“What sort of something?” Pliny was half out of his chair in alarm.
“I’ve told you, I know nothing for certain. But Verpa had his finger in many things. Dear boy, I beg you, get out of this while you can. Drop the investigation.”
“By Jupiter, I’d like nothing better! But you’re wrong about this, sir. No one is using me. My instructions are merely to make a show of investigating, it being a foregone conclusion that the slaves are guilty.
“It’s been my own decision to probe somewhat deeper. I’m perplexed, I admit, but I think there’s nothing more mysterious here than simple domestic hatred, and I aim to prove it if I can. Anyway, I can’t possibly drop the case, not when I’ve been given the assignment by the emperor himself. I know you dislike him, but he is the emperor and I am bound to serve him as best I can. If I don’t, worse people will.”
“Dislike him?” Corellius’ grip tightened. “Do you know why I suffer this bodily torment? Because I want to outlive that brigand by just one day!”
Pliny froze. The old man’s unblinking eyes locked with his. He had just placed his life, Hispulla’s life, and perhaps many others’ in the palm of Pliny’s hand. If he reported that remark to the palace all of them would die very unpleasant deaths. And what reply should he make? Corellius was waiting for something. The thought flashed through Pliny’s mind: was this conceivably a trap laid for him? No! He forced the unworthy thought away. The greatest crime a tyrant commits against his subjects is the death of trust. After a long moment, he let his breath out slowly. “I’ll consider your advice, sir, as always. I’ll leave you now. You’re tired…” He cursed himself for his cowardice. Corellius Rufus sank back on his cushions. “Yes, go along, now. I am tired. We’ll talk again.” “Indeed, sir, I hope we will.” “Dear boy…” His hands fluttered. Pliny stopped in the open door and turned back. “Sir?” “Never forget that in me you have a friend, that you can confide in me-about anything, anything at all.”
“Why, of course, sir. I know that.” Pliny hastened out the front door, calling for his bearers. Hispulla’s worried eyes watched him go.
Marcus Cocceius Nerva opened the latticed door that led from the garden to the tablinum and stepped into the room. He was angry. “That was a damned silly thing you said, my friend. And we’ve learned nothing by it. I, too, was at the banquet of the dead-to avert a potential disaster. Any one of those poor, frightened fools might have blurted out some scrap of rumor that could hang us. Pliny pretends to be all innocence, but I don’t believe him. He was put there to spy on us, and that is what he did. You can only thank Fortune that he didn’t learn anything.” Corellius tried to protest, but Nerva waved him to silence. “You think a fatherly pat on the arm will keep Pliny’s loyalty when Domitian tempts him with rewards beyond his dreams? You have all chosen me after being turned down by every other likely candidate. And, may Jupiter help me, I have consented. But I have the gravest doubts, my friend, the gravest doubts.” He was visibly shaking, whether with anger or fear was hard to say.
“Calm yourself, Nerva,” said Corellius Rufus sharply. “Sit down and have a drink. I know my man.”
But to himself he thought, You old fool. Did you say too much or too little? Well, it’s in the hands of the gods now. He wished he believed in them. ???
At the same hour that Pliny was visiting his old friend, far away on the Palatine Hill, Martial was finding his way through a maze of corridors and courtyards in the domestic wing of the palace to the private apartment of the grand chamberlain.
“Aha, here you are. I’m so glad you could come at short notice.” Parthenius, pressing his palms against his thighs, heaved his bulk out of a chair specially built to accommodate his girth and spread wide his fleshy arms. The cloying scent of his perfume filled the little room. He waved the poet to a chair as slaves came in bearing wine and a silver platter of honey cakes. “I always prefer to meet friends here. My office over on the other side is a madhouse. Honey cake?” He plucked one from the platter with be-ringed thumb and forefinger and held it to Martial’s lips. “Wine?” A slave poured from a silver flagon. The grand chamberlain lowered his ponderous frame again onto his chair.
The poet accepted what was offered while he looked around him. The room was beautifully appointed. Exquisite pieces of Syrian glassware stood in niches, dainty ebony tables displayed old Corinthian bronzes worth a fortune. The wall panels showed sea-green vistas where pastel nymphs cavorted. Beyond a gossamer curtain, a fountain splashed in a small garden.
“I regret we’ve never met face to face,” said the chamberlain. “I can’t think why not. But, of course, I know your poetry well. Such wit, such observation! And at the same time such expressions of loyalty to our emperor. You’ve even been kind enough to honor my humble self with praises I scarcely deserve. But I appreciate it, my friend. I want you to know that.” He favored Martial with his sleek, wet smile. The poet mumbled his thanks, wondering why he had been summoned here at the crack of dawn by a slave in imperial livery. “I gather that you are anxious to have your poems read by the emperor? To have the patronage of the court?” “My new patron, the acting vice prefect, has assured me that he will introduce my poems to Our Lord and God.”
“Which he can accomplish only through me.” Parthenius tapped his chest with a fat forefinger. “And that will be only if you are able to perform a small service for me.”
The poet was instantly cautious. “What service would that be, my lord chamberlain?”
“Your patron Gaius Plinius is a man of conspicuous rectitude and loyalty, highly regarded by our emperor. You may tell him I said so.”
Martial nodded.
“You’ve dined with him twice since he began his investigation of the Verpa affair,” Parthenius continued. “You’ve attended his salutatio. He seems to have taken quite an interest in you, and you in him. Am I correct?” Parthenius moved a finger, and instantly a slave hurried to refill the poet’s wine cup.
How did the grand chamberlain know about this? But, of course, everyone was watched. As they talked, flattery and wine began to work upon the poet in spite of himself. He felt his body uncoil, heard himself babbling. He was more of a confidante, really, than an ordinary client. And Pliny had sought his advice on certain matters, he being a man of the world. Yes, they had talked about the murder. No conclusions yet, of course. His friend had some notion of exonerating the slaves. It did seem the Jews had nothing to do with it. Lucius might actually be the guilty party. No proof yet, of course…
“Interesting.” Parthenius made a temple of his fingertips, wetted his thick lips with the tip of his tongue. “I would like to be kept abreast of Pliny’s progress in the Verpa investigation. The next time he goes to Verpa’s house, make sure you go with him. The man had certain documents in his possession, never mind what they are, but apparently they have so far not been uncovered. If that changes, I want to know it at once. I would like you to report on this and anything else of interest that you may glean from your conversation with the acting vice prefect. I want to know everything he knows, everything he suspects.”
“Report?” The word stuck in Martial’s throat. Fool! What had he said, what had he done? He would say no more.
“Another cake?” said the chamberlain. Martial waved it away. “I understand, moreover,” Parthenius continued unperturbed, “that he has a house guest, an invalid lady who had been lodging with Verpa until the murder. I would appreciate occasional reports on the state of the lady’s health and her movements.” “Amatia? Why? Who is she to you?” The chamberlain did not answer. “Look here, I don’t know what this is about but I don’t like the sound of it. I’m not a man to be bought. Good day to you…”