Then one of the sleepers—she hadn’t really been asleep at all—arose and came silently toward him, holding her lamp before her. Quickly Alexandrinus led her around the back of the temple and through a small door into a private cell. He turned to her, raising his arms to shoulder height, palms outward. “Praise the Queen of Heaven,” he said. The voice was deep, the accent Egyptian, whether honestly come by or not. The voice of a god.
“Praise the Daughter of the Stars,” repeated Turpia Scortilla and threw herself against his broad chest. He could feel her trembling.
“Not wise for you to come here.”
“It worked! My Lord, it worked! Eight nights passed after I buried the tablet, I didn’t sleep a single one, lying in my bed, listening, not daring to hope. Then the night before last they came—Ereschigal, Phokensepsou, Cheloumbra, and Abrasax. They came! Flying through his window. I heard the beating of their wings, and then slashing and ripping with their talons. I saw the marks on his body the next day and nearly fainted. I haven’t stirred from my room since then until tonight. But I had to see you, to tell you. It’s all happening exactly as you told me—”
“I told you?” he broke in sharply. “I told you nothing. It is the divine that speaks through me. Never say I told you.”
“Yes, my Lord.” She lowered her head. “We—we haven’t done wrong, have we?”
He stroked her hair. “Isis is Queen of Hades as well as Queen of Heaven. All means to an end are within her compass.”
“But I’m frightened. The penalty for magic is death. The police are camped in our house, some inspector came around. I wouldn’t speak to him, but what if he comes back?”
“These police are stupid men. Calm yourself. The next step is the will. When is the reading?”
“Lucius wants it the day after tomorrow.”
“Then there isn’t much time. Verpa wrote what you suggested to him?”
She nodded. “A hundred thousand.”
“Now I’m going to teach you how to lift a seal. It’s a simple trick, some book maker’s glue mixed with chalk, it hardens quickly. Lift it off and you have a perfect mold. The rest will be simple.”
“Oh, Goddess help me. I’m afraid. I don’t think I can go through with this. My nerves…”
“You can. The demons have done what you commanded, the rest you must do yourself. Anubis will hold your hand, as I do now.” He pulled her to him. Not gently. An animal growl rose deep in his throat, he pushed her on her knees on the cold stones, although he knew it hurt her, and pulled up her stola. Her spine was like a string of knucklebones, her buttocks thin, her hips razor-boned. He mounted her from behind, the dog-headed god himself in all his power and ferocity. He howled and barked through the megaphone of the mask, and she arched her back and cried out as he thrust—the god inside her!
After she had gathered herself and gone, Alexandrinus took up his place again in the courtyard of the sleepers. Human life, he considered, is ruled by the tyrants Hope and Fear. If you employ them skillfully, you can do very well for yourself. Turpia Scortilla was not the first overripe matron, drunk with faith, who had crawled on her knees to Queen Isis only to be lifted up by him.
Nectanebo, standing in the doorway of his workshop for a breath of fresh air, was thoughtful. Whatever he had seen was none of his business.
Chapter Eleven
The eighth day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day two of the Games.
The second hour of the day.
With great satisfaction, Lucius Ingentius Verpa watched the last of his clients bow themselves out of his atrium. His clients. His atrium. Now he was paterfamilias here. He looked around with distaste at the Nile mosaic and the Egyptian bric-a-brac that filled the room. That would all have to go, whether Scortilla liked it or not. He was master here now and there would be some changes made.
The salutatio had not been an entire success. He had soon grown bored trying to make sense of the clients’ petitions and finally ordered them all out. Of course, they were all scum—parasites and legacy hunters hoping for a share in the old man’s estate. And just as soon as the undertaker returned the body, they could proceed with the lying in state, break the seal of the will, and find out exactly what the estate amounted to. Then there was the matter of those papers, the ones his father had waved under his nose, hinting at their great value, taunting him with them. What were they? Where were they? That first night after his father’s death, he had ransacked the tablinum looking for them, and surprised Scortilla in the dark, obviously on the same errand. Since then, with troopers all over the house, it wasn’t safe to be seen searching; that would only arouse the curiosity of that meddling vice prefect.
These thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the man himself. Lucius looked at him sourly. “Am I to look forward to these visits on a daily basis, Gaius Plinius?”
“No more than I do, I assure you. I’ve come to interview Pollux again, with your permission, of course.”
“My permission seems to weigh little against the authority of the city prefect. You’ve turned my house into an army camp. The soldiers are into everything, I’m hardly master here. Do what you like by all means.” Lucius waved his arm and let it drop.
Pliny ignored the insolent tone. “And Turpia Scortilla? I hope she is better disposed this morning?”
“She’s out of her room, if that’s what you mean. Not that you’ll find her very helpful. She begins drinking as soon as her eyes are open.”
“Yes, well then, I’ll start with Pollux.”
The slaves who languished in the stifling dormitory looked and smelled worse than they had the day before. Two more weeks of confinement and there would not be many left to execute. He looked from one face to another—pinched with hunger, glassy-eyed with fatigue and fear. Something odd about them today, too. Yesterday they had greeted him with screams. Why were they so quiet now?
“Pollux, step forward!” bawled Valens, the centurion. But no one stirred.
With a sudden premonition, Pliny plunged into their midst. He found the broken bodies of Pollux and the four others who had not sacrificed in a tangled heap in the far corner of the dormitory, throttled with their chains, their heads savagely battered.
“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.”
“You policeman.” She spat out the word. “Think you can do whatever you like. We’ll see.”
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 ar
rived 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.
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