The Bull Slayer (14 page)

“What’s wrong with the son?” she asked.

“What? Oh. Marinus thinks it’s probably the Sacred Disease. And in that case their secretiveness is understandable. Ignorant people, that is to say most people, regard it with dread.”

They were quiet for a while, rolling and bouncing with the motion of the coach. Pliny squeezed her hand. “’Purnia dear, something I’ve been meaning to ask you, all this business with Balbus drove it out of my mind. Zosimus tells me that he saw that charlatan, the one they call Pancrates, leaving your apartment some days ago. I dislike the man. He’s a troublemaker, this oracle of his is nothing but a swindle and bad for public order. I can’t imagine what business you would have with him, you’re too sensible a woman to fall for his line of talk. Anyway, I don’t want him in the palace again. I must insist. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I believe I ought to expel the fellow from the province.”

“Yes,” she answered
. Could he feel her skin go cold? She was being spied on! What else did Timotheus see?
“Yes, get rid of the man. He forced himself into my apartment, wanting to tell my future, so he said. I had to order him out.”

“Outrageous! It’s that damned woman Atilia and the others who encourage people like that. I’ll deal with him in short order.” But then a thought occurred to him. “On the other hand, my dear, distasteful as he is, these sort of people sometimes have their uses. I’ll wager there’s many a household he’s wormed his way into and many a secret he’s learned. It’s just possible he knows something that might help me with the Balbus case. I think perhaps I ought to have a little talk with this Pancrates.”

“Oh, surely not.”

“Why not? Of course, I’ll make it plain that he must have nothing more to do with you. I’ve upset you, I’m sorry.”

Did he hear the panic that clawed at her throat?
She was terrified that her thoughts would betray her.

“Well here’s something that might amuse you.” He gave her hand another squeeze. “Back at the funeral dinner. I thought you were beside me but you’d slipped off somewhere just as a young man was introduced to me. What was the name, Agathocles? Something like that. Nice manners, good family, good-looking too, if you like the effete, moist-eyed sort of youth. Practically invited himself up to the palace. Claims he’s interested in art. Well, I thought you might like his company. Take your mind off things. We must have him over the next time we entertain.”

***

Silvanus ground his jaws and listened with deep satisfaction to the woman. He paid her more money than she’d ever seen in her life to go out and buy his food for him, and to keep her mouth shut and her ears open. Now she was rattling on about the procurator’s funeral—the whole city was abuzz with it. If only he could have been there, invisible, to see the ugly, bloated corpse blacken and shrivel in the flames! He would have to be content with imagining it. If ever a man deserved death it was Balbus. How he loathed him.

Silvanus told the woman to leave him. He sat at his rickety table and fell hungrily on the bread and sausage she had brought him. What a clever fellow he was. Hiding practically in plain sight. Long ago he’d prepared this bolt hole, a hovel, indistinguishable from its neighbors, in a sprawl of shacks and market gardens along the city’s ragged edge, and he could stay in it as long as necessary while they ran here and there, looking for him. Only one other person knew where he was and she wouldn’t tell. She had too much to lose. And, when the time was right, he would steal away with his two chests of silver and live like a prince in Persia maybe, or Arabia.

Chapter Seventeen

The 6th day before the Kalends of November
The eighth hour of the night

She slipped out of bed silently, careful not to wake him. She had lain awake for hours, writing and rewriting the thing in her head. She still didn’t know what she should say, only that she must say something. Taking a lamp, she crept out into the antechamber of their bedroom, sat down at the small table and opened the
tabellae
that lay on it, the waxed leaves smooth and ready for use. She bent her head low, twisting a lock of her hair in her fist, and made deep, almost savage strokes with the stylus. Finally, when she had filled up both leaves, she threw the stylus down. She tied the leaves tightly together and, moving noiselessly, barefoot on the cold marble floor, felt her way down the corridor to the room where Zosimus and Ione slept. She scratched at the door. Nothing. She knocked as loudly as she dared and finally heard a stirring within. The door opened and Zosimus’ bandaged head looked out.

“
Matrona
, what is wrong?”

“Fetch Ione, please.”

“But she’s sleeping.”

“Fetch her!”

A moment later, Ione appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Calpurnia pulled her out into the dark corridor.

“Take this.” She thrust the
tabellae
into her hand. “As soon as it’s light you’ll carry it to Agathon’s house. “

“’Purnia, no! With your husband right here in the house? Have you lost your mind!”

“Do as I tell you.”

“Oh gods! I wish this had never started. It’s me who’ll suffer for it, Baucis was right.” She tried to push the
tabellae
back on her mistress.

“Obey me!” Calpurnia slapped her hard across her face.

The
tabellae
fell to the floor with a sharp
clack
that echoed in the silence. The two women stood face to face, panting, not speaking, Ione’s eyes wide with shock.

“I’m sorry, oh, I’m sorry.” Calpurnia threw her arms around her and buried her face in her neck. “But you’ll do it, Ione, you must. Here, hide it in your bosom, Zosimus mustn’t see.”

Ione closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed.

“What did mistress want?” Zosimus asked. “Why, what’s the matter with you, you’re white as a ghost. What did she say to you? Tell me. I’m your husband, Ione, I insist.” He tried to put his arm around her but she shrank away.

“My
husband.
You poor man. It’s a poisoned gift you got when you were given me.”

It was as well that he couldn’t see the look in her eyes.

***

…what are you doing to me? Seven nights since I let you have everything you wanted from me and not a word from you. And then you dare to play that charade with my husband! What sort of man are you? No, forgive me. I love you too much. Have you poisoned me with a love philter? I won’t let myself believe that. I must see you. But if my husband invites you to the palace, I beg you not to come. I haven’t got your nerve, I couldn’t bear it. I’ll arrange something. Write back and say you love me. If you don’t, I’m afraid what I might do. Have pity on me.

Agathon finished reading and tossed the tablets aside. What had he gotten himself into? This was no longer amusing. He enjoyed taking risks, life was dull otherwise. Yes, talking to her husband was foolish but he couldn’t resist. If only she could be like him—enjoy a little something on the side now and then and let it go at that. But, of course, she was a woman, and women always take these things too seriously. Love potions, what nonsense! If he had a potion that would make her fall
out
of love with him, he’d pour a flagon of it down her throat. And what did she mean at the end? Was she threatening him? It was time to put a stop to this before he got himself into serious trouble.

Chapter Eighteen

The 3rd day before the Kalends of November
The first hour of the night

Suetonius pushed the hooded figure ahead of him through the door, then shut and bolted it. “He came meek as a lamb.”

“Sit down.” Pliny indicated a rough stool.

A single lamp lit the little room. Three stools and a table were its only furniture. Huge amphorae of wine stood in racks around the walls. The voices of drinkers and dicers came faintly from the room beyond.

The figure sat as commanded and threw off his hood, uncovering the oiled ringlets of his hair, the flowing beard. “You surprise me, Governor. And the reason for this kidnapping ?”

“No one has kidnapped you. I find it convenient to meet here; the palace has too many eyes and ears.”

Suetonius had chosen the tavern and paid the owner generously for the use of his back room and his silence. He and Pliny wore plain tunics and Greek cloaks, and Pancrates had been hooded to disguise his unmistakable appearance if anyone should pass them in the street. They had entered unseen from a back alley.

“Your charming wife has perhaps said something. She quite misunderstood—”

“This has nothing to do with my wife, whom you will never see again. I warn you.”

“As you like.” Pancrates smiled easily. “But then I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Understand this. You’re a fraud. I can prove it, and I will run you out of this province unless you do as I tell you.”

“My, my. Hard words. You don’t believe in divination, Governor? The Pythia at Delphi? Your own Sibylline Books?”

“The day before yesterday a servant of mine submitted two sealed questions to one of your assistants. He was instructed to say that one question asked for a cure for lung trouble and the other asked what was the safest route to Italy. In fact, both of them asked,
What was Homer’s birthplace?
Needless to say, the answers we got were quite wide of the mark. If I should decide to make this public—”

“Not a thing would change. Do you think others haven’t played your little trick? We’re careless sometimes, but it doesn’t matter. Fools will always believe what they want to.” The prophet spread his hands. “But I don’t want you for an enemy, Gaius Plinius. I am properly afraid of the power of a Roman governor. All right, you’ve exposed me, you may as well hear it all. I was born in the slums of Sinope. I was a wharf rat, a thief, I sold stolen goods in the marketplace. My name was Cerzula. I never knew my mother or father. I lived by my wits. And I discovered at an early age that I had a talent for listening to the unspoken word, for reading the unconscious language of the face, and for speaking fair. At the age of twelve, I was taken under the wing of an old fortune teller who taught me to read and write and trained me in his profession. He gave me the name Pancrates,
Omnipotens
as you would say in Latin. But it was my idea, my stroke of genius, twenty years ago in a village in Paphlagonia, to bury a blown goose egg with a baby snake inside it, then to run into the market place wearing a gold-spangled loin cloth and waving a scimitar and proclaiming that Asclepius, god of healing, had arrived amongst them in the form of a serpent. I dug up the egg and produced the divine serpent, which at once inspired me to offer remedies for their ills. Needless to say, they were all agog. As the serpent grew, so did its reputation, until people were flocking from all over Asia to consult it. It has been, if I may say so, very profitable. And whom have I harmed? For the price of a drachma, I offer hope, consolation, reassurance—which is all any physician does, and they charge a good deal more than I do. And it matters not a bit how many people you denounce me to, there will always be more with their coins in their hands, begging me to give them peace of mind.”

“That’s all very well,” said Pliny, “but, in fact, you do more than offer medical advice to the ignorant crowd. Other people, people of wealth and standing, ask you questions about decisions they have to make, about what their enemies may be plotting against them, or so I’ve heard.”

“Sometimes.”

“And your answers must be plausible, must have the ring of authenticity. How do you manage that?”

Pancrates set his lips.
I’ve said all I intend to.

“Speak up, man, or you’ll leave this room in shackles. Those are my
lictors
sitting out in the tavern. You’ve already admitted enough for me to throw you in prison and have your serpent sliced up for hors d’oeuvres.”

He gave Pliny a long appraising look, in the end he shrugged. “I have informants.”

“Where?”

“In places that would surprise you.”

“Would one of those places be Vibius Balbus’ house? Did he or his associates ever consult your oracle?”

“Ah, now I see what this is about!” Pancrates smiled. “You don’t want to put me out of business, you want to use me. Well, I have no objection to that. Balbus, Balbus, what do I know about Balbus?” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling as though seeking inspiration. “I know he had a mistress—” Suetonius slapped his fist into his hand with a sound that made the prophet startle, “—quite a beautiful widow, and rich too. Her name is Sophronia. Have you heard of her?”

“Not the brothel-keeper?” said Suetonius, who for some time had been acquainting himself with the city’s lower depths in the interests of research.

“The same. And not just any brothel.
Elysium
, as it’s known, is a veritable palace of delights. She trains her
hetaeras
herself in all the arts of Aphrodite. In addition, the woman has investments in a dye works, a brick yard, several tenements, and a merchant ship. She and the fiscal procurator were lovers for more than a year. There was even talk of him divorcing his wife and marrying her.”