And then there he was! Coming through the door, alone. He paused and looked around. Was he looking for her? Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. In the center of the gallery was a large statuary group, a copy of Laocoon and the sea serpent. She ran behind it, pulling Ione with her. Unseen, she watched him as he moved around the gallery.
She would talk to him. Now. She would step out from her hiding place. Walk toward him with an easy smile. And Aphrodite, whose little image she prayed to nightly, would put the right words in her mouth. She didn’t know what they would be, but the goddess wouldn’t fail, couldn’t fail her.
She swallowed. Drew a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a moment and sent up a prayer to the love goddess.
“Calpurnia! How nice to see you, dear.”
Faustilla, Nymphidius’ formidable wife, swooped down upon her, her voice like a trumpet, her red gash of a mouth stretched in a grimace of feigned delight. Behind her came Fannia, the meek, bird-like little wife of Caelianus.
“Well, of course, you are the artist, aren’t you?” Faustilla blared. “So of course you’d be here, wouldn’t you? We thought we’d just pop in for a look, didn’t we, Fannia?”
Fannia offered a hesitant smile.
“Well, I haven’t seen so many naked men”—Faustilla leered at the nude statuary—“since I was a girl and sneaked into the men’s baths. Speaking of baths, we’re on our way there now, it’s the ladies’ hour you know. Come with us. Haven’t you had enough of this musty old stuff?”
“I—I’m sorry, Faustilla,” Calpurnia stammered, “I really can’t—that is, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Nonsense. Waiting for whom—your lover?”
“What?”
“Great gods, look at your face! Can’t you take a joke? Well, we’re all so serious these days with what’s been going on.”
“Going on?”
“Some family of Greeklings got themselves murdered yesterday. Doesn’t the governor tell you anything? My husband doesn’t tell me anything either. All very hush hush. It’s enough to give one palpitations. I remember when emperor Claudius was murdered. I was just a child, of course—”
“Excuse me, Faustilla, please!”
He was gone! She looked around wildly. One moment he had been standing in front of the statue of a laughing satyr and now he was nowhere.
“I have to go!” She seized Ione’s hand and dragged her away.
Faustilla watched Calpurnia’s disappearing back and shook her bewigged head. “Fannia, something’s not right with that woman.”
Fannia nodded vigorously. “You’re right, of course, Faustilla. The way she and her maid carry on like a pair of conspirators. Spends more time with her than with any of us. T’isn’t proper.”
“Ione! That stuck up little bit of stuff. She needs a good whipping is what she needs. Teach her her place. Gaius Plinius ought to control his womenfolk better. I have a mind to say something to him.”
“But, of course, the men are so busy.” Fannia was afraid she might have gone too far.
“We’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Pliny thumped the table. “We have hold of a new clew, gentlemen, and this one may finally lead us out of the labyrinth!”
The staff was once again gathered in his office and this time their expressions were eager and engaged. Their chief’s excitement was contagious.
“You think Glaucon killed Balbus, then?” Suetonius asked.
“Balbus’ neck was crushed. Not many men have the strength to do that, but Glaucon, the ex-wrestler, did. And then, for some reason, he began to worry about what he’d done.”
“And his question to the oracle provoked his murder,” Marinus finished the thought.
“Will I be punished for slaying the lion? Those were his words?” said Aquila. But why ‘lion’? It’s a damned peculiar expression.”
“Brave as a lion?” Suetonius offered. “Balbus was a tough ex-soldier; it could fit. Still, we really don’t have anything concrete that connects Glaucon to Balbus.”
“But we do,” said Pliny triumphantly. From the jumble of scrolls that he had taken from Glaucon’s house and which now covered his desk, he withdrew the little handbook of astrology and unrolled it. “This is identical to the one I took from Balbus’ house. I’ve just been comparing them side by side, they’re copies of the same text. Fabia told me that Balbus studied it diligently although it ‘made his head hurt.’ I’d guess that Glaucon, who by all accounts was no genius, suffered the same ache. The question is, why were both of them intent on studying this little book and how did they come to possess it?”
“Interesting,” said Nymphidius. He massaged his knee “But that’s only one piece of the puzzle. The poisoned dates were a gift ‘from the Persian to the bridegroom.’ But Glaucon had been married for years, and who is this Persian?”
“Just like a Persian,” said Aquila angrily, “to slaughter a whole family. They haven’t got human feelings like us.”
“There are Persians in the city,” said Suetonius. “A few hundred. They have their own quarter together with the Jews and Armenians.” According to Sophronia, he was about to add, but suddenly felt reluctant to bring her name into the discussion.
“And this Persian who wanted Glaucon dead,” said Marinus, “must therefore be complicit in the murder of Balbus. A Persian murdering a Roman official? A bad business—especially if it’s the prelude to something worse.”
“You don’t mean—?” Zosimus blurted out, fear in his voice.
“A second Mithridates!” Aquila growled. “Another massacre!”
“None of that talk now!” said Pliny sharply. But he was more worried than he let on. Could Persian spies have somehow learned of Trajan’s plans to launch an invasion of their empire from Bithynia-Pontus? Was Pacorus, King of Kings, planning to strike first?
“Anything in Glaucon’s papers that mentions Persians?” Marinus asked.
“Not so far,” Pliny admitted. “I haven’t read everything yet.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Suetonius asked, “What do you propose, Gaius Plinius?”
“I will talk to these Persians.”
***
They wore the baggy trousers and long-sleeved, embroidered tunics of their nation. Their long hair and beards were oiled and curled. They were shop-keepers and merchants, the leaders of their community. They stood, a dozen of them, in Pliny’s antechamber, muttering in their beards. They were frightened. Persia and Rome had been enemies for generations. Roman legions had invaded their land once and been massacred. There had been wars over the possession of Armenia and the frontier was a scene of constant skirmishes. They had no reason to trust a Roman governor.
They pushed forward their spokesman, Arsames, an elderly, dignified man with grey in his beard, an importer of eastern spices and perfumes. He sank to his knees, stretched out his arms, and knocked his forehead on the floor.
“Stand up, man, I’m not one of your barbarian kings,” Pliny said sharply.
With the help of two of his comrades, Arsames struggled to his feet. If he heard the snickers from the Romans in the room, he ignored them.
“Forgive me, master—our custom.” He spoke passable Greek.
“Nor am I your master,” said Pliny sharply. “What I require from you is information, not cringing obeisance.” In a few words he told them that a prominent Greek and his family had been poisoned by a Persian. “I want that man, and I expect you to produce him.”
Arsames translated for the others. With one voice they cried out their innocence, raising their hands to heaven. No Persian had done—would ever do—such a thing! Who was Glaucon? They did not know him. Why would they wish him dead?
Pliny held up his hands for silence. “Nevertheless, nevertheless,” he said when he could make himself heard, “Glaucon is dead and we have a witness who swears that a Persian sent the poisoned dates.”
“No!” Arsames shook his head. “This is a slander on us. An ex
cuse to persecute us.”
Now Pliny felt himself at a loss. He didn’t want to draw a line from Glaucon’s murder to Balbus’, whose death was still officially an accident. “I’m not accusing all of you, Arsames. But one of your people is a murderer. I want you to help me find him. You would be wise to cooperate.” Pliny put on his most severe expression and Arsames’ eyes widened with fear and confusion.
Suddenly, from the rear of the chamber there was a commotion and a woman’s voice was heard demanding shrilly to be let in. Her head didn’t come up to their shoulders but she shoved her way through the press of men, a small whirlwind of indignation, until she stood before the astonished Pliny. Suetonius stepped forward smoothly. “Sophronia, what an unexpected pleasure, but really—”
“Why have you dragged these men here, Governor?”
While Pliny was searching for his voice, Suetonius went on quickly, “Really, this is no place for you, my dear.”
“Why not? I’m a Persian. When they can be attacked, so can I.”
Before he could reply, she turned to Arsames and spoke to him in rapid Persian. He looked hardly less confounded than the Romans by her presence. He knew who she was, of course, and did not approve of her. None of them did. But if, as it seemed, she knew these Romans and didn’t fear them, he was ready to put aside his scruples.
She turned back to the Romans. “These men know nothing about this murder, nor do I. But if you want their help, you had best not threaten them. They are proud men. My mother’s people live amongst them. If there is anything to be learned, we will learn it. From now on, I will be your go-between.”
“I thank you, madam,” said Pliny, finally collecting himself. “Whatever you learn you may communicate to Suetonius in your, ah, place of business.”
“Oh quite,” she said. “The gods forbid that a whore should sully your doorstep.”
Pliny was again speechless. Worse, he was beginning to seriously wonder whether the Persians had anything to do with this.
***
That evening, under a lowering sky, five coffins were borne on the shoulders of pallbearers to the cemetery beyond the city wall. Flutes shrilled, mourners shrieked and tore their garments, but this was more than the imitation grief of hired professionals: the whole city had turned out for this sad event. An immense sea of people trailed the cortege and their outrage was genuine and palpable. And among the crowd, certain men circulated, who sometimes whispered and sometimes shouted that it was the Persians, the hated foreigner, the ancestral enemy, sly, grasping businessmen, deniers of the city’s gods, who had slaughtered this noble Greek family and were only waiting for the opportunity to kill again, kill them in their beds, kill without mercy. Must they wait until more innocents were poisoned? Drive them out! Burn them out!
And, having done their work, they pocketed the coins they had been promised and slipped away.
***
That night a mob rampaged through the Persian quarter, looting shops, throwing torches into homes and dragging the terrified inhabitants out into the street to be beaten and raped; making no distinction between the Persians and the Jews and Armenians who were unlucky enough to live side by side with them. Flames leapt into the night sky, visible from the palace. Pliny sent every soldier he had into the quarter and they battled the mob all night long, chasing looters through dark alleys, putting out fires, forming a human shield around the houses that weren’t burning.
Dawn broke lurid through a pall of smoke that overhung the city. Worse was the sullen miasma of hatred and fear that settled on it. Pliny crucified six looters, declared martial law, suspended meetings of the council and assembly, and ordered his men to break up street corner gatherings of more than three. He opened the palace grounds to the Persian families who had been burnt out of their homes, and Calpurnia—defying the muttered comments of the wives—took charge of caring for them. Pliny had never felt more proud of her.
But it wasn’t only the Greeks he had to deal with. A delegation of Roman businessmen, not only from Nicomedia but from Prusa and Nicaea as well, demanded an audience. Why was Balbus’ murder—for few now doubted that it was murder—still unsolved? Why had he brought the Persians in for questioning only to let them go? Was another Mithridates loose in their midst? Could he protect them? Because if he couldn’t then, by the gods, they would protect themselves!
Time was running out. Pliny knew he was on the verge of losing control of the city and the province. It had been a mistake to summon the Persians in such a public way; he blamed himself for what had happened to them. But who was this Persian who had poisoned Glaucon and his family? Was it perhaps no Persian at all but someone else, some personal enemy of Glaucon’s, who wanted to shift suspicion onto the foreigners? And what was the connection between Glaucon’s death and Balbus’? That there was a connection he was convinced.
***
Once a semblance of order had been restored in the city, Pliny made inquiries as to where he might find Glaucon’s brother and learned that he was still at the family’s house, overseeing the rituals for purifying it from the pollution of death. He sent Galeo after him.
Theron was a handsome man in his early fifties, some five years older than his brother. He looked older than that now. Grief had aged him. His skin was grey, his eyes pouched and exhausted. And he plainly wanted nothing to do with Pliny.
“I apologize for invading your home, Theron. It was necessary to question your mother without delay.”
“My mother died early this morning.”
“Then all the more so. I am truly sorry. I want you to help me find their killer.”
“It was the Persians, of course. Why are you protecting them?”
“Did your brother have any dealings with the Persians or a particular Persian?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did your brother have enemies that you know of?”
“None. Everyone who knew him liked him.”
“Tell me about him. What sort of man was he?”
Theron looked at a loss for words. “Well he—I mean, a good husband, good father. Loved food. Loved sport. Horses and dogs. Lots of friends—even some Romans, though I don’t know why.”
“I’m told he was a tough competitor in the wrestling ring. Injured his opponents. Perhaps he killed someone? Could there be a grudge?”
“But that was years ago,” Theron protested.
“Would you call him an intelligent man? I know this is painful but please be frank.”
“You mean books and so forth? No, he wasn’t much for that. When we were boys he would escape from our tutor every chance he got.”
“Well then it’s curious that I found this among his effects.” Pliny produced the astrological handbook. “A bit abstruse, I would think, for the non-mathematical mind. I’ve spent a little time with it and I can’t make much out of it myself.”
Theron leaned over and peered at the scroll. “I’ve never seen this before. You say it was Glaucon’s? He never said anything to me about stargazing.”
“Well, we have a small mystery then.” Pliny set the scroll aside. “Did your brother by any chance have dealings with Vibius Balbus?”
“What, the procurator? No. Why should he?”
“Did he interest himself in provincial affairs? Taxation, for instance?”
“I told you, he liked hunting and living well. He left politics and business to me.”
Pliny was silent for a moment, considering how he would phrase his next question. “Would you say your brother was a man who could be easily led? I mean into doing something that he might have regretted later? Might even want to confess?”
“Confess? Confess what? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, my brother is a victim, not a culprit. I warn you—”
“Calm yourself, please. I know this is difficult for you.”
“Do you?” Theron shot back. “Those children”—he swallowed hard—“were as dear to me as my own. His wife and mine were like sisters.”
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“Then help me avenge them. Somewhere there is a door waiting to be unlocked and a key that fits it.”
Theron answered him with a bleak look. “I’ve no key.”
“But we haven’t begun to look. You say Glaucon left politics and business to you. What sort of business do you engage in?”
Theron shrugged, “We sell a part of our crop. We export dried fruits from our orchards. When we have spare cash we invest in construction, sometimes in trading ventures, or our banker does for us. We do well enough.”
“Your banker. And who might he be? I only ask because in going through your brother’s papers I noticed a receipt for the deposit of three minas of silver with a certain Didymus.”
“That’s him. A good man, reliable. Done business with him for years. But this deposit? It’s news to me.”
“Interesting.”
“And what has this to do with my brother’s death?”
“Probably nothing,” Pliny sighed.
Chapter Twenty-three
Didymus was a small man of about forty with a round face and a round, protruding belly. His mouth was a red Cupid’s bow, his eyes bright under springing brows, with something of the child in them. His clothes were good but not ostentatious. His most striking feature was his right arm, or, rather, the absence of it below the elbow. “Mauled by a dog when I was a tyke,” he explained almost as soon as he had entered Pliny’s office. “Mustn’t complain, though. I do well enough with the one.” He offered a shy smile. “And what did you want with me, sir? I must say I was flummoxed when your man came for me.” Didymus sat upright in his chair, leaning slightly forward, an expectant look on his face.
Pliny let him talk. The man was nervous, anxious to please. But that was to be expected.
“Terrible, wasn’t it, sir,” Didymus rattled on. “I mean the riot. Bad for my business, I can tell you. When there’s civil strife money goes into the ground—literally, I mean. People bury it.”
“And do you do business with the Persians?” Pliny made a temple of his fingers and rested his chin on them.
“Me, sir. No. I mean they keep to themselves, don’t they? I say, did they really poison Glaucon and his poor family like everyone says? Well, they are barbarians, aren’t they?”
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