“You think Silvanus killed Balbus?” Suetonius asked.
“Or maybe they’re in it together,” Nymphidius offered, “Balbus slipping away first, Silvanus afterwards, and all the rest of it just play-acting.”
“Either way I simply can’t imagine how it was done” said Pliny. “Two men vanished without a trace.”
They looked at each other in glum silence and he was about to send them all away when they heard voices raised in the corridor outside his office. He went out to investigate.
The doorkeepers-who considered it a part of their job to prevent him from ever talking to anyone who did not have an appointment-were struggling with a man, red in the face and clearly angry, who was demanding to see the governor. Another crank probably, but the man’s clothes were expensive and his accent not the worst. Pliny had nothing but time on his hands, he could spare this fellow a little of it. He ushered him into the office.
The man straightened his clothes, took a breath to calm himself, and introduced himself as Isidorus, a dealer in fine silks and brocades. He had gone yesterday to the Street of the Leather Workers, he explained, to shop for a saddle and bridle, not your ordinary stuff but something expensive, a birthday present for his son-in-law, who was quite a gentleman and owned a horse. And he was in one shop, examining what was on offer, and quite a respectable place, the owner was known to him and not a dealer in stolen goods either, no certainly not. But there was a very handsome saddle for sale with matching bridle, all ornamented with turquoises and onyxes, and an embroidered saddle cloth with it, top quality, make no mistake, he knew quality when he saw it, and the thing of it was, you see, that it looked familiar, he knew he had seen that saddle somewhere before, and then it came to him-just like that! — perhaps some god whispered it in his ear, who could say? But he was dead certain that it was the procurator’s saddle, no question about it, that gentleman rode down his street every day on his way to the treasury, which is just past the Street of the Cloth Merchants, don’t you see?
Isidorus stopped and looked around him in alarm. They were all on their feet, Nymphidius’ fingers dug into his shoulder.
“Here now,” he squeaked, “no call for that!”
“Where,” Pliny brought his face close and spoke softly, “did this merchant get the saddle?”
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to tell your honors. A couple of peasants sold him the stuff. His wife is from their village, don’t you see, so they thought he’d give ’em a good price.”
“And where is this village?”
“He can tell you. He’s just outside. He doesn’t want any trouble.”
Chapter Twelve
The mounted column, with Pliny at its head, left the city at the ninth hour of the day, taking the road, at a walking pace, north-east up into the foothills. According to the leather merchant, who now guided them, the village lay about eighty stades-ten Roman miles-away. With luck they should reach it by nightfall. Suetonius and Zosimus had urged him to wait until tomorrow before setting out, but Pliny would not be delayed any longer than it took to gather supplies for an overnight journey and bid a hasty farewell to Calpurnia. A dozen cavalry troopers, commanded by Aquila, and a lumbering wagon for their tents went with them.
The sky had been overcast all day and now the wind rose, thunder rumbled in the mountains, and a slanting rain drove in their faces. Shrunk inside their traveling cloaks, they urged their horses on. The ground rose steadily. Soon the paved, poplar-lined road dwindled to a dirt track and then to a barely visible forest path, dark with the shade of overhanging trees. In these dense woods of fir and oak and beech, branches shuddered in the wind and whipped at their faces, dripping ferns and bracken soaked their knees. The horses’ hooves sank fetlock deep in a wet carpet of fallen leaves. Their nostrils steamed in the watery air.
The temperature dropped steadily as the day waned. Pliny shivered and felt the breath congeal in his lungs. His uncle had died from a weakness of the lungs. It was a deadly family infirmity that he had inherited. Maybe he should listen to the others and turn back, the weather might clear tomorrow. But then the leather merchant’s wife might have time to warn her kinsmen. No. Press on.
***
Calpurnia stood in the middle of the dining room, supervising the fresco painters who were reproducing her sketches on the wall panels. The shutters shook as gusts of wind hurled the rain against them. Ione, at her side as always, studied her with an appraising eye.
“’Purnia, this is your chance.”
Calpurnia pushed back a tendril of hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Add more cinnabar, Lysias, I want a deeper red there.”
“It’s been nearly two weeks since you’ve seen Agathon. Four days since his slave brought you the letter begging to see you. Have pity on the boy. You could go to him today.”
Calpurnia turned on her savagely. “Stop this! I should have you whipped for talking like this.”
Ione regarded her steadily. “If it makes you feel better.”
“I threw the letter away and that’s the end of it.”
“If you say so.”
“Ione, please. I can’t. I can’t. Lysias, go away, take the others with you, we’ll start again tomorrow. Ione, you’re like Nemesis luring me to my doom.”
“I don’t know about that, I’m not an educated woman, but I know something about love.”
“Love! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I see you pining away before my eyes. My husband notices. So does yours.”
“By the gods, what would you have me do?”
“Only what you did before. Drink wine, laugh together, draw your pictures, maybe a small philema or two.” The Greek word for ‘kiss’ sounded somehow more innocent. “Nothing wrong in that.”
Calpurnia groped for a chair and sank into it with her face in her hands. She drew in a long breath through her nostrils and let it out slowly. “Could I? Could I, really?”
Ione pulled her mistress’ hands away and looked in her eyes, luminous with tears. “Poor ’Purnia. How long will you punish yourself like this? Come with me, now. I’ll bathe you and fix your hair and dress you-your saffron gown and the silver sandals, your amethyst earrings. I’ll make you so beautiful for him.”
The palace in which they lived was an ancient pile that sprawled over half an acre and much of it was empty and unguarded. At dusk they slipped out a door in an unused wing. Wrapped in their cloaks, the two women ran through the dark, rain-lashed streets. Calpurnia felt herself moving as in a dream, helpless as though some other will than her own were animating her.
“Hey, you there, stop!” A figure lurched out from the shadow of a doorway and blocked their path. “Come on, ladies, I pay you good. I like two at a time.” Dressed in dripping rags, the figure staggered toward them. They rushed past him, spilling him into the gutter. “Filthy whores!” he shouted after them. “Filthy whores!” They hurried on, missing a turn in the dark, groping their way back, coming at last to the steps that led up the hillside to the town house, treacherous in the dark and wet. Calpurnia slipped, bruising her knee. But the pain was nothing, she was at his door now. His door! Moments passed while she pounded on it. At last the housekeeper answered her knock and recognized her.
Leaving Ione in the entrance hall, Calpurnia followed the old woman into the megaron.
“Callirhoe!” Agathon turned in surprise and opened his arms wide. “I never hoped to see you again! You nearly missed me, I was just-”
“Going out?” She recognized his best cloak and tunic, smelled the scent in his oiled hair. “To spend the night drinking with your friends? I’m sorry, this was a mistake, I’ll go.” She heard the shrill accusation in her voice-like some shrewish wife. Of course, he had his own life. What did she think?