Pliny suppressed a smile. “That’s as may be. But the lion-does it mean anything to you?”
“No-no, I’m sure it doesn’t. Was there anything else, then, sir? I’m afraid I’ve told you everything I know.”
“And I’m grateful for your cooperation.”
“Oh, not at all, sir. And may I say, sir, you’re welcome to visit us anytime. Perhaps I can put you in the way of a good investment.”
“Thank you. I will keep it in mind.”
Winking and smiling, Didymus bowed himself out.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Nones of November
On the third day following the attack on the Persians, a delegation of the city council called on Pliny to beg permission to perform their customary procession and sacrifice to Zeus, the city’s patron god. Pliny cautiously agreed to suspend martial law although he warned them that he would keep troops in the Persian quarter. If the festival went off without violence, he would allow things to go back to normal. It was Suetonius who suggested that they go a step further, join in the ceremony and make an offering to Zeus on behalf of the Roman community as a gesture to the Greeks.
“Excellent suggestion,” Pliny had said, “and I’ll go further still. These have been grim days and we could all do with a little diversion. I’ll order up a banquet and we’ll invite the Greeks.”
“Even Diocles?” Suetonius grimaced.
“Even him.”
“And Sophronia perhaps?” Suetonius looked hopeful.
“Absolutely not.”
The festival went off smoothly. There were some catcalls when Pliny and his entourage appeared but, at least, nothing was thrown at them. Pliny had purchased a handsome bull and made a gift of it to the priests to sacrifice with prayers for goodwill among all the inhabitants of the province. It made an impression. The day was rounded off with, inevitably, an oration by Diocles.
***
That night lamps blazed in every corner of the palace’s newly-decorated dining room. The cooks had labored all day over complicated dishes that Pliny, abstemious creature that he was, never ordinarily ate. Troupes of acrobats, jugglers, and musicians had been recruited on short notice. At the head table, Pliny reclined with Calpurnia, his senior staff and their wives, and Diocles, sans wife. Like any respectable Greek woman, she did not dine with strangers. At other tables, were mixed groups of Greeks and Romans-Pliny had planned the seating carefully. At one of them, Zosimus reclined with Timotheus, Calpurnia’s tutor, presumably deep in conversation about some nice point of Greek versification: Zosimus smiling, Timotheus not (the man had never been seen to smile since he had entered Pliny’s household). Little Rufus, who had been allowed to stay up late for the occasion, ran here and there among the couches, everywhere petted and fed.
Some were absent: Theron had declined the invitation, pleading that he was in mourning; Fabia made the same excuse.
By tacit agreement, no one spoke of Balbus or Glaucon or the Persians. Calpurnia complimented one wife on her gown, another on her tiara; spoke Greek to Diocles and accepted his effusive praise for her accent. There was a great deal of laughter-but it was brittle and forced. Pliny sensed the effort behind his wife’s gaiety. He now realized-though Calpurnia never complained of it-that the wives had united against her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She tasted everything, but ate little of it. But her wine glass seemed always empty and she called for more. He had never seen her drink so much. When had that started? When he spoke to her, he felt awkward, he hardly knew what to say to her anymore.
“My dear, I invited that young Greek, Agathon. Thought he might amuse. Sent his regrets, though.”
“Who?”
“You remember, he was at the funeral, I told you-”
But she quickly looked away.
Suetonius’ well-tuned antennae sensed the tension and he outdid himself to be amusing, regaling them with tidbits of backstairs gossip about the sexual escapades of Messalina and Agrippina. Pliny heard himself laughing too loudly at things that didn’t really amuse him. He, too, was drinking deeper than usual.
And suddenly he wished that everyone would go away.
***
Calpurnia sat before her mirror, allowing Ione to unpin her complicated hairdo with her practiced hands. Pliny, who had seen off the last of the guests, entered their bedroom.
“You may leave us, Ione,” he said.
“But I haven’t finished-”
“I said leave us.”
For a moment their eyes met, master and servant, and what passed between them in that look Calpurnia did not see.
“Of course, sir. Good night, mistress.”
“I love your hair,” Pliny said. He stood behind her, removed the last of the pins, and lifted it in his hands. “It’s what I first noticed about you. You wore it so long then, when you were a girl. I gave you tortoise shell combs for it-do you remember? — when I came to ask your grandfather for your hand. You blushed and I was afraid you’d run away. That was the moment I knew I loved you.”
“I remember. I still have them.” Her voice flat, toneless.
“’Purnia, look at me. Turn around. Are you sick? Marinus thinks you are. I will tell him to bleed you tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t want to be bled.”
“For your own good.”
“I’m not sick. Why do you accuse me of being sick?”
“I’m not accusing you. Mehercule, ’Purnia, I only want you to be happy. I see now I shouldn’t have brought you here, to this alien place. When the sailing season opens again I’ll let you go home, if that’s what you want.”
“I haven’t said so.”
From the courtyard came the distant voices of the last tipsy guests calling for their chair bearers.
“You haven’t said anything! Damn it, Calpurnia, what is the matter with you?”
“Don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting. I–Look, Zosimus asked me the other day to talk to Ione, he’s worried about her. And I did, or tried to. She wouldn’t say anything. But why did you visit her in the middle of the night? It upset her, Zosimus says. What is going on between the two of you? I insist you tell me.”
“Can’t I talk to my maid when I want to?” She was on her feet. Two red spots burned in her cheeks. “Zosimus is imagining things. And you had no right to-”
“No right! I am the master here! What aren’t you telling me?”
“You’re hurting me!” He released her, leaving white marks on her upper arm where his fingers had sunk into her flesh.
“Forgive me, I’m sorry. ’Purnia, how have we come to this? I don’t want to bully you. I wanted us to make love tonight.”
“You have the right. You are the master.”
She turned away from him, feeling more alone than ever. Because she knew now that she could no longer confide in Ione, not with Zosimus keeping his eye on her. Now she had no one.
Pliny saw her put her head in her hands, her shoulders working up and down. He could think of nothing to say. He went to her and put his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest and wept.
***
The 7th day before the Ides of November
The morning found Pliny brooding in his office. He had fallen asleep only a little before dawn and then woken up with a start in the middle of a nightmare in which he was running from room to room in the palace, a windowless labyrinth of twisting corridors, searching for little Rufus, that precious child, whose pitiful cries for help eluded him no matter which way he turned.
Calpurnia was still asleep and he got out of bed carefully so as not to wake her. They had made love, he with passion and she with-what? Something less. And nothing was settled between them. There was still some mystery there. He massaged his neck and tried to focus his thoughts on the one mystery that he must solve: Balbus, Glaucon, and whatever it was that linked their deaths. The small bronze bust of Epicurus occupied its accustomed place on his desk. He touched its forehead and wished
for the gift of that great man’s wisdom, as though he could receive it through his fingertips. But the philosopher was mute.
A knock at the door. Zosimus probably, bringing him something to eat, fussing over him. The dear boy, more of a wife to him than his wife was these days.
“Come in,” he spoke to the door without enthusiasm.
It swung open, revealing one of the optios with his hand on the collar of a very dirty little boy.
“Sir! Found this lad trying to climb the gate outside. Says he’s run away from the procurator’s estate. Begs not to be sent back there. Says he has something to tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“Shall I chuck him out, sir?”
The boy, who looked to be about ten years old, wiped his crusty nose with the back of his hand. He was on the verge of tears.
Pliny came around the desk and bent down. “Who are you?”
“Epam-Epaminondas.”
“A big name for such a small person.”
“They just calls me ‘boy’ around the stable.”
“The stable? Vibius Balbus’ stable?”
The boy nodded. “You ain’t gonna send me back. They’ll kill me for sure.”
“And why would they do that?”
“I stoled a bite of food. They don’t feed us hardly nothin’, not since Master died. Cook beat me black and blue, said he’d cut off my hand if he caught me again.” The boy’s chin quivered.
“Well, we won’t let him do that.” Pliny patted his head and immediately regretted it: Epaminondas’ hair was alive with lice. “Now, what is it you have to tell me?”
The boy frowned at his feet, unable to get the words out.
“Here, come and sit down. I expect you’re hungry. I’ve some bread and cheese here. Will that suit you?”
Pliny waited while the boy crammed the food into his mouth with both hands and washed it down with large gulps of water.
“Now, then, what’s this all about?”
“About the young master, sir. The one we’re all scared of.”
“Balbus’ son? Why are you afraid of him?”
“Well, he has a curse on him, doesn’t he? We all spit in our bosom whenever he comes around the stable. Which he did, sir. I mean the day Master disappeared. The young master rode out with him. ’Twasn’t even daylight when they left. Roused us all up to saddle the horses.”
“The horses. Was Aulus’ horse a chestnut?”
The boy nodded vigorously. “The one you brought back, sir. Which Mistress said weren’t ours, but it is. She said she’ll sell us all to the quarries if we breathe a word to anyone. But I can’t stick it there no more, and so I thought…” His voice trailed off. He gazed hopefully at Pliny.
Pliny let his breath out slowly. “Clever lad. Let no one ever discount the intelligence of a slave, even the humblest. You’ve a pretty good idea what this information is worth, don’t you?”
“Will you buy me off the estate, sir? Otherwise-”
“You drive a hard bargain, Epaminondas,” Pliny smiled. “All right, I’ll pay for you. Do you like horses?”
“Yessir, I love ’em. Hope to ride my own someday.”
“Well, perhaps you will.”
Pliny summoned the optio and told him to have Epaminondas thoroughly scrubbed, fed, and handed over to his stable master with instructions to find him suitable duties.
***
He had not seen Fabia since the day of Balbus’ funeral. The passage of time had taken a toll on her appearance-her hair was unkempt, her face unmade-while, if anything, it had increased her natural obduracy. Her feet were planted firmly in the doorway, her arms crossed, as though she really intended to physically bar them-Pliny, Suetonius, Marinus, and four lictors, led by Galeo-from entering. Behind her could be glimpsed her muscular freedman, a second bulwark.
“I will speak with your son,” Pliny said again, making an effort to keep his voice low, “with your permission, madam, but, if necessary, without it.”
“He isn’t here.”
“Really? And where would he go? He isn’t well, is he?”
She said nothing but thrust out her chin at him.
“Lictors!”
Three of them moved her aside, pinning her arms behind her when she tried to wrestle with them. The freedman raised his fists and took a step forward, but hesitated when Galeo threatened him with his cudgel.
“Search the house and grounds,” Pliny commanded.
“Tyrant! Bloody tyrant!” Fabia screamed, her voice hoarse with tears of rage.
Pliny went immediately to the little room off the atrium where he had found Aulus hiding before. It was empty now. “Marinus, go through the rooms on this floor. Suetonius, take two of the men and search the grounds. I’ll look upstairs.”
And it was Pliny who found him at last, cowering behind a clothes press in his mother’s bedroom, doubled up with his arms over his head.
“It’s all right, it’s all right now. No one will hurt you.” He spoke softly, as though gentling a frightened horse. “I’ll call your mother now.”
Fabia crouched beside her son, wrapping him in her arms, shielding him with her body, a lioness protecting a sick cub.
As Pliny and Marinus watched in silence, Aulus kicked out his legs and threw back his head. His eyes turned upwards until only the whites showed, his tongue protruded between his teeth, and foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. Fabia put a twisted rag between his teeth, rocked him, stroked his head, and murmured in his ear while he writhed and twisted in her arms.
“Fascinating,” Marinus breathed. While Pliny, rational man that he was, felt the atavistic urge to spit rise up in him-the ancient apotropaic magic to ward off the Sacred Disease-so strong was the fear of it.
After two or three minutes the boy’s tremors subsided. His eyes closed and he went limp as a rag. Fabia continued to rock him.
“He’ll sleep for an hour or more,” Marinus whispered. “When he wakes up he won’t remember what happened.”
“Is there something you can do for him?” Pliny asked.
“Nothing that she isn’t doing already.”
“Then we will wait.”
***
It was well past midday when Aulus’ eyelids fluttered open. They had carried him to his own room and laid him on his bed. Fabia sat beside him and hers was the first face he saw. But as his eyes focused and he saw Pliny, Marinus, and Suetonius seated on stools at the foot of his bed, he shrank back.
“It’s all right,” Pliny said softly. “I have some questions to ask you and you must answer truthfully. Your mother can stay.” He looked hard at Fabia. “You will not interfere, do you understand? Otherwise I will send you out of the room.”
She met his stare and said nothing.
“We know from the testimony of one of your stable boys that you rode out with your father before dawn on the day he disappeared.”
“That filthy little liar!” Fabia cried.
Pliny silenced her with a look. “I’ve warned you. One more word and out you go. Now, Aulus, what happened out there?”
The boy drew a deep, rattling breath. “I killed my father.”
Fabia lowered her head and let out a moan.
“Can you tell me why? Look at me now, not at her. Why did you kill him?”
The boy resembled his father, Pliny noted. The same red hair, the same sharp features. But where Balbus had displayed all the menacing power of a vicious dog, his son had only a squirrel’s twitchy nervousness.
“I’m a coward. I was frightened.” The voice was barely audible. Pliny leaned forward.
“Frightened of what?”
“The cave. I begged him not to make me go. He wouldn’t listen. He said Mithras would make a man of me. Mithras was a soldier’s god, he said, and he’d done plenty for Mithras and Mithras could damn well do this for him. He was taking me to be initiated. He said there were seven ranks. He was a Lion, nearly the highest, I would become a Raven, the lowest rank. He said e
veryone started as a Raven, even him.”
“Did he name the other ranks?”
“Yes, but in Greek. I didn’t know any of the words.”
“Go on with your story.”
“Well, he said we would meet the others there. They all approached the cave by different routes to avoid calling attention to themselves because the mysteries of Mithras were a deep secret. He warned me that I should never breathe a word to anyone. They would blindfold me, he said, bind my arms, aim an arrow at my heart, but then it would be all right and I would be raised up to the heavens and see the god. I didn’t want to. But he slapped my face, told me to stop whining. He was doing it for me, he said, to make me a man at last.”
Pliny exchanged glances with his companions.
“It’s the curse,” Aulus whispered. “You see how I am. I don’t leave the house because people spit and make the horns with their fingers when they see me. Even here, no one will drink from the same cup or eat from the same dish as me.”
“You’ve had it all your life?” Marinus asked.
“Since I was nine. If I’d had it as a baby they would have just left me on a rubbish heap and had done with it. I wish they had.”
“No, never!” Tears were streaming down Fabia’s cheeks. It was the first time Pliny had seen her cry. She had had no tears for her husband, but she was weeping now.
“They tried every way to get rid of it,” the boy continued. “Father took me to the temples of Asclepius at Pergamum and Smyrna, the temple of Isis in Rome. I had to smear myself with mud, bathe in an icy river, run around the temples barefoot in winter, wear evil-smelling things around my neck, drink-drink the blood of a dead gladiator, but I couldn’t, I threw it up. My father made me sleep outdoors on the ground, made me practice with a sword, slapped me, hit me with his vitis when my arm faltered. And finally, after I had a very bad fit, he decided to take me to this god in the cave. I just couldn’t stand any more.”
Pliny felt a tide of anger rise in him. His heart went out to this tortured child. “By Jupiter, If you suffered all that and lived you’re more of a man than most. Now I want you to listen to what my friend here has to say. This is Marinus, my physician.”
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