“Carry them out,” he shouted at Valens, and bolted for the door with his hand over his mouth. He had seen his share of dead bodies in the arena, still death up close always shocked him.
The troopers dragged the corpses into the corridor, each one leaving a smear of blood on the stone floor.
“Centurion, here’s another one,” called one of the men inside, and presently a sixth body was laid beside the other five, a boy of about thirteen, slim and dark, with fine features and silky skin. Lucius appeared suddenly at Pliny’s elbow. “Here, what’s all this? They’re dead!” He looked like he wanted to run. “You know nothing about this? “Of course I don’t! What are you suggesting?”
An idea was beginning to form itself in Pliny’s mind. Had Lucius and Pollux been in this together, and had it now been necessary to silence Pollux? But how could he have carried it off? The two sentries who stood watch outside the dormitory were questioned with Valens glowering over them, but they swore they had seen and heard nothing during the night. Wasn’t it more plausible, after all, that the other slaves had turned on the Jews out of rage and in hopes of appearing loyal to their masters? It must have been swift and sudden. Pollux was a trained fighter, after all. But among the slaves were eight matched litter bearers, fierce-looking men spawned in some German swamp. If the victims were taken by surprise in the dark, it would have been over in a moment. What about this boy, though?
“His name was Hylas,” Lucius offered. “One of my father’s recent purchases. Kept him all for himself, too. Quite a tender morsel, I imagine.”
“But he wasn’t an atheist,” said Pliny. “He sacrificed yesterday, didn’t he?”
Lucius nodded.
“And he’s not a Jew either, sir,” Valens observed. The boy’s tunic was up around his waist, his tender nakedness exposed. It was also apparent that, while the other slaves were beaten and bloodied as well as strangled, Hylas had only been strangled. His throat was bruised but he was otherwise unmarked.
There were too many mysteries here, and Pliny was a man impatient of mysteries. Why hadn’t he questioned Pollux harder yesterday? Wills, contracts, account books were his meat, not this foul business. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger. He would insist that Aurelius Fulvus take him off the case.
“Centurion, question the slaves. I want to know who killed Pollux. Flog them, if you have to.” Was this him speaking, who had never ordered a slave flogged in his life?
Valens looked happy to obey. He saluted and turned away. Then turned back again. “Sir, there’s another thing, too.”
Whatever it was, Pliny didn’t want to hear it. But the centurion pressed on. “There’s another person in the house. A lady. She keeps to her room, we only came across her yesterday when some of the lads were, you know, exploring. Nobody had mentioned her to us.” “What! Where?” “At the end of the corridor there, near Verpa’s room.” Pliny shot a questioning look at Lucius.
She was some house guest, the young man explained. He didn’t know anything about her really except that she seemed sickly. He’d hardly seen her since she arrived. Didn’t catch her name. What with everything else, he’d forgotten all about her.
Pliny sighed. He hadn’t learned much so far. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to have a word with this woman.
He tapped on the indicated door. Hearing a faint answer within, he opened it but hesitated on the threshold. She lay on a couch in the shuttered room, covered with a blanket although it was very hot. “Please come in, you aren’t disturbing me. I am Amatia,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “And you are…?” The voice was low-pitched, warm, though with undertones of weariness in it. She threw off the cover and sat up as he entered. A short woman, pleasantly stout.
Pliny introduced himself and explained the reason for his presence in the house. When he mentioned Verpa her eyes seemed to widen momentarily. “I’m told you were here when the murder occurred. You didn’t perhaps hear anything that night, madam?”
She shook her head, no. Pliny came closer and searched her face. It was a serious, sensitive face. He guessed her age at forty-five or fifty, though she might have been younger. Clearly, illness had aged her: there were deep furrows of strain around the mouth. Her skin was translucent, without a touch of powder, and her graying hair was parted severely in the middle and pulled back from her forehead in a style that had gone out of fashion a generation ago. In face, she reminded Pliny of his mother, who had died when he was a boy. He began falteringly, “How long have you been in this house, madam? “Six days.” “And may I ask who you are?” “I am Amatia, a widow from Lugdunum in Gaul.”
He waited, but no more was forthcoming. It seemed he would have to draw every answer out of her. “A long way away, Lugdunum. And may I ask what has brought you to Rome?”
“If you must know, I have traveled here to become an initiate of beloved Queen Isis and seek a cure for my hysteria. Doctors say that the womb is an animal with no fixed home. In my case it climbs up to my chest. The symptoms are unbearable. I can’t breathe or speak. I lose control of my limbs, I faint.”
“Dear me. Is there no cure?”
“My physician makes me inhale sulfur and other evil-smelling things to drive the womb down to its proper place, but the effect is only temporary. And so, at last, I have turned to religion. The goddess appeared to me in a dream, beautiful in her mantle of shifting colors, and exhaling breath like the spices of Arabia. She told me what I must do and promised to heal me. We must believe in our dreams, mustn’t we?”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Pliny, who didn’t.
“I came with my physician, Iatrides, half a dozen slaves, and a strongbox full of money for the initiation fee. When we disembarked at Ostia, the slaves robbed us of everything and ran off, leaving us alone and penniless.”
Pliny gave a sympathetic shake of his head. It was all too common a story.
“Iatrides and I went to the temple of Serapis in Ostia and asked for help. They arranged for us to stay here with Ingentius Verpa, who is a notable devotee, until I can make other arrangements. Scortilla has been kind enough to send one of her servants to Lugdunum to contact my son-in-law and arrange for more money to be sent. But now with this murder, I…I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know where Iatrides has gone off to either.” Her voice faltered. She clutched her chest and her breath came hard. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. I will have my men make inquiries. In the meantime, my house is at your disposal, ma’am.” “It’s very kind of you. But an invalid is a burden, sir. Are you sure?” She searched his face. “I insist upon it. It’s quite impossible for you to stay here another night.” “Then I accept gratefully.” “Here, let me help you up. Valens!” Pliny yelled down the hall. “I need you. We’re taking this woman to my house.”
The centurion and two of his men carried Amatia, couch and all, into the vestibule while another followed behind with a bag containing her few possessions. Pliny’s litter bearers ran up to assist.
Lucius watched them silently, not appearing to care whether the woman stayed or went.
And then Turpia Scortilla appeared, accompanied by Iarbas and his monkey. She took a step forward, swayed on her feet, and put a hand on a column to steady herself. If Amatia looked ill, Scortilla looked worse. This was the first time Pliny had had a good look at her in full daylight. He strained to see the young bareback rider in this ravaged body. The red slash of mouth in the chalk-white face, the straining tendons of the neck, the blue-veined hands. “You’re not leaving? But we took you in, I offered you my friendship, I wanted us to be…” Her eyes seemed to plead. “I’m sorry, Turpia Scortilla. This gentleman has offered…Under the circumstances…” She looked away. Scortilla turned on Pliny, her voice shrill. “You’ve no right!”
“Lady, calm yourself.” Pliny held up his hands to ward her off. He was honestly a little frightened of her. “I remind you that Verpa’s murderer has yet to be identified. It simply isn’t safe.”
Amatia raised herself on an elbow. “My condolences on your tragedy, lady, and my gratitude for your hospitality. We will see each other at the temple?”
Scortilla shot a venomous look at both of them, turned and walked away with a lurching, stiff-legged gait. The dwarf held on to her dress, and the monkey on his shoulder looked back and grimaced, showing all its sharp little teeth.
Lucius stood in the doorway and watched them until they were out of sight. ???
The eighth hour of the day.
Pliny had wondered at his own impulsiveness in inviting this strange woman into his home. But as soon as he saw her and his darling Calpurnia together, he knew he had made the right decision. There was an instantaneous bond between the two women. Amatia almost seemed to have been sent by some benevolent goddess to be the mother that Calpurnia scarcely remembered. His wife proudly displayed her swelling abdomen and asked, “How many children have you, Lady?” “Please, call me Amatia. Five-all daughters, if you can believe it.” Everyone at the dinner table that evening exclaimed over this prodigy of fertility. “I will have a son,” said Calpurnia, setting her mouth firmly. “For my husband.”
Pliny gazed at his wife anxiously. “The dear girl has had a difficult time,” he confessed. “She has a doctor of course, a good man. Soranus, recently arrived from Ephesus. A specialist in women’s complaints. Still, he can’t be here all the time. Anything you could do to instruct her, calm her fears, ma’am…”
“Dear Pliny, I will treat her like one of my own.” The two women reclined side by side on the dining couch. Amatia took the girl’s hand and squeezed it. “I only hope I won’t impose on your hospitality too long.” Pliny waved this aside. “Lugdunum is weeks away. In the meantime, this is your home.” “Yes, please,” said Calpurnia. Amatia smiled and nodded graciously.
At that moment, Martial burst into the dining room. His face was flushed with wine, a garland sat askew on his shaggy head, and he smelled of scent. Clearly he was coming from a day’s drinking with his fellow poets and their hangers-on. Pliny gave him an indulgent smile. “You’re just in time for the braised leeks.”
“Ah, the braised leeks!” the poet rubbed his hands together in what he hoped was a convincing display of anticipation.
Introductions were made. Amatia appraised the newcomer with observant eyes. “I am only a provincial countrywoman,” she said. “Forgive me if your fame has not reached us. What sort of poems do you write?”
“Yes, well,” Pliny broke in hastily “Perhaps this is not the time.”
“But it is, my friend,” Martial said, reaching into the fold of his cloak and bringing out a small scroll.” If I may, this is a gift for your charming wife. Our conversation last night put me in mind of it. Years ago in Spain, during one particularly bitter winter, a little slave girl of ours, Erotion was her name-I told you about her-well, she took sick and died just six days short of her sixth birthday. I was fond of her-well, we all were. I wrote an elegy for her. Would you favor me by setting it to music, Calpurnia?”
She took the scroll from his hand, unrolled it, and read it aloud. When she came to the end there was silence around the table and Pliny looked at his guest as though seeing him for the first time.
“It’s beautiful, sir.” She regarded him gravely and repeated the last line. “Gently cover her tender bones, ye rugged earth, for she trod so light on thee.” She rewound the scroll and tucked it in her bosom. “I will do my best with it, and thank you.”
Suddenly the poet was embarrassed-an unaccustomed emotion for him. To cover it, he lifted his cup and drank deeply. “Yes, well,” he blustered, “didn’t mean to interrupt things.” He turned instead to the older woman. “Amatia, this Verpa business, then. I confess I’m curious. How did you come to be in that dubious household?”
Amatia repeated her story, adding that Scortilla seemed especially glad to receive her, actually flattered that her home was recommended by the temple authorities. “She seemed lonely, troubled.”
“Most unpleasant woman,” Pliny broke in. “The whole damned family. Imagine those priests sending this unsuspecting lady to that house. What an unworldly lot they must be.”
“Which brings us,” said Martial, suddenly sober, “to the mystery.”
But Amatia had little to tell. She had taken a sleeping draught that night and heard nothing, although her room was not far from Verpa’s. She was awakened by the uproar the next morning when his body was discovered. She came out into the hall to see what the matter was and peeked into Verpa’s room where everyone was milling around and shouting. She had just a glimpse of the horrible, bloody scene and felt an attack of hysteria coming on. She retreated to her room, feeling breathless and faint, and had stayed there until the soldiers discovered her.
“And your physician took himself off somewhere and never came back?” said Pliny. “On the same day that Verpa died? Curious. More than curious, in fact. Did he say where he was going?” She shook her head. “Well, the city is full of dangers for the unwary. Give me his description and I’ll convey it to the prefect’s office. If he’s come to harm, we’ll learn of it sooner or later. In the meantime, I’ll ask Soranus to have a look at you the next time he comes to examine my wife.” “Oh, no, please,” she protested. “I mean, I’m used to Iatrides. He must come back soon.” “Well, as you wish.” Martial asked what impression she had formed of the family during the days she was there.
His question seemed to make her uncomfortable. “I mustn’t speak ill of my benefactors, fellow-worshipers of the goddess,” she answered, “but, well, I suppose it wasn’t a very happy family. I began to regret that I had agreed to stay there. So much shouting. I tried not to listen, but you couldn’t avoid it.”
“Shouting between…?”
“Verpa and his son, mostly. They had several rows. Lucius complained about not being given enough spending money. He called his father ungrateful. There was some talk about atheistic Jews which I didn’t understand. Then another time they argued about one of the slave girls, Phyllis, I think, and on that occasion the father actually threatened to kill his son if he caught him with her again.”
“Hmm. And Scortilla?” Pliny asked.
“She just seemed, I don’t know how to describe it, preoccupied, jumping at the slightest noise. She hardly spoke to either of them as far as I could tell.”
There was a thoughtful silence all around until finally, Amatia asked, “What will you do now, Pliny? Is the case closed? I suppose there’s no doubt the slaves did it.”
“Husband,” Calpurnia asked, “what will they do to the slaves?”
Pliny had no desire to tell her, but she persisted. “Some will be dressed in shirts covered with pitch and burned alive. Others will be thrown to the lions in the arena.” The girl gave a shudder.
Zosimus, Pliny’s secretary, who had said little all evening, looked straight ahead, not a muscle in his face betraying his feelings. Zosimus had been born a slave in this house and, although he had been educated, cherished, cared for when he was sick, and finally rewarded with freedom, he vibrated with a sympathy for the enslaved that none of these others would ever understand.
“It is the mos maiorum, child,” Amatia explained, touching Calpurnia’s arm.
“You are a traditionalist, dear lady,” Pliny said. “I admire that in you, so rare these days. And yet one’s human feelings rebel…”
“Oh, yes of course,” she murmured.
“But, to answer your question, the case is not closed. Not until I know for a certainty who killed Ingentius Verpa.”
That night Pliny lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come, and thinking how pleasant it was that Calpurnia, his darling Calpurnia, had a new friend.
Chapter Twelve
The seventh day before the Ides of Germanicus.
Day three of the Games.
The first hour of the day.
Th
e usual crop of drowsy-eyed clients filled Pliny’s atrium. With one significant addition-Martial. Pliny had half expected this, but didn’t relish it. He had hoped to have the poet as a genial acquaintance, even a helpful assistant in the Verpa affair, but not as a client. But by attending the salutatio, Martial was proposing himself for that status, and Pliny didn’t see how he could refuse. In a moment of careless generosity, he’d brought it on himself. Now, as the poet’s patron, he had obligations toward him. If the mos maiorum still meant anything at all, he would have to use what small political capital he possessed to get his poems read by the emperor. This meant fawning on the chamberlain, Parthenius-a thought which filled him with disgust. Well, all that was for another day. He had too much else on his plate at the moment.
When the others shuffled out, clutching their daily handouts of food and coin, Martial made no move to leave. It was an awkward moment for both men. But before either could speak, a strange voice sounded from the back of the room. Pliny, looking up, saw that two men whom he did not recognize lingered near the door. One, the shorter of the two, decently dressed in a Greek cloak; the other tall, shabby, long-bearded, and very old. They approached, the short man taking the lead, bowing as he came.
“I am Evaristus, bishop of Rome,” the man said. “My companion is Ioannes of Patmos. He is a visitor to our city. We are Christians.” He said it as easily as one might say, We are rug merchants. He was a man of middle age, olive-skinned, with gray starting in his beard. He searched Pliny’s face with intense black eyes.
Pliny returned a blank look. “Christians,” he said, trying to remember in what connection he had heard the word before. “You are their high priest?”
“One of them,” Evaristus gave a deprecating smile.
“And your business with me?”
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