The Bull Slayer (32 page)

“Unfortunately, no personal names attached,” Pliny said. He shut his eyes for a moment, imagining the human forms that had once sat there. “Barzanes, the Father; Balbus, the Lion; Glaucon, the Bridegroom and Didymus, the Persian. That leaves the Ravens, the Soldier, and the Sun-Runner. They could be people we know. Very likely are. My work isn’t finished until I can expose them—especially the Sun-Runner.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know,” he answered wearily. “I simply don’t know.”

***

Night. The temple of Asclepius

As ever, the lamps burned late in the chamber beneath the great gold and ivory statue of the god. Pancrates and his assistants labored over the day’s haul of questions to the oracular serpent: some deftly removing the seals from the tablets, others concocting crabbed, obscure answers, still others counting the drachmas.

“Have a look at this one, boss.” One of the nimble-fingered boys handed Pancrates an opened tablet.

He held it to the lamp and squinted. “Interesting. It isn’t a question, it’s a message. From Didymus to Diocles. The governor, I hear, has the banker locked up tight. I wonder how he smuggled this out. He asks me to deliver it in person, praises my discretion, my influence.” Pancrates’ lips moved silently as he read and re-read the words scratched in wax. “The poor fellow is desperate. He begs, he threatens, but without quite saying what he means.” Pancrates bound up the leaves of the tablet and set it aside. He smiled to himself.
Where there’s a secret to be learned, a favor to be earned, count on me.

Chapter Forty-two

The 6th day before the Nones of December

“Thank you, my boy, that will do for today.”

Three days had passed since his visit to the cave and Pliny was dictating letters to the magistrates of several cities, announcing his impending visit. Once again he was determined to pursue his tour of the province, which seemed always to be interrupted by more urgent business. Zosimus busied himself putting away his tablets and stylus. He avoided Pliny’s eyes.

“I’ll prepare fair copies, Patrone.”

“Thank you, yes, thank you.” Thank you and again thank you. How many times would he repeat these empty courtesies, so achingly inadequate to express what he really wanted to say?
Forgive me, Zosimus, for foisting a bastard child on you, for marrying you to a woman who never loved you, for using you as no man should use another simply because I could, because you are weak and I am powerful.
Could they ever be easy with each other again? There were things that had to be talked out; above all, whose son would Rufus be now. But he didn’t know how to begin. Too soon, feelings still too raw. Maybe in a few days…

A knock on the door interrupted this desperate train of thought. It was Suetonius, with a rolled parchment in his hand. “A messenger from our friend Diocles has just come with this for you.”

Pliny unrolled it and read. “Well. The Golden Mouth is inviting me to his country estate to discuss the affairs of the province with him and his friends. He promises pleasure as well as business.”

“I’d rather be thrown into a pit of snarling dogs. Will you go?”

“I don’t see how I can refuse.”

“I’ll come with you, help bear the brunt.”

“No, you stay here.”

“Gaius, you’re not well.”

“I’ll take Marinus with me, I’ll be fine.”

“And me, Patrone?” Zosimus had lingered by the door, listening.

“Thank you, my boy.” Again, thank you! “Perhaps you’d rather stay with Ione and—” He’d almost said
your son
.

“No sir, I would not.”

***

The following morning the procession of carriages carrying Pliny, his attendants and
lictors
, and the heap of gifts that protocol demanded departed from Nicomedia in a swirl of dancing snowflakes. This was his first visit to Diocles’ estate and as they proceeded, guided by the messenger, he saw with surprise that they were heading in the same direction as the cave of Mithras, only veering off on another road while still some miles away.

Pliny owned fine estates in Italy and considered himself knowledgeable about their management. Diocles’ well-tended acres impressed him. Fruit and olive orchards; fields of wheat and barley, in stubble now after the harvest; woods full of game; barns and slave barracks in good repair. And the mansion, large and beautifully proportioned, fronted by Ionic columns of pink marble.

Diocles—his bantam cock’s chest thrust out and large, leonine head tilted back—stood in the doorway and hailed him in his thrumming baritone. “We’re all waiting for you, Governor, come in. So glad you could honor us with your presence. Philemon,” he addressed his major domo, who hovered at his shoulder, “see that the governor’s retinue are escorted to the servants’ quarters.”

Instantly Pliny was separated from his
lictors
, from Zosimus and Marinus, as Diocles ushered him into a vast and crowded dining hall that buzzed with conversation. Pliny guessed there must be thirty guests or more, the elite of Nicomedia and nearby Prusa. The big landowners, the richest merchants, city councilors and magistrates, the priests of the great temples—all summoned at short notice by this one man. It was unmistakable how they all deferred to him. Not for the first time, an image presented itself to Pliny’s mind of a spider sitting at the center of its web; a taut and sensitive network whose filaments were built of obligation and influence, of favors owed and favors promised. Most of these men he knew, if only slightly. One face in the crowd surprised him—Pancrates. What was that hustling charlatan doing in this sleek and well-fed company? He acknowledged him with a nod.

Diocles entertained like a prince. An army of servants scurried back and forth, bearing course after steaming course of rich food—roast crane and boar, broiled eel and mullet, sow’s womb and hare’s liver, blood sausage and milk-fed snails, fricassee of veal, truffles in wine sauce, and all of it seasoned with coriander and cumin, fenugreek and silphium and
garum
. Pliny had no appetite for any of it, but ate what politeness demanded. He had no appetite either for the young
hetaera
who reclined beside him and attempted witty conversation. There were more than a dozen attractive women in the company—none of them anyone’s wife. Diocles’ womenfolk were confined to the
gynekeion
at the back of the house and never seen by strangers

The laughter was forced, the conviviality ice-thin. Diocles’ golden throat delivered an unending string of sententious
dicta
on philosophy, morality, and the virtues of simplicity, all adorned with quotations from Homer and other poets. Pliny had never felt more alone. The absence of Calpurnia from his side was an aching wound.

When at last the dishes were cleared away and the
hetaeras
dismissed, the
synposion
began, the serious drinking and serious conversation. After the Greek fashion, wine was mixed with water in a gigantic bronze
krater
of beautiful workmanship and shallow drinking bowls handed round. Pliny had already drunk too much; with an effort he focused his mind. He needed to be sharp now, careful, alert. He, who had interrogated so many in the past weeks, was now to be interrogated.

Why was their friend Didymus under arrest? Surely the charge of murder was preposterous. Had he been tortured into confessing? Were others to be entrapped like this? Were any of them safe? Was Pliny not overstepping his authority? Had the emperor been consulted? The voices grew louder, more insistent, veering close to insolence. Diocles himself was uncharacteristically silent, letting the others talk; his lips relaxed in a half-smile, his gaze fixed on Pliny like a spectator at a bearbaiting.

The hour grew late and Pliny felt his strength ebbing away, his self-control wearing dangerously thin. At last Diocles called a halt. “I’m afraid we’re wearying our guest. Where are our manners? Let us retire for the night. We need our rest because tomorrow I have a treat in store for you all. My woods are well stocked with wild pig, you ate a couple of them tonight, but there’s one old tusker out there, he’s wily and fast and he defies me. Tomorrow we hunt him.” He cast a beaming eye on Pliny. “The emperor is a keen boar hunter, I’m told. And you, governor, are no stranger to the sport, or so you say in one of your delightful letters. You see, I know more about you than you think I do.”

Pliny’s heart sank.

Diocles’ smile was wolfish. And then it froze. The room was suddenly very quiet. Pliny looked round to see what was the matter.

An old man had entered the hall. Tiny, wizened, wearing only one sandal, his soiled cloak trailing the ground behind him, his milky eyes staring vacantly. Diocles rushed to him. “Father!”

An elderly slave woman ran in. “Forgive me, master, he wandered, I didn’t see where—”

“It’s all right, Antiope.” Diocles recovered himself quickly. “So glad you decided to join us, father. We’re entertaining the governor tonight, did you know that? Would you like to meet him?” He spoke to him as one would speak to a child. He turned to Pliny. “Governor, my father, Hypatius.”

Hypatius?
thought Pliny.
Where have I heard that name
?

Chapter Forty-three

The 5th day before the Nones of December

Calpurnia sits alone in her room. Not
her
room, a strange room in a distant wing of the palace, her prison cell, though there are no bars or locks. She drinks wine laced with valerian root, hoping to sleep, but it doesn’t help. She tries to draw but can’t, tries to read but throws the book aside. Finally, she takes up her distaff and spindle and spins thread hour after hour, teasing out the wool with her fingers, watching the whorl spin this way, that way, with no purpose but to find oblivion in that simple, mindless activity. It is the seventh day since she and Agathon were caught in the cave, the fifth since she and Pliny and Ione and Zosimus shed each other’s heart’s blood in a mutual wounding that will scar them forever.

In all these weary days she has not seen a friendly face. Her new serving women are strangers to her. Ione is not permitted to come near her now—not that she wants her to. None of the wives have called on her—mercifully. No one will risk offending her husband by befriending her. She thinks bitterly how Agathon deceived and abandoned her. Is anything left of her passion for him? It feels now as if it had all happened to some other woman, someone she doesn’t even recognize. She has gathered together the dozens of drawings she made of him and has burned them one by one until nothing remains but a heap of ashes.

Ashes. She has the taste of ashes in her mouth. Her heart, her self-respect, her husband’s love—all ashes. He will divorce her. How can he not? It’s what she deserves. There can be no forgiveness for the pain she has caused him. She has ruined both their lives. All she wants now is to go home and be with her grandfather, in the old familiar surroundings of her childhood.

A knock on the door.

Can it be him? Her husband? Come to forgive her after all? Her heart leaps. If he will let her, she will love him again like the innocent girl she once was. How she longs to be that girl again! “Come in,” she says in a tremulous voice.

“Excuse me, lady. They said you were here.”

“Aulus?” She tries to compose her face, quiet her heart. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at home.”

“I was for a while. I couldn’t stand it. I came back to see the governor, but Suetonius says he left yesterday to visit someone in the country.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” She sees his eyes widen in surprise. He’s a sensitive boy, he knows something is the matter, but he is too shy to ask. She must say something. “My husband and I are estranged.” She forces a smile.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s all right. Why did you want to see him?”

He looks at his feet and grimaces, hunches his thin shoulders, wrings his hands. She’s afraid he’ll have a fit. “The cave,” he says at last. “Everyone says your husband found it. I wanted him to take me there.”

“Why in the world?” she asks, astonished. “That should be the last place—”

“You don’t understand. I blame myself for my father’s death. If I hadn’t been a coward, hadn’t tried to run away, he would have seen those men who were lying in wait on the path, he could have defended himself.”

“Aulus, you mustn’t think that.” She takes his hands in hers.

There are tears in his eyes. “If I had obeyed him and gone with him to the cave none of this would have happened. And maybe Mithras would have cured me. Maybe he still can. I want to go there now and make a sacrifice to him. I’m a man now, I’ll soon be seventeen. I mustn’t be afraid anymore. I owe my father that.”

“Oh, but you can’t, there’s no one there, no priest, the cave is empty.”

He draws back and stares at her. “How do you know that?”