“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 everyone 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.”
Marinus pulled his stool closer and looked at the boy gravely. “Your father loved you very much in his way,” he said, “but what he put you through is barbarous nonsense. What you have is called the ‘Sacred Disease’ but it is no more sacred than any other disease, as the great Hippocrates tells us. It is an affliction of the brain. I’ll put it as simply as I can. Veins lead up to the brain, the two biggest ones come from the liver and the spleen. These veins carry our breath to every part of the body. Now, there are impurities in the brain of the unborn infant which normally are purged before birth. But if this does not occur then the brain becomes congested with phlegm, which is one of the four bodily humors. If the cold phlegm flows into the veins, the sufferer becomes speechless and chokes, he gnashes his teeth and rolls his eyes—your symptoms exactly. This is all because the phlegm clogging the veins cuts off the air supply to the brain and lungs. The patient kicks when the air is shut off in the limbs, and cannot pass through to the outside because of the phlegm. Rushing upwards and downwards through the blood, it causes convulsions and pain, hence the kicking. The patient suffers all these things when the phlegm flows cold into the blood, which is warm. In time the blood warms the phlegm and the patient recovers his senses. There is no curse. Do you understand me?”
The boy sat up suddenly, wrenching away from his mother’s embrace. “Then there is a cure?”
“Ah, well,” Marinus stroked his beard. “That is more difficult. Diet sometimes helps. But honestly, at your age, a cure is unlikely.”
“Then it’s still a curse. How can I live like this?”
“Julius Caesar managed it rather well,” Suetonius struck in. “Had it all his life. Most people never suspected. I invite you to read my biography of him when it’s published. I’ll send you a copy.”
“But I’ve killed my father! That is the worst curse of all. What will they do to me?”
“Tell me,” said Pliny, “precisely what happened. Everything you can remember.”
“The sun was just coming up. We’d already ridden for two, maybe three hours up into the hills. I was cold, shivering. I begged my father to turn back but he wouldn’t listen. Then he said we should dismount and tie the horses to a tree and go the rest of the way on foot. He said the cave wasn’t far. “
“Do you know where it is?”
“No. The ground was steep and rocky. There was hardly a path that you could see. I was so frightened I could hardly stand up. I felt a fit coming on. Father grabbed my hand and dragged me along. I was crying and he was saying all these things about Mithras and how I would be a man he could be proud of. I broke away and started to run back. He came after me and threw me to the ground. We struggled and I picked up a rock and I hit him with it as hard as I could, here.” Aulus pointed the side of his head. “And then I fainted and that’s all I remember. When I woke up, the sun was low in the sky. And my father wasn’t there. I thought he had just left me. So I went home. I couldn’t find the horses. I had to go the whole way on foot and it was late at night before I got back. I expected him to be there and I was terrified of what he would do to me. But he wasn’t there. I must have wounded him mortally and he dragged himself off into the bushes to die. That’s where you found him, isn’t it?”
“And that’s what you told your mother?”
The boy nodded.
Pliny turned to Fabia. “And you kept his secret to save his life.”
“Should I have lost both of them?” she cried.
Pliny shook his head in amazement. “It’s the stuff of Greek tragedy, like something from the pen of Sophocles! Madam, I admire you—and I never expected to hear myself say that. Now listen to me both of you. We found Balbus buried, with his neck broken. There was no fracture of the skull. I don’t know who killed him or why, but Aulus is not guilty of his father’s blood.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“I once knew a woman,” Pliny said to Marinus, “who suffered from falling fits. Hysteria she said it was. When it came on her she looked just like Aulus.”
“Ah yes, similar symptoms but quite a different cause. Your woman friend had a wandering womb, or, at least, that’s the common theory. Aulus’ case is much more difficult. I feel for the lad.”
“I think telling him about the Divine Julius cheered him up a bit,” said Suetonius.
The three had just returned from Fabia’s. They sat in Pliny’s office, waiting for the others to join them.
“Where do you get these gems of knowledge?” Marinus said testily. “I suspect you make them up.”
Suetonius was about to protest when in trooped the swaggering Aquila; Nymphidius, limping on his arthritic knee; Caelianus with precise, small steps; and Zosimus, following some steps behind and looking, as always, as if he were entering a club to which he didn’t belong.
Pliny briefed them on the morning’s revelations.
“Extraordinary,” Nymphidius said. “Sacred Disease? Secret cult? In all my years I’ve never heard—”
“It does sound like fiction, doesn’t it?” Suetonius interrupted. “Which reminds me of a thought I had the other day. To capture this whole mystery—when we solve it, that is—in a work of literature, something quite original. A story where the reader doesn’t know the solution until the very end. I don’t believe it’s ever been done before. You, of course, would be the hero of the tale, Gaius Plinius. I would play a small part. I think it would sell—
”
Pliny stared at him without blinking. “You will do no such thing.”
“Yes, well, just a passing thought.” Suetonius fell into a coughing fit.
Marinus shot him a look of triumphant malice.
“Let us sum up what we know,” said Pliny carefully, “and what we don’t.” He spent a moment minutely arranging the objects on his desk— the ink stand and styluses, the small bust of Epicurus, the cameo portrait of Calpurnia. ’Purnia! It had once warmed his heart, this painting of her touching a stylus to her lips, gazing at him with her big, serious eyes; now he felt like he was looking at a stranger’s face. With an effort he dragged his mind back to the present.
“Glaucon feared he would be punished—by whom we don’t know—for killing a lion. He was worried enough to consult Pancrates’ oracle about it. We now know from what young Aulus has told us that ‘Lion’ was the title of a rank that Balbus held in an obscure cult. Glaucon and Balbus both owned the same astrology manual—obviously something required of the cult members. Balbus’ neck was broken. Glaucon had been a wrestler, notorious for his brutality. Ergo, Glaucon killed Balbus, and at a place and time that only another cult member would know of. The poor lad’s confession, while not true, is helpful. It allows us to visualize Balbus’ last moments. A rocky path bordered by dense bushes to conceal the assassin. Barely daybreak, the light still faint. Glaucon comes up behind Balbus as he struggles on the ground with his son, gets him in a wrestler’s hold around his neck—and at that very moment Aulus loses consciousness. If he saw anything at all, he doesn’t remember it now.
“The only problem is that we have no idea why Glaucon wanted Balbus dead. And then someone, who styles himself a ‘Persian’, killed Glaucon, evidently out of fear that the man was so troubled by what he had done that he might do something rash, like confess.”
Pliny paused and took a sip of wine.
“Glaucon’s death has opened an unexpected path; one that leads us away from our other suspects. First Silvanus. That man has more than enough motive—personal animosity, fear of exposure as a thief, and perhaps had the opportunity too. But unless we can connect him with Glaucon—which, on the face of it seems unlikely—then we have to remove him from the list of suspects. The same thing holds for Fabia and Argyrus. Did either of them know Glaucon, much less have such influence over him as to get him to commit a murder for them? With Glaucon dead, it’s difficult to prove that he did or didn’t know someone, but on the face of it all these people moved in quite different circles.”
“Unless Argyrus belonged to this cult too” Caelianus offered.
“That is a possibility,” Pliny replied, “and one worth exploring. Because that cult is the key to this.”
“Mithras,” said Suetonius, who had recovered his aplomb and could never resist displaying his knowledge. “An old Persian deity. The Cilician pirates, who terrorized Mare Nostrum two centuries ago are said to have worshipped him. But that’s ancient history.”
“And the Cilician pirates were allies of Mithridates!” said Aquila with a slap of his fist in his hand.
“Let’s not start that again,” Pliny said firmly. “I don’t believe this has anything to do with real Persians plotting to murder us in our beds.”
Aquila looked unconvinced.
“And if the cult is anti-Roman,” Pliny went on, “how could Balbus have belonged to it? The man may have been many things, but turncoat is surely not one of them.
“And yet,” said Nymphidius, “he was knowingly breaking the law by belonging to it. Wouldn’t this cult fall under Trajan’s ban on voluntary associations?”
“Indeed it does,” said Pliny, reminding them that Nicomedia was not even permitted a volunteer fire brigade. “Somehow, we must find out who the other members are. For all we know, they’re people we pass in the street every day. What do they do out in this cave of theirs? What purpose binds them together?”
“They’re a small group surely,” said Marinus. “The boy said there were seven ranks. Lion and Raven are two. Persian and presumably Bridegroom, Glaucon’s rank, are two others. Of course, there may be more than one holder of a given rank, but I’d guess there aren’t many more to be discovered. How many people can fit into a cave, after all?”
They sat for a minute in thoughtful silence.
“Where do we go from here then, Governor?” Nymphidius said at last.
“I’ll interview Glaucon’s brother again,” Pliny replied. “Is it conceivable that he knew Silvanus, or Argyrus? Who were his particular friends? Although Theron is so embittered that I don’t expect much cooperation on that front. And we’ll search for the cave.”
“A big task. The hillsides out that way are riddled with caves, so I’m told,” Nymphidius said.
“Nevertheless, we must try. It’s somewhere not far from where Balbus was killed. That leather merchant who brought us to the village where the horses were found. Aquila, go find him again. We’re going to need his villagers plus every soldier you can spare. Get started at once.”
Aquila stood and clapped his fist to his chest; happy to be doing something at last.
“And,” Pliny arched his back and stretched. “I can’t think of anything else. Unless one of you—”
“Who owns it?”
“What? What was that?”
Zosimus had been working up the courage to ask his question for some time.
“Owns what, my boy?”
“The land out that way, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“What a question!” Nymphidius shouted. “It’s wasteland, scrub, nobody owns it.”
“No, wait,” said Pliny. “He’s got something here. Think about it. These cultists—they aren’t peasants, they’re city men, wealthy men, if Glaucon is typical. They don’t just go out in the woods and squat in some cave. They own things, improve them, pass them on. It’s the kind of people they are—the kind of people we are. I believe this cave is on land that someone owns and has used for a purpose.”
“It’s a long shot,” Nymphidius muttered.
“Yes, well what isn’t here?” Pliny retorted. “Zosimus, my boy, I’m proud of you. And, as it’s your idea, I’m putting you in charge of it. Go off to the city record office tomorrow and start looking at land deeds for parcels east of the city to a distance of, say, a hundred stades. If it was legally acquired, there’ll be a record. Take Caelianus to help you. Counting the coin in the treasury can wait.”
***
“Of course, I respect your modesty, Calpurnia, but you must understand that I am a physician. If I had a trained nurse, I would employ her. Unfortunately, I do not have such a person. Now please relax, there is absolutely no danger, the pain is slight, and the marks will disappear within a day or two. And you will feel much, much better for it, I assure you.”
Calpurnia watched him with staring eyes as he heated the brass cupping vessels over a candle flame. Her hands, white-knuckled, gripped the arms of her chair.
Ione hovered beside her. “I had it done once, matrona, it isn’t so bad.”
“If I refuse?”
Marinus looked at her sternly. “Lady, it is your husband’s wish. He’s worried about you. We all are. It’s plain your humors are unbalanced. Every physician from Hippocrates to our own time has advocated this procedure. Now please let us have no more difficulties.” He spread out his instruments on the side table, selected a lancet and tested its edge against his thumb. “Ione, kindly pull your mistress’ gown up to uncover her thighs.”
Calpurnia looked away. What could she do but submit to this man?
Her flesh quivered under his fingers, touching her where no man but her husband—and her lover—had ever touched her. Brisk, businesslike, Marinus made an incision on the inside of each thigh and, as the blood flowed, pressed a cup over the wounds. She gasped as the hot metal burned her. He took his hands away and cups clung to her.
“So,” he said, “we create a vacuum and draw out the bad blood. You’re not goi
ng to faint, are you? Ione, put a cold cloth on your mistress’ forehead. Just another minute now.”
She let out her breath slowly.
The cups cooled and loosened. Marinus wiped the blood away with a ball of wool soaked in wine and applied a styptic that stung horribly. “Brave girl. All done.” He smiled through the thicket of his beard. “As for the red rings, no one will see them who shouldn’t.” He chuckled. “You just rest now. With luck, we won’t have to do this again. I’ll see myself out.”
Ione wiped her forehead. “’Purnia, dear, how do you feel?”
“Raped,” she said between her teeth.
***
The archives of Nicomedia reposed in a colonnaded building adjacent to the council house on the south side of the agora. Zosimus and Caelianus presented the governor’s written order to the elderly clerk, who looked them up and down suspiciously and finally stood aside to admit them. It was a grey morning and daylight barely penetrated the cold interior.
“Suppose you’ll be wanting lamps,” the clerk mumbled. “Mind, you must pay for the oil.”
“How are your records organized?” Zosimus asked.
“Organized?” the clerk repeated the word tentatively as though it were a term in a language with which he was unfamiliar. Organized?”
“Yes, organized,” said Caelianus. “Kindly show us where the land deeds are kept.”
“Land deeds?”
Was the man deaf or half-witted?
“Land deeds!” Caelianus was losing patience.
“No cause to shout,” said the clerk. “This way.”
He turned and shuffled off, leading them into a long, low room whose corners were lost in shadow. Sagging shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. On the shelves were wooden boxes. “Each shelf for a year,” said the clerk. “Going back maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred years. Who knows?”
“And different kinds of documents are sorted into boxes?” Zosimus asked hopefully.
“Sorted?”
The Bull Slayer: A Plinius Secundus Mystery Page 15
