Roman Games psm-1

by Bruce Macbain

  Valens nodded.

  “Get me Ganymede. He’s another one who was allowed to prowl the house at night. He may, at least, have seen or heard something.”

  “How old are you, boy?” Pliny asked the creature who now stood, loose-limbed before him.

  “Fifteen, sir.”

  Closer to seventeen, Pliny guessed. Almost too old for a cinaedus . He had seen others like this one. The boy wore a short-skirted Greek tunic, the color of crocus and diaphanous to the point of transparency. His hairless limbs glistened with oil like the limbs of finely polished furniture. But his long, scented ringlets were matted and tangled and there was a faint stubble on his cheeks; he’d had no opportunity to singe them with hot walnut shells.

  “Are you home bred or bought?”

  “I was purchased from the Temple of Eros, an all-boy brothel, at a high price, too. I was only nine, yet so skilled at giving old men pleasure that Sextus Verpa fell hopelessly in love with me. He came every day and would accept no one else. Finally, he made Marcus Ganeus, my owner, sell me to him. He loved me very much. He gave me presents. The slave girls hate me. He never gave them such fine stuff.”

  The voice was unnaturally high and wispy. He was forcing himself to speak in a falsetto so as not to betray his age. When the voice broke a boy’s career was over. Ganymede fluttered his long lashes seductively and touched himself between the legs. Pliny felt a mixture of pity and revulsion. There was something that was not quite human about Ganymede. He was a work of art, the product of someone’s fantasy. Every gesture practiced and studied.

  “Besides giving your master pleasure, have you other duties in the house?”

  “I am the principal dancer in our pantomime troupe,” he answered in his light, lisping voice. “I am called ‘Anguilla,’ the eel, because I dance as if I haven’t a bone in my body.” To make his point the youth lifted his arms above his head and a ripple of motion ran through his body beginning with his ankles, rising through knees, hips, and ribs cage and ending at his fingertips which fluttered imaginary castanets. It did distinctly give the impression of an eel twisting lazily through water. Pliny noted the long muscular legs, the wasp-thin waist, the narrow shoulders and the sinuous arms. He couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds. The boy flashed him a practiced smile, then let his arms drop to his sides.

  This pantomime troupe of Verpa’s, of Scortilla’s really (she being an old trouper herself), was a bit of a scandal, hardly in keeping with the spirit of the age. A perversion, not to put too fine a point on it. Verpa and Scortilla entertained a very select group of friends of whom Pliny, happily, was not one, though he had heard things. And Martial had added other juicy details gleaned from his sources in the demimonde. Surprising, really that the emperor permitted it, since he had banned public performances of the same kind. But it seemed there were exceptions made for useful men like Verpa.

  “Was that other boy, Hylas, a performer, too?”

  “Hylas was a runny-nosed brat who couldn’t put one foot in front of the other without tripping!” Malice glittered in Ganymede’s eyes.

  “Did you kill Hylas?”

  “No!” Color rose from his throat to his cheeks. He sucked in his breath.

  Pliny gave the boy a long, searching look. His face was haggard and there was something in the eyes that was inexpressibly tired. An old man in a boy’s body. And he was frightened, but he stood his ground. “Did you see who killed him?” “It was dark, everyone was pushing and tumbling over each other. I didn’t see anything. I tried to stay out of the way.” “Did you know he was an atheist?” “I don’t even know what that means.” “Did you kill your master?” “Of course not.” “Were you with him that night?” “No.” “Where were you?” “Sleeping at the bottom of the stairs. I sleep wherever I please.” Such arrogance in those words. “Did anyone see you there?” “I don’t know. I was asleep.” “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary all evening?”

  “No, sir.” Ganymede ran his finger around the iron slave collar that circled his soft neck. Clearly, it chafed him, perhaps his pride more than his flesh. The boy had pride.

  Without warning, Pliny uncovered the dagger which he had placed under a cloth on the table beside him. He kept his eyes on the Ganymede’s face as he did so. The boy’s eyes widened, then quickly slid away. “You recognize this, do you?” “No.” “What? Don’t recognize an object that lay in plain sight on your master’s bedside table?” Ganymede compressed his lips into a thin line. He refused to answer. Poor Ganymede wasn’t very good at thinking on his feet.

  An image presented itself to Pliny’s mind-of an “eel,” lithe with muscular legs, shimmying up a column, negotiating the overhanging eave, somehow unlatching the shutter from the outside, and slipping in through Verpa’s narrow window. But could this effeminate youth possibly have overcome Verpa, who, even if taken asleep, was a powerful and vigorous man, a fighter? Hard to imagine it. And what could the boy’s motive be? These sex slaves were far more likely to kill each other out of jealousy than to kill the master upon whom they all depended. But if someone had put him up to it? Someone like Lucius? Plenty of motive there. But no, Pliny was not yet ready to charge the son of an imperial favorite with patricide-a crime punished by ancient and savage ritual-based on the innuendo of a female houseguest or the frightened look in a slave’s eye. Gaius Plinius Secundus had his career to think of.

  While he turned these thoughts over in his mind, Valens opened the door and admitted Lucius. The will was about to be opened. No doubt Pliny, as representative of the city prefect, might wish to be informed. Lucius was acting the gracious host this morning, confident of his new position. Pliny looked for some sign of recognition between him and Ganymede. There was none.

  “Thank you, Lucius Ingentius, I had planned to stay for the reading. Centurion,” turning to Valens, “I want this slave boy kept separate from the others, under twenty-four-hour guard. No one is to have access to him. No one. I’ve had one witness murdered already, I won’t have another.”

  “Witness to what?” Lucius’ newly-won composure was gone in an instant. “What are you insinuating? And you’ve no right to keep my slaves locked up any longer-especially this harmless creature. I want you and your policemen out of here, I am master here now.” His voice was shrill.

  “Please calm yourself,” Pliny replied. “The soldiers will be here for a while longer and the slaves must remain under guard until the Games are over. Prefect’s orders.” Best to take shelter under his superior’s authority rather than explain his own reasons. “We’ll see about that,” Lucius sneered. “This family still has influence. You, your family is nothing.” “So I have already been reminded once today.” Lucius flung himself from the room. Pliny followed.

  The will was to be read in the tablinum, the master’s office, where his big iron-bound strongbox occupied one corner and cubicles containing his letters and accounts lined the walls. The death masks of his ancestors stared vacant-eyed from their niches. The room, though large, could scarcely accommodate the sweating mob of clients, relations, and cronies who were attempting to crowd into it.

  Lucius sat himself in the front, next to Scortilla. Facing them sat a man at Verpa’s desk. Atilius Regulus, whom he had last seen that night of the infamous “black banquet.” Pliny sighed. How fitting that he should be Verpa’s attorney. On the desk lay a thick leather cylinder, its clasp covered with a wax seal. Inside it was the scroll of Sextus Ingentius Verpa’s last will and testament.

  Seeing him standing in the back, Regulus invited Pliny, “his esteemed colleague at the bar,” to come forward and join him and the heirs in examining the seal before it was broken. Pliny had examined many such seals and rather fancied himself an expert on the subject.

  The seal was perfectly intact and both Lucius and Scortilla attested that the signet was undoubtedly Verpa’s. Regulus, rubbing his hands together as though he were about to sit down to a good meal, broke the seal, removed and unfurled the scrol
l, cleared his throat importantly and began to read.

  Verpa’s estate was worth about eight million sesterces -a handsome fortune, though not as large as many had expected. It consisted mainly of valuable land near Rome and other properties in the south. Lucius was named as heir to the whole. He heard this with a smile of satisfaction. Verpa was under no obligation to name his concubina as an heir, and didn’t. Pliny stole a sidelong look at her. Her face revealed nothing. According to form, the bequests must now be enumerated-subtractions from the estate which the heir was bound by law to make good on. There were several. Five hundred thousand sesterces to the emperor. Lucius winced, but said nothing. This was unavoidable: the surest way to guarantee that a will would not be challenged was to make the emperor an interested party. To Scortilla he bequeathed a half interest in their house in Rome, meaning that Lucius couldn’t throw her out-a cruel trick on both of them. Then there was a bequest of a thousand sesterces to Pollux, who was granted his freedom as a reward for years of faithful service. Several other slaves were manumitted, as well, and given smaller sums. But these bequests, of course, were moot. Pollux was dead and the rest soon would be.

  Regulus paused in his reading to draw a breath and unrolled some more of the scroll. As he skimmed ahead, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Lucius, seeing something in his face, leaned forward in his chair.

  “And finally,” Regulus read in a faltering voice, “to the temple of Queen Isis in the Campus Martius, for the purpose of founding a mortuary temple and fully-equipped embalming works where that neglected art can be practiced as in ancient days, together with perpetual stipends for the embalmers and priests who will oversee it, I give and bequeath the sum of two million sesterces; this amount to be administered at the discretion of the High Priest of Anubis, the god of embalming…”

  The last words were drowned out in the uproar that filled the room.

  Lucius was ashen-faced. Two million! A quarter of his estate. A senatorial fortune in itself-for Anubis, or, rather, for Alexandrinus, that charlatan! This was madness. His father would never…

  “This is you, isn’t it, you filthy whore!” he screamed in Scortilla’s face, leaping up and knocking over his chair. He drew back his fist to hit her. But a brown, muscular shoulder came between them. It belonged to a tall man clad in white linen. Pliny had noticed him briefly when he arrived. The man had a smooth, beautifully shaped skull marked with the star-shaped scar of Isiac priests, and jet black eyes outlined with kohl. He turned them on Scortilla and a look passed between them.

  Lucius rushed to the desk and snatched the scroll from Regulus’ hands. “Show me. Show me where it says ‘million.’” He stared at the place where the lawyer’s fingertip pointed: a letter M with a line drawn under it, multiplying a thousand by a thousand. In desperation he looked around for Pliny.

  Pliny bent low, until his nose almost touched the page. He shook his head. If the numeral had been altered, it had been very neat work. Whatever the original amount was, only two pen strokes perhaps would need to be pumiced out and redrawn. But he felt as strongly as Lucius that the old man was simply not capable of such profligate generosity. A hundred thousand maybe, but not this.

  There was one thing he could do about it. In a loud voice he announced to the room, “I will request the city prefect to suspend payment of legacies until the question of Ingentius Verpa’s death has been satisfactorily explained. Furthermore, all parties with an interest in this matter are to remain within ten miles of the city until further notice.” He knew he was far exceeding his authority. Could he get away with it? The emperor would not be happy, and the city prefect was his creature. Well, it might buy a little time, at least. ???

  Pliny stood outside the front door with its load of dark foliage, Scortilla’s abuse still ringing in his ears. He dabbed at the spot on his cheek where she had spat at him. But he had been adamant, and finally she had rushed from the room in tears, followed by her Egyptian. Lucius stamped off in another direction, Regulus slipped away, and the tablinum had disgorged its mob of disappointed sycophants with astonishing swiftness.

  Pliny beckoned to his litter-bearers. There was nothing more to be accomplished here today. He had left Valens with orders to report anything he overheard between Lucius and Scortilla, and try to keep the two of them from killing each other in the meantime. He had simply no idea what else to do and found himself longing for Martial, that fount of information and excellent sounding board. He must send a slave round to invite him to dinner again tonight. In the meantime he wanted his lunch, the company of his dear wife, of clever Zosimus, perhaps of the gentle, unfortunate lady Amatia, and then a midday nap and a bath.

  Just as he was about to mount his litter, however, a young slave hailed him. “Sir, are you Gaius Plinius? My master wishes you good health and begs you to come and take lunch with him today.” “And who is your master?” There was something familiar about the boy’s face, but one seldom looked closely at slaves’ faces. “Quintus Corellius Rufus, sir. He hopes you won’t refuse a sick old friend who has your welfare at heart.” “My welfare?”

  Ever since the “black banquet,” Pliny had received half a dozen dinner invitations from senators of dubious reputation, who, with their sensitive antennae attuned to every shift in the political wind, had suddenly decided that his acquaintance was worth cultivating. He had begged off all of them. But this was different. Corellius Rufus had been a trusted friend of his uncle’s and a mentor to himself. He accepted gladly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  How is he?” Pliny whispered.

  “Very bad. The gout attacks him everywhere. He can barely move without torment, but he’ll never say so. You know him, he bears it like a philosopher.” Rufus’ wife of forty years, Hispulla, a small, white-haired woman of great sweetness, met Pliny in the vestibule of their modest house on the Quirinal. She took both his hands and squeezed them. “Come inside, he’s waiting for you.”

  Corellius Rufus lay on a couch, his arms and legs propped on cushions. Pliny bent over to kiss the withered cheek. Hispulla, who had followed him in, fussed about her husband a bit, but he waved her off impatiently. She arranged a loaf of bread, a bowl of olives, and a plate of fried smelts on the table beside him. Then she left, taking the servants with her so that the two men could be entirely alone.

  Pliny felt a deep affection for this man. He had been a consul of Rome and governor of Upper Germany before illness had forced him to withdraw from active life. Now he was beyond ambition, hope, and fear; and he made no secret of his contempt for Domitian.

  The invalid regarded his protege with watery eyes, half-hidden under brows that sprang from his forehead like white bushes. “You know I’ve always taken an interest in your career, dear boy.” The voice was tremulous. Pliny launched into expressions of gratitude, but Corellius cut him short. “Tut. I didn’t bring you here for that. I’ve some advice to give you; you can decide for yourself what it’s worth. I’ve heard all about that macabre banquet at the palace last week. It was disgraceful. Exactly what I would have expected from ‘Our Lord and God.’”

  Pliny protested, “I was taken completely off guard! I had no intention of looking for signs of ‘guilt’ in anyone. You must believe me, sir.”

  “Of course I believe you. But there is something to be learned from this. Listen to me carefully. A tyrant always seeks to involve the innocent in his crimes, to make them sharers in his guilt. You were being tested. That’s how it begins. And there will be more tests until, before you realize it, you will have become hopelessly compromised. And then you will be their creature, body and soul.”

  With a pang, Pliny recalled Scortilla’s angry words to him: If Verpa was an informer, what exactly are you? He felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach.

  “The banquet is over and done with,” Corellius continued, “and I think not much damage was done. The noble Nerva, I understand, saved the day. But now this Verpa business worries me. Mind you, I know nothing of the details, nor do I care to. T
he man was a pig. Whoever killed him deserves a statue in his honor. But I see danger here for you, precisely because you are conscientious and-forgive me, dear boy-still rather innocent.” Grimacing in pain, Corellius reached out a thin hand to clutch Pliny’s forearm. “There may be, ah, elements to this case that should not come to light. I know nothing for certain. Perhaps Domitian is hoping you will stumble across something that he very much wants to know without yourself grasping its significance.”

  “What sort of something?” Pliny was half out of his chair in alarm.

  “I’ve told you, I know nothing for certain. But Verpa had his finger in many things. Dear boy, I beg you, get out of this while you can. Drop the investigation.”

  “By Jupiter, I’d like nothing better! But you’re wrong about this, sir. No one is using me. My instructions are merely to make a show of investigating, it being a foregone conclusion that the slaves are guilty.

  “It’s been my own decision to probe somewhat deeper. I’m perplexed, I admit, but I think there’s nothing more mysterious here than simple domestic hatred, and I aim to prove it if I can. Anyway, I can’t possibly drop the case, not when I’ve been given the assignment by the emperor himself. I know you dislike him, but he is the emperor and I am bound to serve him as best I can. If I don’t, worse people will.”

  “Dislike him?” Corellius’ grip tightened. “Do you know why I suffer this bodily torment? Because I want to outlive that brigand by just one day!”

  Pliny froze. The old man’s unblinking eyes locked with his. He had just placed his life, Hispulla’s life, and perhaps many others’ in the palm of Pliny’s hand. If he reported that remark to the palace all of them would die very unpleasant deaths. And what reply should he make? Corellius was waiting for something. The thought flashed through Pliny’s mind: was this conceivably a trap laid for him? No! He forced the unworthy thought away. The greatest crime a tyrant commits against his subjects is the death of trust. After a long moment, he let his breath out slowly. “I’ll consider your advice, sir, as always. I’ll leave you now. You’re tired…” He cursed himself for his cowardice. Corellius Rufus sank back on his cushions. “Yes, go along, now. I am tired. We’ll talk again.” “Indeed, sir, I hope we will.” “Dear boy…” His hands fluttered. Pliny stopped in the open door and turned back. “Sir?” “Never forget that in me you have a friend, that you can confide in me-about anything, anything at all.”