpurnius will have to approve it.”
“Let’s not say anything to Thamyras until everything is in place.” I took her by the elbow and guided her to the door. “Now, you’re obviously uncomfortable and you really should get back to bed. Don’t ignore good advice just because it comes from Bastet.”
†
The house was busy as the sun set. Under Thamyras’ direction, the bodies of Antullus and Amalthea were carried down close to the bay and a large pyre erected. It would burn all night. The evening breeze blowing toward the bay would fan the flames, and keep the odor of charred flesh away from the house. I was glad to have something to keep Thamyras busy and away from Aurelia and me. The temptation to tell him what we’d learned was enormous.
I checked in on Tacitus every time I passed his room. The servant woman sitting with him reported he was sleeping quietly. I was relieved that he had stopped talking. I wondered what he might have said in his delirium but did not want to draw attention to it by asking the woman who had taken care of him. People can remain unaware of the importance of something they know if no one makes an issue of it.
I was having a late supper alone when Capsius arrived. The doorkeeper brought him into the garden. He removed the soft cap he was wearing and stood before me with his right hand, holding the cap, crossed over his left, no doubt a lifelong habit to cover his deformity.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he began, “but my lady Plautia sent me to ask if you can come to Naples tomorrow to discuss the possible sale of her insula.”
“Can she wait until the next day?” I did not want to make this trip without Tacitus.
“Well, sir, she is planning to leave on a long business trip and would like to get this matter settled, if at all possible.”
She was planning to flee, and probably Sychaeus with her. “I guess it will have to be tomorrow, then, won’t it?”
“If you don’t mind, sir. May I report that to her?”
“You may stay here tonight and ride back with me in the morning.” I was already wondering if I was being lured into another ambush.
“But, sir—”
“I am inconveniencing myself by going tomorrow. You can accommodate me by accompanying me on the ride.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Besides, it’s almost dark and I don’t want you exposed to the dangers of travel at night. That road is perilous enough in the daytime, as I learned today.”
“As you wish, sir.”
I suspected that, if this was a trap, he would find some roundabout way to avoid the main road. “Now, get yourself something to eat and tell the steward to show you to a room.” There was at least one empty room off the garden, the one where Antullus had died. I hoped the bedding had been changed.
†
The events of the day had left me exhausted but too agitated to sleep. I decided this would be a good opportunity to take a longer look at Calpurnius’ financial records. Tacitus and I had made only a cursory examination. I wanted to see if Calpurnius
had any money left and if he had begun to sell his wife’s property. I found Diomedes and had him unlock the treasury room and the strongbox and light some lamps. This time I did not offer to let him wait outside, nor did he insist on doing so. He seemed to accept that the room’s “virginity” had been violated and left me alone to have my way with the contents.
Diomedes had returned the documents to their places on the shelves, so I had to lay them all out on the table again. In the strongbox I noticed a couple of scrolls that Tacitus and I had overlooked earlier. One proved to be a list of property belonging to Aurelia’s father, and now to her. The two most distant pieces had VEND in small letters written beside them, making me suspect Calpurnius was trying to figure how he could begin selling them. He was desperate enough to ruin his family in order to keep his secret. Considering that it would cost him his life if Domitian ever found out that Calpurnius had entertained—even for a moment or even in jest—the idea of killing him, I could find a dollop of sympathy for the man. But only a dollop.
The other scroll was sealed. I decided that I had endured enough on Calpurnius’ behalf in the last few days to claim the right to break that seal.
The document proved to be not a list but some kind of family history, the sort of thing we Romans have been writing since the days of Fabius Pictor, three hundred years ago. At first I thought Calpurnius intended it as part of a eulogy for his father. I had delivered such a speech at my uncle’s funeral. It lasted only two hours because my uncle’s death had come so unexpectedly and I’d had precious little time to write it, but it was well received. I assumed Calpurnius was preparing for that inevitable day—a wise thing to do, considering Fabatus’ age.
But this family history, I realized after reading only a few pages, had a different purpose, a darker side. It detailed the accusations that were leveled against his father in Nero’s time. Since my mother was a friend of Fabatus’ daughter and I had made a solemn pledge to marry the man’s granddaughter, I had more than a passing interest in the story. Once a family bears this kind of stain—accusations from one princeps, a plot to kill another—it becomes permanent, and anyone who comes into contact with them risks being marked by it as well.
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