“Why, of course, sir. I know that.” Pliny hastened out the front door, calling for his bearers. Hispulla’s worried eyes watched him go.
Marcus Cocceius Nerva opened the latticed door that led from the garden to the tablinum and stepped into the room. He was angry. “That was a damned silly thing you said, my friend. And we’ve learned nothing by it. I, too, was at the banquet of the dead-to avert a potential disaster. Any one of those poor, frightened fools might have blurted out some scrap of rumor that could hang us. Pliny pretends to be all innocence, but I don’t believe him. He was put there to spy on us, and that is what he did. You can only thank Fortune that he didn’t learn anything.” Corellius tried to protest, but Nerva waved him to silence. “You think a fatherly pat on the arm will keep Pliny’s loyalty when Domitian tempts him with rewards beyond his dreams? You have all chosen me after being turned down by every other likely candidate. And, may Jupiter help me, I have consented. But I have the gravest doubts, my friend, the gravest doubts.” He was visibly shaking, whether with anger or fear was hard to say.
“Calm yourself, Nerva,” said Corellius Rufus sharply. “Sit down and have a drink. I know my man.”
But to himself he thought, You old fool. Did you say too much or too little? Well, it’s in the hands of the gods now. He wished he believed in them. ???
At the same hour that Pliny was visiting his old friend, far away on the Palatine Hill, Martial was finding his way through a maze of corridors and courtyards in the domestic wing of the palace to the private apartment of the grand chamberlain.
“Aha, here you are. I’m so glad you could come at short notice.” Parthenius, pressing his palms against his thighs, heaved his bulk out of a chair specially built to accommodate his girth and spread wide his fleshy arms. The cloying scent of his perfume filled the little room. He waved the poet to a chair as slaves came in bearing wine and a silver platter of honey cakes. “I always prefer to meet friends here. My office over on the other side is a madhouse. Honey cake?” He plucked one from the platter with be-ringed thumb and forefinger and held it to Martial’s lips. “Wine?” A slave poured from a silver flagon. The grand chamberlain lowered his ponderous frame again onto his chair.
The poet accepted what was offered while he looked around him. The room was beautifully appointed. Exquisite pieces of Syrian glassware stood in niches, dainty ebony tables displayed old Corinthian bronzes worth a fortune. The wall panels showed sea-green vistas where pastel nymphs cavorted. Beyond a gossamer curtain, a fountain splashed in a small garden.
“I regret we’ve never met face to face,” said the chamberlain. “I can’t think why not. But, of course, I know your poetry well. Such wit, such observation! And at the same time such expressions of loyalty to our emperor. You’ve even been kind enough to honor my humble self with praises I scarcely deserve. But I appreciate it, my friend. I want you to know that.” He favored Martial with his sleek, wet smile. The poet mumbled his thanks, wondering why he had been summoned here at the crack of dawn by a slave in imperial livery. “I gather that you are anxious to have your poems read by the emperor? To have the patronage of the court?” “My new patron, the acting vice prefect, has assured me that he will introduce my poems to Our Lord and God.”
“Which he can accomplish only through me.” Parthenius tapped his chest with a fat forefinger. “And that will be only if you are able to perform a small service for me.”
The poet was instantly cautious. “What service would that be, my lord chamberlain?”
“Your patron Gaius Plinius is a man of conspicuous rectitude and loyalty, highly regarded by our emperor. You may tell him I said so.”
Martial nodded.
“You’ve dined with him twice since he began his investigation of the Verpa affair,” Parthenius continued. “You’ve attended his salutatio. He seems to have taken quite an interest in you, and you in him. Am I correct?” Parthenius moved a finger, and instantly a slave hurried to refill the poet’s wine cup.
How did the grand chamberlain know about this? But, of course, everyone was watched. As they talked, flattery and wine began to work upon the poet in spite of himself. He felt his body uncoil, heard himself babbling. He was more of a confidante, really, than an ordinary client. And Pliny had sought his advice on certain matters, he being a man of the world. Yes, they had talked about the murder. No conclusions yet, of course. His friend had some notion of exonerating the slaves. It did seem the Jews had nothing to do with it. Lucius might actually be the guilty party. No proof yet, of course…
“Interesting.” Parthenius made a temple of his fingertips, wetted his thick lips with the tip of his tongue. “I would like to be kept abreast of Pliny’s progress in the Verpa investigation. The next time he goes to Verpa’s house, make sure you go with him. The man had certain documents in his possession, never mind what they are, but apparently they have so far not been uncovered. If that changes, I want to know it at once. I would like you to report on this and anything else of interest that you may glean from your conversation with the acting vice prefect. I want to know everything he knows, everything he suspects.”
“Report?” The word stuck in Martial’s throat. Fool! What had he said, what had he done? He would say no more.
“Another cake?” said the chamberlain. Martial waved it away. “I understand, moreover,” Parthenius continued unperturbed, “that he has a house guest, an invalid lady who had been lodging with Verpa until the murder. I would appreciate occasional reports on the state of the lady’s health and her movements.” “Amatia? Why? Who is she to you?” The chamberlain did not answer. “Look here, I don’t know what this is about but I don’t like the sound of it. I’m not a man to be bought. Good day to you…”
Parthenius checked him with a raised hand. “Sit down.” The genial expression vanished as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. “It is very little I am asking of you, my dear Martial. Easy for you to do, and no danger whatever to your friend Pliny, I assure you. And the reward is very great, indeed. The emperor’s patronage. It’s the reason you came to Rome, isn’t it? You’ve been here now many years? You’re not getting any younger, my friend. If it doesn’t happen for you soon, it never will. I can make it happen. Only I. You only have to give a little to gain so much. Now what do you say, my friend? More wine?”
Martial sat down slowly. “And what, you expect me to come to the palace every day with these reports?”
In a game like this you sense the moment of hesitation, of weakness in your opponent. You know when you have won. Parthenius smiled blandly, adjusted a lock of silver hair at his temple, waited before he spoke. “Oh, no, no. Nothing so compromising to your honor. You will make notes. When you have something to communicate you will go to a certain popina in the shadow of the Claudian Aquaduct, where it crosses the Via Triumphalis. You may know the place, they serve a decent stew I hear. Go there at the third hour of the night. You will see a man with his left arm in a sling. You will sit on his left side on the bench and place your note in the sling. You never have to speak a word to him. Simplicity itself.” ???
Martial sat in the corner of a smoky tavern near the Circus Maximus, hunched over a flagon of cheap wine. Somehow, he had found his way out of Parthenius’ apartment, out of the palace. He didn’t ordinarily drink alone, but he poured the last drops from the flagon and called for another. He stared morosely at the scarred table top. He wanted to be very, very drunk. He wanted to be away from this city-what had that Christian lunatic called it?-this Babylon. He wanted not to betray the trust of his friend and patron. He wanted to be a better man than he knew himself to be.
Chapter Fifteen
The fifth day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day five of the Games.
The fourth hour of the day.
“May I sit down? I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, please.” Calpurnia put down the scroll she had been studying and made room on the stone bench under the pergola.
“There’s actually a bre
eze this morning,” Amatia said, turning her face toward it. “You have a lovely garden.”
The flower beds were ablaze with color. Bumblebees buzzed among the irises and lavender. A pair of warblers perched upon the head of Priapus and sang their song. “What were you reading?”
“Oh,” Calpurnia blushed, “just one of my husband’s speeches to the probate court. I memorize them-well, as much as I can, it pleases him.” “Goodness, child, what a wife you are!” Amatia laughed. “You mustn’t call me ‘child,’ I am a married woman.” “Of course you are; forgive me, Calpurnia. Still, you are so young. Do you have any friends your own age?” “Not really. All the other wives in our set are much older than me. And on their second or third husbands.” “Are you from Rome?”
“Oh, no, from the north, Comum, where my husband comes from. Our family properties adjoin. Two years ago he went home to visit his mother. I happened to be in the house. My grandfather, who has raised me since I was a child, had sent me there to be a companion to the old lady. Anyway, I was there when he arrived. His own wife had recently died of a long illness. But he was sweet to me. We talked, he told me all about Rome, the baths and the theaters and the tall buildings. And, of course, all about the courts and the cases he tries there. I’m afraid I didn’t understand much of that, being a country-bred girl, but it all sounded so grand. And then, before I knew it, he asked for my hand in marriage. I was speechless, terrified. What could he see in a simple girl like me? But he said it was my simplicity that he loved. That I would bring a breath of the North with me. My grandfather, of course, favored the match. And so here I am. I’m very lucky.”
Amatia was silent for a while. “But are you happy? Gaius Plinius sometimes seems more like your father than your husband.”
“Oh, he’s husband enough!” She risked a smile. “And as for a father, well, I hardly remember mine. So, that’s all right too. Oh, I know he fusses about things and some people say he’s vain-I’m not deaf or stupid, I hear things-but I do love him and I want very much to please him. And so…” She tapped her forehead with the scroll.
“So you memorize his speeches and set his poems to music.”
“And now, Martial’s as well. I was touched by his poem, weren’t you? I hope he’ll like what I’ve done with it. I confess, he frightens me a little.”
“Indeed, that man is a study in contradictions. But you, at any rate, are a good wife and a shrewd woman as well. If only Rome had more like you than of the other sort. Still, you must be bored sometimes and lonely.”
Calpurnia sighed. “The hours pass somehow. I read all sorts of things, Gaius likes me to be well-informed. What else is a wife to do after all, especially one in my condition? Tell me all about your home. Of course, I’ve read Caesar’s Commentaries, but I suppose Gaul is very peaceful now.” “Yes, well…” Amatia began. “Oh!” Calpurnia touched her abdomen. “He just kicked. Do you want to feel?” Amatia put out her hand. “I do feel it! He’ll be a strong boy.”
“I sacrifice everyday to Juno Lucina that he will. Sometimes I’m so afraid. My husband wants a son so badly. Soranus, my obstetrician, says I have the pica. I have vomiting, dizziness, headache. I must eat only soft-boiled eggs and porridge. And twice a day old Helen massages my abdomen with myrtle and oil of roses. Everything is forbidden to me-excitement, travel, crowds, and now even love-making.”
“Poor Calpurnia. We’re a fine pair of invalids. My births were all easy, thank the gods, but this hysteria that afflicts me now-that is something else.”
“And you believe Queen Isis will truly heal you? I know almost nothing about that cult. My husband doesn’t approve.”
“Indeed, I do not.” Pliny emerged from the tablinum, where he had spent the morning trying, without success, to draft a memorandum to the city prefect. “I have nothing against the goddess, mind you, but her rites are far too stimulating for Calpurnia in her present state. Waving those rattles around, dancing. Of course, if you want to go to the temple yourself, Amatia, my litter is at your disposal.”
The woman smiled up at him. “Alas, there is no point until I receive my dream and my money. I pray for the time to be short. My dear,” she turned back to Calpurnia, “do you know how to spin wool?”
The girl shook her head, her mother had died when she was a baby, no one had ever…
“I will teach you, just as I did my daughters. Pliny, be good enough to ask a slave to fetch wool and a distaff and spindle. You know, my dear, how it says on the tombstones of wives from the old republican times ‘lanam fecit- she made wool?’ In those days they really did. It was the highest praise a woman could receive. I find it calms the mind. So will you, my dear.”
Pliny beamed. He suddenly felt a great tenderness toward his young wife, and great gratitude toward Amatia. In just four days she seemed to have blended imperceptibly into the life of his family. She was, like himself, a provincial who valued the old Roman traditions as few Romans of the City did. And Calpurnia clearly loved her. It bothered him a bit that a woman of such obvious good sense would want to involve herself with those Isiac charlatans, but he supposed illness makes cowards of us all. Still, he felt that if Calpurnia had a sudden emergency, he could count on Amatia to keep a level head and know what to do. He was sorry, in fact, that she must eventually leave them.
The bunch of wool was brought and teased apart, with Calpurnia’s white kitten leaping up to catch the strands. Pliny turned reluctantly back to his office, leaving the two women, with their heads together, laughing.
That night Martial joined them again for dinner. He was amusing, entertaining, teasingly flirtatious with the women. He evaded Pliny’s questions about where he had been yesterday. While they waited for the first course to be served, he studied Amatia, who as usual shared a couch with Calpurnia. Who was this serene, attractive woman? What was he supposed to notice about her? He told himself that he was merely satisfying his own curiosity. “You’re from Gaul, madam? A part of the Empire I’m happy to say I’ve never visited. Do they still wear long hair and paint themselves blue?” Fishing for information.
She laughed pleasantly. “‘Long-haired Gaul’ is a thing of the past. We’re reasonably civilized these days. Lugdunum is a good sized city nowadays. My father was a land-owner. My husband was a merchant. He died some years ago and left me well provided for. I live with my eldest daughter and her husband. But it is a rather dull place, I admit. No society that would interest a man of the world like you.”
“Well, in that case, seeing as you’re in Rome during the Games you should take the opportunity to see some plays. It would be my pleasure to accompany you if you don’t object to being seen with such a notorious fellow as myself.” He favored her with his toothiest smile.
“Thank you, but I have a horror of crowds. They bring on my attacks.”
“Ah, a pity. And your illness, if you don’t mind my asking? You seem well at the moment.”
“Hysterical suffocation. It strikes me at odd times, whenever something happens to upset me. As I explained to Gaius Plinius, there’s no medical cure. But to Isis all things are possible. Even my physician Iatrides agrees.” At this she turned anxious eyes on Pliny. “I know how busy you are, but I’m so worried about him. Where can he have gone to? It’s been more than a week. I’m afraid something awful has happened. Are the City Battalions searching for him? You remember-a corpulent man with a beard, about fifty years old.”
“Yes, yes of course. So far no word, I’m afraid.” The truth was, the matter had entirely slipped his mind. He had said nothing to the prefect, but he would do so tomorrow.
Martial gave up on the woman and turned his gaze on Pliny. “And what did you learn yesterday at Verpa’s?”
“Oh, a great deal, my friend. I wish you had been there.” He summarized briefly and concluded, “The difficulty is making sense of it all. Lucius is raging. He claims the legacy to the temple is a forgery, and it does seem like an extraordinary amount of money for a tight-fisted man like Verpa to donate
for a mortuary, of all things. I’d like to know how much Scortilla had to do with it. She’s certainly in thick with those charla-” He checked himself out of regard for his guest.
“And the two of them are still living in the house together?” Martial asked with wry amusement. “I’d like to be a fly on that wall.”
“Exactly. I’m hoping the pressure will build up and one of them will say something incriminating. My men have orders to eavesdrop at every opportunity.”
Martial stroked his chin. “And you say the dagger was actually Verpa’s? So there was no outside assassin, despite someone’s attempt to make it seem so.”
“Yes, and that someone is Lucius, I’m convinced of it. Remember, he was the one who first suggested it. And having assisted his father in getting evidence against Clemens by infiltrating the God-fearers, he would know about the seven-branched candlestick that we found drawn on the wall and the significance of that dagger. But, if his plan was to incriminate Pollux, he outsmarted himself. He didn’t know that Pollux had turned Christian.”
“Christians,” Amatia interjected. “There are said to be some even in Lugdunum. Haters of mankind who pray for the end of the world by fire. Compare that to the loving-kindness of Queen Isis.”
“Indeed so,” Pliny hastened to agree. Gaius Plinius wasn’t much interested in the next world. His ambitions were confined to this one. Of course one paid honor to the gods of the State, while agreeing with the philosophers that the One God, if he existed, was very far away and not much concerned with mankind. What Pliny, and others of his class, objected to was superstitio- religious zealotry, uncontrolled passion that inevitably led to public disorder.
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