Evaristus shook his head. “He is not known to me.”
Pliny motioned Martial to come closer and they exchanged a few whispered words. If Pollux was, in fact, one of these Christians, then perhaps the sketch of the candelabrum and the Jewish dagger had been planted as clues to implicate him by someone who thought he was still a Jew. And who would that someone be? Lucius leapt to mind; he certainly had the motive. But the question remained, how was it done? Who had come through that open window, if not a Jewish assassin? And how could Pollux not have heard sounds of the struggle? And then why was the boy Hylas killed by the other slaves if he was neither a Jew nor a Christian? Whatever theory he had had about the case before was now shipwrecked. He would have to begin all over again. There were too many puzzles, and Pliny, whose whole professional life dealt with certainties, with documents and numbers, hated puzzles. He discharged his annoyance at Evaristus.
“They say you are atheists and haters of mankind. You gather secretly like rats in the sewers. You do not sacrifice to our emperor. If even half what they say about you is true, you deserve to be punished. What gives you the nerve to come here and ask me for a favor?”
The bishop returned his angry gaze with eyes as bright as steel; there was no fear in them. “We are men of peace, we obey the laws and those who are set over us. We pray for the emperor, though not to him. We mean no harm to anyone. I say to you, Senator, save yourself, be born again in Christ Jesus-”
“Macro!” Pliny shouted to his door keeper. “Escort these men out.”
Until then, the bishop’s companion, the cadaverous, bearded ancient in his threadbare cloak, had stood silently by, giving no sign that he understood what was being said. Macro’s firm hand on his shoulder set him off. Without warning, he flung his scrawny arms wide and burst into shrill Greek. “Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great. Babylon, the harlot of the seven hills. Alas, alas for the great city that was clothed in fine linen and purple and scarlet. Alas that in a single hour she should be laid waste…” He stared with all his eyes, seeing something that was invisible to the rest of them. While his breath came short and sharp between his teeth, he poured out a torrent of words.
Bishop Evaristus, for the first time showing fear, looked this way and that. “The vision comes upon him sometimes, unfortunate timing, please excuse us…” He tried, with Macro, to push Ioannes toward the door but the holy man was not to be silenced. The Greek was so rapid, the man gasping in the throes of his vision, Pliny could only understand bits of it-a woman riding on a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns-the seven heads were the seven hills of Rome and the woman was drunk on the blood of God’s people-foul and malignant sores on those who wore the mark of the beast and worshipped its image, plainly the emperor himself-the seas, the rivers, and springs were turning to blood and every living thing dying-now the kingdom of the beast, plunged in darkness and men gnawing their tongues in agony-tormented in sulfurous flames…
“Enough!” Pliny sprang from his chair. “Monsters! Out of my house!”
When they were gone, the old man’s voice echoing down the street, Martial groped for a stool and sank on to it. There was a moment of shocked silence while the two men looked at each other. “What on earth was that about?” breathed Pliny. Martial shook his head. “Sounds treasonous to me.” “Well, that’s not our concern right now.” “Yes, but d’you think one of them could be Verpa’s killer? Blame it on the Jews?” “I doubt it. Why bother if we’re all going to go up in flames soon anyway?” The sound of a girl weeping came from behind the half-open door of one of the side chambers.
“Calpurnia!” Pliny ran to her at once and clasped her in his arms. No telling how much she had understood but the girl seemed scared out of her wits. A moment later, Amatia appeared from her bedroom, her face still puffy with sleep. Between them they got Calpurnia to a couch.
Martial watched discreetly from the sidelines. When some calm had been restored he asked Pliny if he was going back to Verpa’s house today.
“I’m staying with my wife. Tomorrow the will is going to be read. I will attend that. Wills, at least, are something I understand. Come with me if you like.”
The poet bowed himself out.
Chapter Thirteen
The sixth day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day four of the Games.
The fourth hour of the day.
For the third time in four days Pliny reluctantly mounted his litter and was carried above the jostling crowds, the choking dust and stinks of the city. The foot traffic eddied around his conveyance, a small boat riding a turbulent stream. The heat already felt like the exhalation from a potter’s oven.
His way took him down the slope of the Esquiline, past the Colosseum and the Temple of Venus and Rome, along the Via Sacra and on into the Forum Romanum. On his left he passed, with a throb of longing, the noble Basilica Julia, the two-storied colonnaded building which occupied nearly the whole north side of the Forum. His view of it sadly was obscured by an immense bronze equestrian statue of Domitian, which towered over the surrounding buildings. But this was his arena, the scene of his triumphs since the day he had argued his first inheritance case there at the age of eighteen. In its vast interior the law courts met in open view of passers-by, and when he pleaded a case, audiences would desert the other orators to gather round him! Over the years, he had made a name for himself and done quite well off his fees. How he wished that this interminable month, not yet a third over, would end, allowing him to get back to his proper vocation.
Leaving the Forum behind, he was carried along the Clivus Argentarius, skirting the north flank of the Citadel, and coming out in the Vicus Pallacinae, near the east end of the Circus Flaminius.
As he swayed comfortably on the broad shoulders of his bearers, Pliny let his mind drift. He realized with a twinge of guilt that all during the morning salutatio he had scarcely heard a word anyone had said, including himself, so preoccupied was he with this wretched case. (Martial had sent a note, saying he’d had a late night and begged to be excused.)
Should he consider now that the Jewish business was a blind, intended to throw him off the track? And, if so, by whom? By Lucius? Or even Scortilla? Or, both of them? He knew so little. A man like Verpa would have had hundreds of enemies who wished him dead, any one of whom might have found a way to accomplish it. But how? A room with one high, narrow window and one door guarded by a man who, in spite of being a slave and a former Judean rebel, struck Pliny as truthful. And who was now revealed to have been a different sort of atheist altogether.
At any rate, today’s task was to interrogate those few slaves who had had the run of the house that night, something he should have done in the first place. That and listen to the reading of the will. Perhaps there would be a clue there.
His bearers, by this time, could have found their way blindfolded to the imposing porphyry-columned entrance to Verpa’s house. They set him down before the bronze-studded double doors which, today, were decorated with dark acanthus wreathes and bows of cypress, proclaiming that the deceased’s lying-in-state had begun.
The great man lay encoffined in a vast gilded mummy case resting on a black-draped catafalque which occupied the center of the atrium. The head of the case was painted with a likeness of Verpa’s face which, despite the artist’s best intentions, did not completely disguise the hard jaw line, the pugnacious nose, the heavy-lidded eyes. The actual burial was scheduled for four days hence. Were those alien gods, Pliny wondered, who stood ready to receive his spirit on the banks of the Styx, or wherever it was Egyptians went-were they quite prepared for what they were getting in this pretty package?