Chapter Eleven
The eighth day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day two of the Games.
The second hour of the day.
With great satisfaction, Lucius Ingentius Verpa watched the last of his clients bow themselves out of his atrium. His clients. His atrium. Now he was paterfamilias here. He looked around with distaste at the Nile mosaic and the Egyptian bric-a-brac that filled the room. That would all have to go, whether Scortilla liked it or not. He was master here now and there would be some changes made.
The salutatio had not been an entire success. He had soon grown bored trying to make sense of the clients’ petitions and finally ordered them all out. Of course, they were all scum-parasites and legacy hunters hoping for a share in the old man’s estate. And just as soon as the undertaker returned the body, they could proceed with the lying in state, break the seal of the will, and find out exactly what the estate amounted to. Then there was the matter of those papers, the ones his father had waved under his nose, hinting at their great value, taunting him with them. What were they? Where were they? That first night after his father’s death, he had ransacked the tablinum looking for them, and surprised Scortilla in the dark, obviously on the same errand. Since then, with troopers all over the house, it wasn’t safe to be seen searching; that would only arouse the curiosity of that meddling vice prefect.
These thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the man himself. Lucius looked at him sourly. “Am I to look forward to these visits on a daily basis, Gaius Plinius?”
“No more than I do, I assure you. I’ve come to interview Pollux again, with your permission, of course.”
“My permission seems to weigh little against the authority of the city prefect. You’ve turned my house into an army camp. The soldiers are into everything, I’m hardly master here. Do what you like by all means.” Lucius waved his arm and let it drop.
Pliny ignored the insolent tone. “And Turpia Scortilla? I hope she is better disposed this morning?”
“She’s out of her room, if that’s what you mean. Not that you’ll find her very helpful. She begins drinking as soon as her eyes are open.”
“Yes, well then, I’ll start with Pollux.”
The slaves who languished in the stifling dormitory looked and smelled worse than they had the day before. Two more weeks of confinement and there would not be many left to execute. He looked from one face to another-pinched with hunger, glassy-eyed with fatigue and fear. Something odd about them today, too. Yesterday they had greeted him with screams. Why were they so quiet now?
“Pollux, step forward!” bawled Valens, the centurion. But no one stirred.
With a sudden premonition, Pliny plunged into their midst. He found the broken bodies of Pollux and the four others who had not sacrificed in a tangled heap in the far corner of the dormitory, throttled with their chains, their heads savagely battered.
“Carry them out,” he shouted at Valens, and bolted for the door with his hand over his mouth. He had seen his share of dead bodies in the arena, still death up close always shocked him.
The troopers dragged the corpses into the corridor, each one leaving a smear of blood on the stone floor.
“Centurion, here’s another one,” called one of the men inside, and presently a sixth body was laid beside the other five, a boy of about thirteen, slim and dark, with fine features and silky skin. Lucius appeared suddenly at Pliny’s elbow. “Here, what’s all this? They’re dead!” He looked like he wanted to run. “You know nothing about this? “Of course I don’t! What are you suggesting?”
An idea was beginning to form itself in Pliny’s mind. Had Lucius and Pollux been in this together, and had it now been necessary to silence Pollux? But how could he have carried it off? The two sentries who stood watch outside the dormitory were questioned with Valens glowering over them, but they swore they had seen and heard nothing during the night. Wasn’t it more plausible, after all, that the other slaves had turned on the Jews out of rage and in hopes of appearing loyal to their masters? It must have been swift and sudden. Pollux was a trained fighter, after all. But among the slaves were eight matched litter bearers, fierce-looking men spawned in some German swamp. If the victims were taken by surprise in the dark, it would have been over in a moment. What about this boy, though?
“His name was Hylas,” Lucius offered. “One of my father’s recent purchases. Kept him all for himself, too. Quite a tender morsel, I imagine.”
“But he wasn’t an atheist,” said Pliny. “He sacrificed yesterday, didn’t he?”
Lucius nodded.
“And he’s not a Jew either, sir,” Valens observed. The boy’s tunic was up around his waist, his tender nakedness exposed. It was also apparent that, while the other slaves were beaten and bloodied as well as strangled, Hylas had only been strangled. His throat was bruised but he was otherwise unmarked.
There were too many mysteries here, and Pliny was a man impatient of mysteries. Why hadn’t he questioned Pollux harder yesterday? Wills, contracts, account books were his meat, not this foul business. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger. He would insist that Aurelius Fulvus take him off the case.
“Centurion, question the slaves. I want to know who killed Pollux. Flog them, if you have to.” Was this him speaking, who had never ordered a slave flogged in his life?
Valens looked happy to obey. He saluted and turned away. Then turned back again. “Sir, there’s another thing, too.”
Whatever it was, Pliny didn’t want to hear it. But the centurion pressed on. “There’s another person in the house. A lady. She keeps to her room, we only came across her yesterday when some of the lads were, you know, exploring. Nobody had mentioned her to us.” “What! Where?” “At the end of the corridor there, near Verpa’s room.” Pliny shot a questioning look at Lucius.
She was some house guest, the young man explained. He didn’t know anything about her really except that she seemed sickly. He’d hardly seen her since she arrived. Didn’t catch her name. What with everything else, he’d forgotten all about her.
Pliny sighed. He hadn’t learned much so far. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to have a word with this woman.
He tapped on the indicated door. Hearing a faint answer within, he opened it but hesitated on the threshold. She lay on a couch in the shuttered room, covered with a blanket although it was very hot. “Please come in, you aren’t disturbing me. I am Amatia,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “And you are…?” The voice was low-pitched, warm, though with undertones of weariness in it. She threw off the cover and sat up as he entered. A short woman, pleasantly stout.
Pliny introduced himself and explained the reason for his presence in the house. When he mentioned Verpa her eyes seemed to widen momentarily. “I’m told you were here when the murder occurred. You didn’t perhaps hear anything that night, madam?”
She shook her head, no. Pliny came closer and searched her face. It was a serious, sensitive face. He guessed her age at forty-five or fifty, though she might have been younger. Clearly, illness had aged her: there were deep furrows of strain around the mouth. Her skin was translucent, without a touch of powder, and her graying hair was parted severely in the middle and pulled back from her forehead in a style that had gone out of fashion a generation ago. In face, she reminded Pliny of his mother, who had died when he was a boy. He began falteringly, “How long have you been in this house, madam? “Six days.” “And may I ask who you are?” “I am Amatia, a widow from Lugdunum in Gaul.”
He waited, but no more was forthcoming. It seemed he would have to draw every answer out of her. “A long way away, Lugdunum. And may I ask what has brought you to Rome?”
“If you must know, I have traveled here to become an initiate of beloved Queen Isis and seek a cure for my hysteria. Doctors say that the womb is an animal with no fixed home. In my case it climbs up to my chest. The symptoms are unbearable. I can’t breathe or speak. I lose control of my limbs, I faint.”