The Bull Slayer (13 page)

“Right, then,” Suetonius said, “now we’re getting into my line of country. Did Balbus have a woman on the side? Did he visit the brothels? Did he have gambling debts? I assign myself the task of discovering these things.”

“Thank you, my friend, your expertise in these matters is well known.”

Suetonius bowed his head modestly. Marinus snorted in his beard.

“And,” added Pliny, “I have a job for Zosimus here, too. I want you to go out into the streets, my boy. Oh, not to the brothels and gambling dens, I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Ione! But hang about in the
agora
, in the
palaestra
, the baths, the cook shops, and talk to people. I want to know what’s being said out there, not just about Balbus but all of us. You’re the only Greek I absolutely trust. Will you do this?”

The young man’s eyes lit up. “I will start this morning, Patrone!”

***

“Good riddance to ’im, say I. They should set up a statue to the ’orse that broke ’is fucking neck for ’im. One less Roman leech sucking our blood, ain’t I right, sir? You’re not from here are you? So maybe you ’aven’t ’eard.”

The fact of the procurator’s death and the alleged cause of it had, with almost magical rapidity, made its way to the farthest corners of the city.

The blowzy proprietress rested a fat elbow on the bar and refilled Zosimus’ cup with a thin and vinegary red. The secretary had no head for wine and was beginning to feel the worse for it. Soon, he promised himself, he would return to the palace and have Ione put a cold cloth on his forehead. It had been a long, and not very fruitful, day. The things he had heard, he could hardly bring himself to repeat to his patrone. He had set out that morning full of enthusiasm to carry out his commission to “catch tongues,” proud to be called the one Greek that a Roman could trust. And the young man had no difficulty striking up conversations with strangers. It was his face, he supposed. A broad, open face with a nose like a dumpling and innocent brown eyes; the face of one who was, perhaps, just a little simple. No one suspected that such a face concealed the well-stocked mind of one who had been trained from boyhood to recite all the comedies of Menander and Terrence from memory. His parents had been slaves of the old master, Pliny’s learned uncle, who had noticed the child’s quickness and cultivated it. When the uncle died in the smoke of Vesuvius, Zosimus had passed to the nephew. And the younger Pliny had treated him with the greatest affection and intimacy, even sending him for a rest cure once when he was sick, then manumitting him without requiring him to buy his freedom, and finally marrying him to his darling Ione. Zosimus would gladly give his life for Gaius Plinius.

He had begun the day at the
palaestra
among idlers watching the wrestlers and runners at their sweaty practice. As the sun rose higher, he had drifted with the crowd to the
agora
, to the welcome coolness of the portico that ran along one side, stopping along the way to buy a piece of grilled squid from a street vendor. The courts had been in session all morning and now the jurors spilled out of the courthouse, buzzing like Aristophanes’ wasps. Everywhere, knots of men stood nose to nose, gesticulating and shouting, the way Greeks always did. Zosimus pretended to read the public inscriptions on their marble slabs, and listened. Not all the conversation was about the Roman procurator’s unexpected demise, but much of it was, and none of it was complimentary. His fine estate, his handsome horse, his entourage of lackeys worthy of some Persian king—and all of it paid for by their taxes. And he would be replaced by another barbarian from that race of plunderers, equally brutal and grasping. Would there ever come an end to their slavery?

With his ears ringing, Zosimus sought solace in the baths. But Nicomedia’s bathhouse was shockingly dilapidated and dirty, the water coated with a greasy scum. He didn’t stay long.

He browsed for a while along the street of the potters, the street of the carpenters, and the street of the bronzesmiths, lined with cramped workshops where men bent over bowls and lamps, tapping with little hammers. He strolled along narrow, zigzagging lanes where old women sat in their doorways, shelling peas and cackling to each other, and sturdy, straight-backed young women trudged from the public well, balancing water jugs on their shoulders; where school children chanted their lessons in a sidewalk classroom and dogs ran along, sniffing hopefully at piles of refuse.

He turned a corner and found himself in the midst of a noisy procession of Isis worshippers—shaven-headed men carrying tall palm fronds and priestesses jangling their rattles. They passed by, leaving a trail of flower petals.

He came down at last to the harbor. The fishermen had come in with their catch and were spreading their nets out on the quays to dry. The water in the bay was grey and choppy. The fishing boats stayed close to shore now and soon would not go out at all. The big merchantmen were already berthed. The city was preparing itself for winter. The walls of the big warehouses bore a load of scrawlings: prostitutes advertisements (
I’m yours for two obols
), election slogans (
Elpenor for archon)
, the faded announcement for a gladiatorial show in which men had died and were, by now, forgotten. And among them the occasional S
o-and-so kisses Roman ass.
And worse. Zosimus was not beyond blushing.

And finally he had stopped into this sailor’s grog shop that smelled of seaweed, and sedition. He’d heard enough for one day. He threw some coins on the counter and left. The sun was sloping down to late afternoon as he mounted the street of the leather workers up toward the treasury and the great temple of Rome and Augustus that overlooked a wide plaza: the soaring Corinthian columns and painted architrave, the vast gilded bronze doors, and within, the gold and ivory statue of the Deified Augustus. It dwarfed the buildings around it. It breathed Roman power, Roman pride.

There was a crowd gathered in front—fifty, or maybe a hundred, men surrounding a speaker who stood on the lowest step of the temple podium. Over the hubbub of voices, Zosimus could not make out the man’s words, but there was no mistaking the shrill and angry tone. Sighing resignedly—for this was certainly what Pliny had sent him out to look for—Zosimus worked his way to the front. It was one of those ragged street corner ranters of the Cynic sect, troublemakers of the worst sort, who spewed out their hatred of all lawful authority. The crowd was cheering him on.

Suddenly, Zosimus had a premonition and turned to look for a way out. And, at that instant, with a clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, a score of Roman cavalrymen galloped into the square and charged the crowd, swinging their long-bladed swords. Some fled in panic, but others stood their ground. Stones flew through the air, a trooper was dragged from his horse. The blades flashed up and down. A trumpet blast rang out and then more soldiers appeared, infantrymen with their shields locked together and spears thrusting. Zosimus was lifted off his feet in the press of bodies, forced up against the flank of a horse. He never saw the blow that caught the side of his head and sent him sinking down unconscious amid a tangle of legs.

Chapter Sixteen

The 7th day before the Kalends of November
The ninth hour of the day

A blustery wind bent the branches of the poplars that lined the path leading from the house to the riding paddock. A sudden gust made a whirlpool of leaves along the ground and pressed their grey mourning clothes against their legs. An ideal day for the business at hand, Pliny reflected. The wind would fan the flames of the pyre and dissipate the greasy smoke: all that would soon remain of Fiscal Procurator Marcus Vibius Balbus.

Pliny and Calpurnia, his staff and their wives stood together in a show of solidarity. The Greeks—Diocles and his entourage with a few others whom Pliny did not recognize—formed their own little knot some distance away. Each ignored the other. Pliny understood why. Since the riot of three days earlier the city was seething. Pliny had had sharp words for Aquila and the other centurions. He was surprised the Greeks had come at all: perhaps only to enjoy the spectacle of Balbus’ death.

Pliny was on the point of expressing this thought to Calpurnia when a shriek, long and ululating, pierced the air and all eyes turned toward the house. The doors swung open and the hired mourners emerged—a procession of women, led by flute players and trumpeters, their hair unbound, beating their breasts and wailing. Pliny had hired the best undertaker in Nicomedia and spared no expense.

Behind them came the catafalque swaying on the shoulders of eight pallbearers. As it drew near, Pliny recognized one of them: the bulging muscles, the hands like hams—but a slave no longer. The man now wore a liberty cap; clearly he had been manumitted in Balbus’ will. An inducement, perhaps, to break his master’s neck?

And last of all came Fabia, walking with her head high, her hair and grey clothing loose. Pliny looked closely as she passed by: her eyes were dry. And the son who should have walked at her side? Nowhere to be seen.

While the wailing of the women continued, the pallbearers wrestled the casket up onto the stack of pine logs that occupied the middle of the paddock. Given the condition of Balbus’ corpse, the casket remained closed. For Balbus there would be no toga, no laurel wreath, no coin in the mouth. Charon, the boatman of Hades, must go unpaid.

A makeshift podium had been set up beside the pyre for the eulogists. And now here was Diocles mounting it and commanding silence. Did the man ever miss an opportunity to exercise his golden throat? It was a bravura performance, Pliny was forced to admit. Praise for the deceased mingled with veiled condemnation of Roman arrogance and insinuations of divine wrath—but all so carefully dressed up with allusions to Agamemnon and Xerxes and other ancient tyrants who met unhappy ends that it fell just short of treason. One remark struck Pliny as odd. Diocles had spoken of the dead man’s loyalty to his friends. Friends? As far as Pliny knew, Balbus didn’t have any.

After Diocles, a couple of others spoke, straining to find something nice to say about the procurator. And finally Pliny delivered a few words—honest public servant, dutiful husband and father, sadly struck down in the prime of life by a cruel twist of Fate—that sounded hollow even to himself. Then the pyre was lit, the flames crackled and leapt up, and they called the dead man’s name one last time, as custom required.

Afterwards, the guests milled around in the atrium, the only space large enough to accommodate the funeral meal. Fabia was encircled by the wives, including Calpurnia, making consolotary noises. With Suetonius in tow, Pliny joined them; he had every intention of confronting the widow head on. “Once again, my deepest sympathies, lady. And may I say I’m sorry not to see your son here. Surely he wanted to bid his father farewell?”

“He is unwell, confined to his bed.”

“I am sorry to hear it. In fact, I mentioned your son to my physician, Marinus, and he would very much like to examine the boy. Possibly something can be done—”

“No.” She backed away, nearly upsetting an end table. “Thank you, no.”

Seeing her distress, Calpurnia stepped between them and drew her husband away. The wives closed in again.

“What was that about?”

“I’ll explain later. Somehow,” he said under his breath, “I will get that woman to crack.”

“There you are, Gaius Plinius!” Diocles pushed through the crowd with his bantam strut, several cronies in tow. “And Suetonius Tranquillus too. Here’s someone I’d like you to meet, he’s a pillar of our community though I can seldom persuade him away from his country place. Protarchus, may I present the governor and his lady. And this, I believe, is his youngest son—I’m sorry, what is the young man’s name? Ah, yes, Agathon.”

“An honor.” Protarchus nodded a shaggy head. “Sad occasion and all that.” He was a shy man who found words difficult.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time, sir.” Agathon stepped forward and spoke with an easy smile. “You know, I’ve never been inside the palace. I’ve heard it has some interesting old mosaics. It happens I’m quite interested in art.”

“Well—,” the young man’s enthusiasm was nearly overwhelming. “You don’t say. You must pay us a visit then. You know my wife’s an artist. She’s fixing the place up. You and she should have a lot to talk about. She’s—well where has she gone? She was here a moment ago. ’Purnia?”

***

A long train of carriages wound its way back to the city. The evening was damp and cool. Pliny and Calpurnia huddled together under a rug in their covered coach. The driver, in his box, hunched over the reins.

“Well, that’s over with,” Pliny sighed.

“I feel for Fabia.”

“Do you? I never met a less sympathetic woman. It’s clear she doesn’t want me to talk to her son, and without her permission I don’t see how I can. There’s a mystery there—they know something. But how to get it out of them? She’s a woman of wealth and rank, I can’t treat her like a common suspect.”

“You’ll find a way.” She squeezed his arm affectionately.

And he knew that he would. He didn’t cut a dashing figure, he knew; he wasn’t as quick-witted as some, not as brave, or as brilliant. But he was tenacious and determined: not exciting virtues, perhaps, but good Roman ones. It wasn’t brilliance, after all, that had made Rome great, it was steadiness and determination.