Regulus paused in his reading to draw a breath and unrolled some more of the scroll. As he skimmed ahead, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Lucius, seeing something in his face, leaned forward in his chair.
“And finally,” Regulus read in a faltering voice, “to the temple of Queen Isis in the Campus Martius, for the purpose of founding a mortuary temple and fully-equipped embalming works where that neglected art can be practiced as in ancient days, together with perpetual stipends for the embalmers and priests who will oversee it, I give and bequeath the sum of two million sesterces; this amount to be administered at the discretion of the High Priest of Anubis, the god of embalming…”
The last words were drowned out in the uproar that filled the room.
Lucius was ashen-faced. Two million! A quarter of his estate. A senatorial fortune in itself-for Anubis, or, rather, for Alexandrinus, that charlatan! This was madness. His father would never…
“This is you, isn’t it, you filthy whore!” he screamed in Scortilla’s face, leaping up and knocking over his chair. He drew back his fist to hit her. But a brown, muscular shoulder came between them. It belonged to a tall man clad in white linen. Pliny had noticed him briefly when he arrived. The man had a smooth, beautifully shaped skull marked with the star-shaped scar of Isiac priests, and jet black eyes outlined with kohl. He turned them on Scortilla and a look passed between them.
Lucius rushed to the desk and snatched the scroll from Regulus’ hands. “Show me. Show me where it says ‘million.’” He stared at the place where the lawyer’s fingertip pointed: a letter M with a line drawn under it, multiplying a thousand by a thousand. In desperation he looked around for Pliny.
Pliny bent low, until his nose almost touched the page. He shook his head. If the numeral had been altered, it had been very neat work. Whatever the original amount was, only two pen strokes perhaps would need to be pumiced out and redrawn. But he felt as strongly as Lucius that the old man was simply not capable of such profligate generosity. A hundred thousand maybe, but not this.
There was one thing he could do about it. In a loud voice he announced to the room, “I will request the city prefect to suspend payment of legacies until the question of Ingentius Verpa’s death has been satisfactorily explained. Furthermore, all parties with an interest in this matter are to remain within ten miles of the city until further notice.” He knew he was far exceeding his authority. Could he get away with it? The emperor would not be happy, and the city prefect was his creature. Well, it might buy a little time, at least. ???
Pliny stood outside the front door with its load of dark foliage, Scortilla’s abuse still ringing in his ears. He dabbed at the spot on his cheek where she had spat at him. But he had been adamant, and finally she had rushed from the room in tears, followed by her Egyptian. Lucius stamped off in another direction, Regulus slipped away, and the tablinum had disgorged its mob of disappointed sycophants with astonishing swiftness.
Pliny beckoned to his litter-bearers. There was nothing more to be accomplished here today. He had left Valens with orders to report anything he overheard between Lucius and Scortilla, and try to keep the two of them from killing each other in the meantime. He had simply no idea what else to do and found himself longing for Martial, that fount of information and excellent sounding board. He must send a slave round to invite him to dinner again tonight. In the meantime he wanted his lunch, the company of his dear wife, of clever Zosimus, perhaps of the gentle, unfortunate lady Amatia, and then a midday nap and a bath.
Just as he was about to mount his litter, however, a young slave hailed him. “Sir, are you Gaius Plinius? My master wishes you good health and begs you to come and take lunch with him today.” “And who is your master?” There was something familiar about the boy’s face, but one seldom looked closely at slaves’ faces. “Quintus Corellius Rufus, sir. He hopes you won’t refuse a sick old friend who has your welfare at heart.” “My welfare?”
Ever since the “black banquet,” Pliny had received half a dozen dinner invitations from senators of dubious reputation, who, with their sensitive antennae attuned to every shift in the political wind, had suddenly decided that his acquaintance was worth cultivating. He had begged off all of them. But this was different. Corellius Rufus had been a trusted friend of his uncle’s and a mentor to himself. He accepted gladly.
Chapter Fourteen
How is he?” Pliny whispered.
“Very bad. The gout attacks him everywhere. He can barely move without torment, but he’ll never say so. You know him, he bears it like a philosopher.” Rufus’ wife of forty years, Hispulla, a small, white-haired woman of great sweetness, met Pliny in the vestibule of their modest house on the Quirinal. She took both his hands and squeezed them. “Come inside, he’s waiting for you.”
Corellius Rufus lay on a couch, his arms and legs propped on cushions. Pliny bent over to kiss the withered cheek. Hispulla, who had followed him in, fussed about her husband a bit, but he waved her off impatiently. She arranged a loaf of bread, a bowl of olives, and a plate of fried smelts on the table beside him. Then she left, taking the servants with her so that the two men could be entirely alone.
Pliny felt a deep affection for this man. He had been a consul of Rome and governor of Upper Germany before illness had forced him to withdraw from active life. Now he was beyond ambition, hope, and fear; and he made no secret of his contempt for Domitian.
The invalid regarded his protege with watery eyes, half-hidden under brows that sprang from his forehead like white bushes. “You know I’ve always taken an interest in your career, dear boy.” The voice was tremulous. Pliny launched into expressions of gratitude, but Corellius cut him short. “Tut. I didn’t bring you here for that. I’ve some advice to give you; you can decide for yourself what it’s worth. I’ve heard all about that macabre banquet at the palace last week. It was disgraceful. Exactly what I would have expected from ‘Our Lord and God.’”
Pliny protested, “I was taken completely off guard! I had no intention of looking for signs of ‘guilt’ in anyone. You must believe me, sir.”
“Of course I believe you. But there is something to be learned from this. Listen to me carefully. A tyrant always seeks to involve the innocent in his crimes, to make them sharers in his guilt. You were being tested. That’s how it begins. And there will be more tests until, before you realize it, you will have become hopelessly compromised. And then you will be their creature, body and soul.”
With a pang, Pliny recalled Scortilla’s angry words to him: If Verpa was an informer, what exactly are you? He felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach.
“The banquet is over and done with,” Corellius continued, “and I think not much damage was done. The noble Nerva, I understand, saved the day. But now this Verpa business worries me. Mind you, I know nothing of the details, nor do I care to. The man was a pig. Whoever killed him deserves a statue in his honor. But I see danger here for you, precisely because you are conscientious and-forgive me, dear boy-still rather innocent.” Grimacing in pain, Corellius reached out a thin hand to clutch Pliny’s forearm. “There may be, ah, elements to this case that should not come to light. I know nothing for certain. Perhaps Domitian is hoping you will stumble across something that he very much wants to know without yourself grasping its significance.”