“I believe so,” Aurelia said. “I’ll have to at some point, and it might as well be now. Can you carry Calpurnia so I can lean on you?”
I took the baby in my arms and Aurelia slipped her arm through mine.
“She is a beautiful child,” I said. “If she turns out to be half as beautiful and charming as her mother, the wait will be worth it.”
Tacitus walked with Philippa as his guide. He was complaining of not seeing clearly, probably as a result of having his head bashed against the wall. Instead of taking us over the ruins of the house—which would have been the shorter route—I led the party straight up to the road and then turned toward the raeda. It was still there, but the driver’s dead body lay in the road. We placed him in the raeda and covered him with a blanket.
“I guess I’ll drive,” I said.
“You’ll have to,” Tacitus said. “I can’t handle four horses.”
“But, my lord,” Philippa said, “there are only two.”
“Gaius Pliny,” Aurelia said, “I wish you could ride in the back with me.”
I put a hand on Philippa’s shoulder. “I need you to be Tacitus’ eyes, and he will be your strength. Between the two of you, driving slowly, I think we can make it back to the villa. We’ll get some men and get back down here to—”
Aurelia patted my arm. “You don’t need to give me false hope, Gaius Pliny. I know my husband is dead. There’s no way anyone could have survived down there. It would take weeks—possibly months—just to get back to where he was hiding.”
“But shouldn’t we try?” I knew there was no real hope, but I wanted to keep Aurelia’s spirits up.
“We would only risk injury or death to others. I’m glad I got to see him and let him know that I love him. I just hope he died quickly and that Sychaeus was left to a lingering death. Am I horrible for thinking that?”
XXI
Tacitus was too groggy to ride into Naples with me and several servants, shortly after midday. I left the servants with the horses a block away from Plautia’s insula with orders to come running at the first sound of trouble. Knowing Sychaeus wouldn’t be there, I didn’t expect any problem. When I saw that the door of the book shop was open I stood quietly in it for a moment, in awe again at the number of scrolls in the shop. Could it be two thousand or more?
Plautia looked up from the scroll she was correcting. Except for a quick intake of breath she displayed remarkable calm. She said nothing for a moment, re-evaluating her situation, I suspected.
“Why, Gaius Pliny,” she finally said, “I didn’t expect to see you again. I thought we concluded that we had no further business to discuss.”
“You mask your surprise well.” I stepped into the shop. “Seeing me here must be quite a shock, considering that you must have believed I was dead.”
She cocked her head. “Why would I think that?”
“Because you didn’t believe anyone could have survived the collapse of the ash over Calpurnius’ house. That’s why you’re still here, instead of taking flight. You thought that everyone who knew what you’d done was dead.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her hands shook as she rolled up the scroll.
“I’m in no mood to bandy words. You were there, with Sychaeus and another man. Philippa told us.”
Plautia shoved the scroll into a cloth bag. “Sychaeus wanted to kill that brat. I should have let him.”
“The fact that you spared her is the main reason I didn’t bring Novatus and his guards with me to arrest you.”
“Arrest me? On what charge?”
“Blackmail and murder.”
“Ridiculous. You have no proof of anything.”
“I have Sychaeus’ confession, in front of witnesses, that you told him to kill Calpurnius’ servant woman.”
“And where are those witnesses?”
“They are at Aurelia’s villa.” On this point she had the upper hand. Tacitus had been only half-conscious when Sychaeus admitted to the murder, and Bastet’s testimony would not be accepted unless she was tortured first, which I would never permit. Given Aurelia’s state of mind at that time and the fact that she was a woman, any good advocate could discredit her testimony—I certainly could.
“Where is Sychaeus? Can he corroborate what you say?”
“Sychaeus is buried in the ruins of the house along with Calpurnius.”
Her voice softened. “But you’ve risen from the ashes, it seems. And I thought the Phoenix was only a legend.”
“You don’t seem surprised—or distraught—to hear that Sychaeus is dead.”
“As you say, let’s not bandy words.” She turned on her stool to face me. “I heard the noise, felt the earth shake, and saw the ash collapsing and dust blowing up the shaft. I could only assume that everyone down there was dead. As a slave, one learns that things are beyond one‘s control. Being freed doesn’t erase that lesson. There was nothing I could do, so I left. How did you get out?”
“There was another entrance. We got out just before it collapsed, too.”
“So that brings us back to the question of why you’re here.”
“You may be right that I can’t prove anything against you, but we both know what you did and you’re going to have to make that right, as far as you can.”
“How do I do that? I can’t bring Calpurnius back to life, or my brother. By the way, I reject your claim that he is not my brother.” She stacked several loose pieces of papyrus.
“We all make ourselves happy with our delusions. Yours don’t matter to me. What does matter to me is some degree of justice for Aurelia and her child.”
“So the bitch whelped? That must have been exciting.” She met my eyes, daring me to react to the insult.
I clenched my fists. I could not let her make me angry, nor could I strike a woman. “You and your—and Sychaeus—have left Aurelia nearly destitute. In return for my not bringing a charge against you, you are going to repay her the money that Calpurnius paid you in blackmail.”
“You can’t prove that I had any connection to the blackmail or to the murder of Amalthea.”
“You know her name. I didn’t tell you that.”
She stumbled and caught herself. “Sychaeus must…must have mentioned it. Killing her was all his idea.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“Bring him in here. Let’s hear his testimony.”
I stepped toward her and tapped my finger on her table. “The blackmail payments were dropped off here.”
She shrugged. “One of my scribes could have been collecting them. I’m not here every moment the shop is open.”
“The letter you used for the blackmail was written in Greek, which Sychaeus couldn’t read, and it was taken from Aelius’ library, to which Sychaeus did not have access. Aelius trained you from childhood to work with him there. He spared your life when you were born.”
Plautia looked at her foot, twisting it back and forth. “He was a kind man, even if he was a fool. From the way he doted on me and gave in to anything I asked for, you’d have thought he was my father.”
I must have hesitated an instant too long.
“He was my father, wasn’t he?” she said. “You know it.”
“Yes, he was your father.” That bit of information didn’t really matter. It was her mother’s identity that I would not reveal.
“I sometimes heard whispers among the servants. I asked him once who my father was. All he said was that that secret had died with my mother.” She got up and returned a scroll to a niche. Even with her limp, I would have to describe her movement as somewhat graceful. Like Capsius, she had learned to compensate for her abnormality.
“So, you suspected he was your father, and yet you seized on the first opportunity you got to betray him. Did you inform on him to Domitian?”
“No. I never got the chance. I think his wife, that whore Longina, nagged him to do it.”
She considered her father a fool and her mother a
whore. The irony of that gave me some satisfaction.
“I had to settle for punishing Calpurnius,” she continued with venom, “for trading my brother for a horse.”
“And that brings us back to the money. I’ve studied Calpurnius’ financial records. I know how much property he sold in order to pay your blackmail demands. I want you to give that money back to Aurelia.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“The arena has an insatiable demand for victims. No matter how long it takes, I will see that you end up there.”
“How much money do you think Calpurnius paid us?”
“At least four hundred thousand sesterces.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Enough to qualify a man for the equestrian order. If I pay that, you’re going to leave me with nothing.”
“I’m not going to leave you with blood money you’ve extorted from Calpurnius and Aurelia.”
“You nobles are all alike.” Her voice dropped to a snarl. “Have you made your money any more honestly than I have? How much money did your ancestors extort from the provinces where they were governors? You can’t bear to see someone rise to equal you.”
“Having money doesn’t make you my equal.”
She looked at her ink-stained fingers. “Once a slave, always a slave, is that it?”
“No. Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel.”
She stood and drew herself up to her full height. “Gaius Pliny, I don’t have all the money that Calpurnius paid us. I bought Sychaeus’ freedom, and there are expenses involved in keeping this place up. I could pay…two hundred thousand sesterces.”
I knew she was lying. She must have had a considerable sum of money set aside, but I couldn’t get access to her financial records to prove it. I had to get as much for Aurelia and Calpurnia as I could while I had some leverage. “I’ll settle for three hundred thousand, and you’re going to deed this insula and all its contents over to Aurelia.”
She laughed. “I’m not going to give her the place.”
“The government will confiscate it when you’re arrested. You’ll get nothing then.”
She sat down and studied my face. “I almost believe you, Gaius Pliny. Why are you so determined to punish me?”
“You have harmed people I love. If you don’t already know the meaning of the words ‘implacable enemy,’ you soon will.”
“Are you going to hound me like the Furies for the rest of my life?”
I nodded slowly. “Your only escape from me is to make restitution to Aurelia and then get away from here, as far and as fast as you can. I would recommend Alexandria. It’s a large city, where you could become whomever you choose. Perhaps even rise from the ashes, like the Phoenix.”
A faint smile played on her lips. “All right, then. I’ll send the money to Aurelia this evening.”
“No. You’ll bring it to her and apologize to her face.”
“What?” She slapped the table.
“And you’ll bring the deed to this place, made out to Aurelia, with your signature and whatever seal you use on it.”
“You keep adding to your demands. I might be better off just to take my chances with the Furies.”
“I’ve given you my final conditions. In return, in spite of all the evidence I could marshal against you, I’m willing to forgo a prosecution as long as you disappear from Naples.”
“That’s what puzzles me,” Plautia said. “You have this over-inflated sense of protecting others of your class—what you call justice—and yet you don’t want to prosecute me, in spite of all I’ve done. There must be something else behind that decision.”
Of course there was something else. I wasn’t sure I had enough evidence to convict her, especially of the murder of Amalthea. Bringing her into court would make her into a public figure. Someone might find out that she was a descendant of Augustus. As things now stood, she was just one more former slave who could lose herself in a place like Alexandria, where Romans, Greeks, Jews, Egyptians, and peoples from the farthest reaches of the world mingled. It wasn’t an entirely satisfactory resolution—nothing short of bringing Calpurnius back to life would be—but it would have to do.
“Those are the conditions. I’ll see you before dark tonight.”
As I walked out the door, she called after me, “Can I expect to be invited to dine with you?”
†
Emancipation ceremonies can be festive occasions for an entire household. Given the death of Calpurnius, however, we decided to make Thamyras’ manumission ritual brief, with only Tacitus, Aurelia, Bastet, and myself in attendance. We might have put the entire thing off for a few days if Thamyras’ son had not arrived at about the ninth hour, sooner than we expected, in the care of the two servants I’d sent to purchase him and bring him back. The boy was frightened and needed some reassurance.
He found comfort from a source I would never have anticipated. When Philippa came out to tend the horses, the boy took an instant liking to her, clinging to her tunic and staying in her shadow. She must have reminded him of the nurse he’d had back in Puteoli. Girls of Philippa’s age are often assigned the task of caring for the younger children in a house. It frees the older servant women for heavier work and prepares the girls for their roles as mothers.
“Why don’t you let the regular groomsman tend to the horses?” I told her. “It looks like you’re needed here for the moment.”
She looked at the boy as though he was some exotic animal that ought to be on display in the arena. “What should I do with him, my lord?”
“Show him around the stables and the grounds. I don’t think it much matters as long as he’s with you. We’ll call you shortly when we’ve got Thamyras ready.”
Thamyras must have known something was afoot. He’d been told to clean himself up and present himself to his mistress in the garden. Aurelia was seated in a shady corner, the least damaged part of the garden, with Calpurnia in her arms. Bastet, with one arm in a sling, sat beside her, a different but still magnificent scarf wound around her head. She seemed unable to take her eyes off the baby. Tacitus and I stood behind Aurelia.
Head bowed, Thamyras stood in front of Aurelia, uncertain exactly what was about to transpire. He glanced at the shrubbery on either side of her, probably planning how he would trim it when all of this business—whatever it was—was over.
“Thamyras,” Aurelia began, “this day has brought sorrow and joy to our house. My husband, whom you served so faithfully for so many years, died this morning.” She paused to collect herself and hold Calpurnia a little closer. “And yet we’ve been blessed with the birth of his child.”
Dropping to one knee, Thamyras looked at the ground as he spoke. “My lady, I don’t know the words to tell you how grieved I am and yet how happy for you at the same time.”
Aurelia fought back tears. “Thank you. It is a…difficult time…for us all. But it will be a day of joy…for you.” Unable to go on, she looked up at me.
I stepped out from behind Aurelia’s chair and handed a sheet of papyrus to the kneeling slave. “This is the certificate of your manumission. Thamyras, you are now a free man. It is the lady Aurelia’s hope that you will remain here as a part of her household, but you may decide what you want to do.”
Thamyras looked at the document like an initiate who’s just been given the darkest secret of some mystery cult. He mumbled as he read what it said, then looked up at us. “My lord, my lady…I don’t know what to say except thank you. Thank you.” He fell forward and kissed Aurelia’s feet. “You know I will do anything for you. If you’re willing, I would like to stay here.”
“We would be happy for you to stay,” Aurelia said, wiping her eyes. “Now, it is the custom to give a servant a gift when he is freed.”
“Oh, my lady, that isn’t necessary. You’ve given me the greatest gift I could ever hope for.”
“You may think differently about that in a moment. Philippa, dear! Come on in.”
Philippa and the boy had been s
itting in the nearest room off the garden, with the door partly open. Philippa had kept him quiet by telling him they were playing a game, seeing how long they could hide without being found. I guess the honeycakes she’d been feeding him had also helped pacify him. She now stepped into the garden, with her charge clinging to her leg. Thamyras’ face showed utter confusion.
“Thamyras, this is your son,” Aurelia said. “Proxena’s boy.”
“My…son? How could it be?”
“Proxena was bearing your child when she was sold.”
Philippa led the boy to his father and joined their hands.
“And this,” I said, handing the speechless man another piece of papyrus, “is his certificate of manumission.”
†
As darkness came on, Tacitus and I looked up the road toward Naples. “She should have been here by now,” I said.
“You put a lot of trust in someone who hasn’t shown that she deserves an iota of it.”
Before I could think of a rejoinder—if one were possible—a pair of riders accompanying a wagon appeared around a bend in the road. They weren’t in any real hurry.
“That doesn’t look like a woman on either horse,” Tacitus said, canceling the sense of relief I had felt at first. “Or driving the wagon.”
We waited in silence until the riders pulled up in front of Aurelia’s house. One of them was Capsius.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded. “Where is Plautia?”
“She sends her regrets, sir,” Capsius said, “along with the money you demanded and the deed to the insula.” He pointed to a large chest in the wagon.
I grabbed the reins of his horse. “This is not acceptable. I told her that she had to come down here herself. That was an important condition of our agreement.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I am only doing as I was ordered. She did send this.” Capsius took a piece of papyrus from a leather pouch on a cord around his neck and handed it to me. It was folded and sealed and addressed to Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus. All four of my names—a touch of sarcasm, I thought, apparently a specialty of hers. I opened it and read: Gaius Pliny, your suggestion inspired me. The Phoenix must have ashes from which to rise.
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