Pliny massaged his throbbing temples. This was becoming too much. The physician of Amatia, a stranger to the city, snatched off the street in broad daylight, rolled up in a carpet, taken somewhere, and almost certainly murdered. For what possible reason?
He drew a deep breath. He must inform the lady. She was taking lunch in her room, said old Helen, shaking her head. The mistress was with her, crying on her shoulder.
What a confusion of feelings assailed him! But he had been brought up in his uncle’s hard school. His uncle who, setting duty before all else, had sailed into the maelstrom of an erupting volcano and lost his life. With a comparable feeling of dread, Pliny knocked upon the door.
“You have come to speak with me, Gaius Plinius?” Amatia said in her low voice. “Speak first to your wife.”
Calpurnia, covering her face with her hands, tried to run past him, but he stopped her. They enacted a painful scene before their guest’s steady gaze.
His story came out in halting phrases-not quite the whole truth, but enough of it-amid many endearments and promises never, never to make such an ass of himself again. At the end Calpurnia, blinking back her tears, kissed him gravely upon the cheek. A married woman learns to expect these things, she seemed to say, but from you I expect better. “We will not speak of it again, husband.”
Pliny’s heart overflowed with gratitude. “Thank you, my dear. And now, if you will excuse us, I need to speak with Amatia.”
The lady gave him a questioning look.
“I fear I have troubling news, dear Amatia. The thing is quite baffling.” He recited the few, bare facts of Iatrides’ disappearance. “Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kidnap your physician? I mean murders, assaults, robberies happen every day in Rome. But this seems very odd. Where would he have been going at that hour of the day?”
“I don’t know.” She put her hands to her breast, her breath rattled ominously in her throat. “Oh, I wish we’d never come here!”
“My men are still working on the case, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you much hope. In the meantime, may I again offer you the services of my specialist, Soranus?” “Oh, please say yes, dear,” Calpurnia urged, “he’s quite a wonderful man, I’m sure he can help you.” Amatia smiled wanly and placed a finger on her lips. “Allow me awhile to think on it alone. Please leave me now, both of you.” “Will you be all right?” Calpurnia asked. “Yes, yes, don’t worry.”
But they had barely closed the door when they heard a strangled scream and the thump of a body. They raced back to find Amatia on the floor. Her limbs twitched violently. Her lips were drawn back in a rictus, baring her teeth. Her eyes were wide and staring.
“Helen, quick!”
The nurse came running as fast as her short legs would carry her. She and Calpurnia between them were able to raise Amatia’s head and pour spoonfuls of medicine down her throat-a preparation of hemlock, pepper, and honey, which she had brought with her. After some moments, her limbs relaxed, her eyes closed, and they were able to lift her back onto the bed. ???
The Roman Games consisted of ten days of stage plays followed by five of chariot races. Pliny detested chariot racing, but loved the theater. In seven days he had yet to tear himself away to see a play. And what better peace offering to Calpurnia? The poor girl hadn’t been out of the house in weeks. Soranus would disapprove but he’d chance it anyway. Wall posters announced that a performance of Plautus’ The Captives, one of his least bawdy creations, was to be performed that afternoon at the Theater of Marcellus. He would take her and Zosimus. And Amatia? She seemed to have recovered herself although she was still pale.
“I can’t. As I told your friend the poet, crowds terrify me. And I’ve had one attack already today. But let me help Calpurnia dress.”
Calpurnia was determined to plaster her face with white lead and rouge, “like a proper lady.” This was a constant argument between her and Pliny.
“Your husband is quite right.” Amatia touched the pouting girl’s cheek. “Any dried up old matron would give a hundred gold pieces for your rosy skin. Your beauty is a gift of the gods, my dear, why ruin it with this noxious stuff. I never wear it, even at my age, and I think I’m none the worse.”
Pliny was grateful to her and said so.
They sat in the section reserved for senators, front row center in the vast open-air cavern of the auditorium, facing the towering porticoed facade through whose doors the actors entered and left the stage. The singing and acting were first rate, but the play was a bad choice, Pliny soon decided. Only mildly amusing, while its theme of unjust captivity and slavery threw him back painfully on the very thoughts he had hoped to escape from. But Calpurnia seemed to enjoy herself-indeed she must have enjoyed being anywhere outside the confines of their house.
As they left the theater late in the day, black clouds roiled across the sky, lightning quivered on the horizon, and the heavens opened. Rain pounded on the tile roofs, gushed from Gorgon-mouthed rainspouts, and ran in rivers down the gutters. Then a sudden lightning flash close at hand and a thunderclap made Pliny jump and set his heart pounding. Where had it struck? Somewhere over toward the Capitolium he thought. An omen? A sign of Jupiter’s wrath? It was said that the emperor Augustus used to cower under his bed in terror during thunderstorms. And even as rational a man as Pliny could not suppress a nervous shudder. Instinctively, he made a sign with his fingers to ward off evil-a thing which he had not done since childhood. ???
Ganymede, crouching by the open window, stared at the rain-swept street below and at the house fronts slowly materializing out of darkness. Water dripped steadily down between the charred roof beams of the fire-gutted flat, drumming with a hollow sound on the thin floorboards and striking with a higher, thinner sound the sodden corpse of the old woman who lay beside him.
She had haunted his dreams in the night, in those brief intervals when sleep overcame him. She had opened her eyes, crept upon him silently, he unable to move, and wrapped her bony fingers around his throat. Finally, out of desperation, he had dragged her to the window to push her out, but her arms and legs had stiffened at odd angles to her body and he couldn’t manage it. He knew he would turn stark mad if he stayed there much longer.
Through veils of rain he could make out the entrance to the Temple of Eros and above it the prick and balls that banged back and forth in the wind. Lucius would come there soon, looking for him. He would make an arrangement with the new proprietor, and then, as soon as things died down, he, Ganymede, could go home again, safe and protected forever. Lucius had promised him this, if he did his part right, and he had.
It had been so easy! He had plunged the dagger again and again into Verpa’s naked back, pouring out a lifetime of hate that surprised even him. The filthy old beast didn’t cry out, didn’t even grunt. And he had followed the rest of Lucius’ instructions exactly: drawing the picture, leaving the dagger. He’d even had the pleasure of strangling that wretched little Hylas in the confusion when the other slaves were killed. Still, somehow, that vice-prefect had come to suspect him. But no matter, Lucius was too clever for them; he knew what to do. Lucius would never abandon him. But what if Lucius didn’t come? No! Lucius loved him, hadn’t he said so? But if Lucius changed his mind, if he were angry with him?