“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 protégé 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. The 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 hi
m 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.”
“Why, of course, sir. I know that.” Pliny hastened out the front door, calling for his bearers. Hispulla’s worried eyes watched him go.
Marcus Cocceius Nerva opened the latticed door that led from the garden to the tablinum and stepped into the room. He was angry. “That was a damned silly thing you said, my friend. And we’ve learned nothing by it. I, too, was at the banquet of the dead—to avert a potential disaster. Any one of those poor, frightened fools might have blurted out some scrap of rumor that could hang us. Pliny pretends to be all innocence, but I don’t believe him. He was put there to spy on us, and that is what he did. You can only thank Fortune that he didn’t learn anything.” Corellius tried to protest, but Nerva waved him to silence. “You think a fatherly pat on the arm will keep Pliny’s loyalty when Domitian tempts him with rewards beyond his dreams? You have all chosen me after being turned down by every other likely candidate. And, may Jupiter help me, I have consented. But I have the gravest doubts, my friend, the gravest doubts.” He was visibly shaking, whether with anger or fear was hard to say.
“Calm yourself, Nerva,” said Corellius Rufus sharply. “Sit down and have a drink. I know my man.”
But to himself he thought, You old fool. Did you say too much or too little? Well, it’s in the hands of the gods now. He wished he believed in them.
At the same hour that Pliny was visiting his old friend, far away on the Palatine Hill, Martial was finding his way through a maze of corridors and courtyards in the domestic wing of the palace to the private apartment of the grand chamberlain.
“Aha, here you are. I’m so glad you could come at short notice.” Parthenius, pressing his palms against his thighs, heaved his bulk out of a chair specially built to accommodate his girth and spread wide his fleshy arms. The cloying scent of his perfume filled the little room. He waved the poet to a chair as slaves came in bearing wine and a silver platter of honey cakes. “I always prefer to meet friends here. My office over on the other side is a madhouse. Honey cake?” He plucked one from the platter with be-ringed thumb and forefinger and held it to Martial’s lips. “Wine?” A slave poured from a silver flagon. The grand chamberlain lowered his ponderous frame again onto his chair.
The poet accepted what was offered while he looked around him. The room was beautifully appointed. Exquisite pieces of Syrian glassware stood in niches, dainty ebony tables displayed old Corinthian bronzes worth a fortune. The wall panels showed sea-green vistas where pastel nymphs cavorted. Beyond a gossamer curtain, a fountain splashed in a small garden.
“I regret we’ve never met face to face,” said the chamberlain. “I can’t think why not. But, of course, I know your poetry well. Such wit, such observation! And at the same time such expressions of loyalty to our emperor. You’ve even been kind enough to honor my humble self with praises I scarcely deserve. But I appreciate it, my friend. I want you to know that.” He favored Martial with his sleek, wet smile.
The poet mumbled his thanks, wondering why he had been summoned here at the crack of dawn by a slave in imperial livery.
“I gather that you are anxious to have your poems read by the emperor? To have the patronage of the court?”
“My new patron, the acting vice prefect, has assured me that he will introduce my poems to Our Lord and God.”
“Which he can accomplish only through me.” Parthenius tapped his chest with a fat forefinger. “And that will be only if you are able to perform a small service for me.”
The poet was instantly cautious. “What service would that be, my lord chamberlain?”
“Your patron Gaius Plinius is a man of conspicuous rectitude and loyalty, highly regarded by our emperor. You may tell him I said so.”
Martial nodded.
“You’ve dined with him twice since he began his investigation of the Verpa affair,” Parthenius continued. “You’ve attended his salutatio. He seems to have taken quite an interest in you, and you in him. Am I correct?” Parthenius moved a finger, and instantly a slave hurried to refill the poet’s wine cup.
How did the grand chamberlain know about this? But, of course, everyone was watched. As they talked, flattery and wine began to work upon the poet in spite of himself. He felt his body uncoil, heard himself babbling. He was more of a confidante, really, than an ordinary client. And Pliny had sought his advice on certain matters, he being a man of the world. Yes, they had talked about the murder. No conclusions yet, of course. His friend had some notion of exonerating the slaves. It did seem the Jews had nothing to do with it. Lucius might actually be the guilty party. No proof yet, of course…
“Interesting.” Parthenius made a temple of his fingertips, wetted his thick lips with the tip of his tongue. “I would like to be kept abreast of Pliny’s progress in the Verpa investigation. The next time he goes to Verpa’s house, make sure you go with him. The man had certain documents in his possession, never mind what they are, but apparently they have so far not been uncovered. If that changes, I want to know it at once. I would like you to report on this and anything else of interest that you may glean from your conversation with the acting vice prefect. I want to know everything he knows, everything he suspects.”
“Report?” The word stuck in Martial’s throat. Fool! What had he said, what had he done? He would say no more.
“Another cake?” said the chamberlain. Martial waved it away. “I understand, moreover,” Parthenius continued unperturbed, “that he has a house guest, an invalid lady who had been lodging with Verpa until the murder. I would appreciate occasional reports on the state of the lady’s health and her movements.”
“Amatia? Why? Who is she to you?”
The chamberlain did not answer.
“Look here, I don’t know what this is about but I don’t like the sound of it. I’m not a man to be bought. Good day to you…”
Parthenius checked him with a raised hand. “Sit down.” The genial expression vanished as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. “It is very little I am asking of you, my dear Martial. Easy for you to do, and no danger whatever to your friend Pliny, I assure you. And the reward is very great, indeed. The emperor’s patronage. It’s the reason you came to Rome, isn’t it? You’ve been here now many years? You’re not getting any younger, my friend. If it doesn’t happen for you soon, it never will. I can make it happen. Only I. You only have to give a little to gain so much. Now what do you say, my friend? More wine?”
Martial sat down slowly. “And what, you expect me to come to the palace every day with these reports?”
In a game like this you sense the moment of hesitation, of weakness in your opponent. You know when you have won. Parthenius smiled blandly, adjusted a lock of silver hair at his temple, waited before he spoke. “
Oh, no, no. Nothing so compromising to your honor. You will make notes. When you have something to communicate you will go to a certain popina in the shadow of the Claudian Aquaduct, where it crosses the Via Triumphalis. You may know the place, they serve a decent stew I hear. Go there at the third hour of the night. You will see a man with his left arm in a sling. You will sit on his left side on the bench and place your note in the sling. You never have to speak a word to him. Simplicity itself.”
Martial sat in the corner of a smoky tavern near the Circus Maximus, hunched over a flagon of cheap wine. Somehow, he had found his way out of Parthenius’ apartment, out of the palace. He didn’t ordinarily drink alone, but he poured the last drops from the flagon and called for another. He stared morosely at the scarred table top. He wanted to be very, very drunk. He wanted to be away from this city—what had that Christian lunatic called it?—this Babylon. He wanted not to betray the trust of his friend and patron. He wanted to be a better man than he knew himself to be.
Chapter Fifteen
The fifth day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day five of the Games.
The fourth hour of the day.
“May I sit down? I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, please.” Calpurnia put down the scroll she had been studying and made room on the stone bench under the pergola.
“There’s actually a breeze this morning,” Amatia said, turning her face toward it. “You have a lovely garden.”
The flower beds were ablaze with color. Bumblebees buzzed among the irises and lavender. A pair of warblers perched upon the head of Priapus and sang their song. “What were you reading?”
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