“Interesting,” said Nymphidius. He massaged his knee “But that’s only one piece of the puzzle. The poisoned dates were a gift ‘from the Persian to the bridegroom.’ But Glaucon had been married for years, and who is this Persian?”
“Just like a Persian,” said Aquila angrily, “to slaughter a whole family. They haven’t got human feelings like us.”
“There are Persians in the city,” said Suetonius. “A few hundred. They have their own quarter together with the Jews and Armenians.” According to Sophronia, he was about to add, but suddenly felt reluctant to bring her name into the discussion.
“And this Persian who wanted Glaucon dead,” said Marinus, “must therefore be complicit in the murder of Balbus. A Persian murdering a Roman official? A bad business-especially if it’s the prelude to something worse.”
“You don’t mean-?” Zosimus blurted out, fear in his voice.
“A second Mithridates!” Aquila growled. “Another massacre!”
“None of that talk now!” said Pliny sharply. But he was more worried than he let on. Could Persian spies have somehow learned of Trajan’s plans to launch an invasion of their empire from Bithynia-Pontus? Was Pacorus, King of Kings, planning to strike first?
“Anything in Glaucon’s papers that mentions Persians?” Marinus asked.
“Not so far,” Pliny admitted. “I haven’t read everything yet.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Suetonius asked, “What do you propose, Gaius Plinius?”
“I will talk to these Persians.”
***
They wore the baggy trousers and long-sleeved, embroidered tunics of their nation. Their long hair and beards were oiled and curled. They were shop-keepers and merchants, the leaders of their community. They stood, a dozen of them, in Pliny’s antechamber, muttering in their beards. They were frightened. Persia and Rome had been enemies for generations. Roman legions had invaded their land once and been massacred. There had been wars over the possession of Armenia and the frontier was a scene of constant skirmishes. They had no reason to trust a Roman governor.
They pushed forward their spokesman, Arsames, an elderly, dignified man with grey in his beard, an importer of eastern spices and perfumes. He sank to his knees, stretched out his arms, and knocked his forehead on the floor.
“Stand up, man, I’m not one of your barbarian kings,” Pliny said sharply.
With the help of two of his comrades, Arsames struggled to his feet. If he heard the snickers from the Romans in the room, he ignored them.
“Forgive me, master-our custom.” He spoke passable Greek.
“Nor am I your master,” said Pliny sharply. “What I require from you is information, not cringing obeisance.” In a few words he told them that a prominent Greek and his family had been poisoned by a Persian. “I want that man, and I expect you to produce him.”
Arsames translated for the others. With one voice they cried out their innocence, raising their hands to heaven. No Persian had done-would ever do-such a thing! Who was Glaucon? They did not know him. Why would they wish him dead?
Pliny held up his hands for silence. “Nevertheless, nevertheless,” he said when he could make himself heard, “Glaucon is dead and we have a witness who swears that a Persian sent the poisoned dates.”
“No!” Arsames shook his head. “This is a slander on us. An excuse to persecute us.”
Now Pliny felt himself at a loss. He didn’t want to draw a line from Glaucon’s murder to Balbus’, whose death was still officially an accident. “I’m not accusing all of you, Arsames. But one of your people is a murderer. I want you to help me find him. You would be wise to cooperate.” Pliny put on his most severe expression and Arsames’ eyes widened with fear and confusion.
Suddenly, from the rear of the chamber there was a commotion and a woman’s voice was heard demanding shrilly to be let in. Her head didn’t come up to their shoulders but she shoved her way through the press of men, a small whirlwind of indignation, until she stood before the astonished Pliny. Suetonius stepped forward smoothly. “Sophronia, what an unexpected pleasure, but really-”
“Why have you dragged these men here, Governor?”
While Pliny was searching for his voice, Suetonius went on quickly, “Really, this is no place for you, my dear.”
“Why not? I’m a Persian. When they can be attacked, so can I.”
Before he could reply, she turned to Arsames and spoke to him in rapid Persian. He looked hardly less confounded than the Romans by her presence. He knew who she was, of course, and did not approve of her. None of them did. But if, as it seemed, she knew these Romans and didn’t fear them, he was ready to put aside his scruples.
She turned back to the Romans. “These men know nothing about this murder, nor do I. But if you want their help, you had best not threaten them. They are proud men. My mother’s people live amongst them. If there is anything to be learned, we will learn it. From now on, I will be your go-between.”
“I thank you, madam,” said Pliny, finally collecting himself. “Whatever you learn you may communicate to Suetonius in your, ah, place of business.”
“Oh quite,” she said. “The gods forbid that a whore should sully your doorstep.”
Pliny was again speechless. Worse, he was beginning to seriously wonder whether the Persians had anything to do with this.
***
That evening, under a lowering sky, five coffins were borne on the shoulders of pallbearers to the cemetery beyond the city wall. Flutes shrilled, mourners shrieked and tore their garments, but this was more than the imitation grief of hired professionals: the whole city had turned out for this sad event. An immense sea of people trailed the cortege and their outrage was genuine and palpable. And among the crowd, certain men circulated, who sometimes whispered and sometimes shouted that it was the Persians, the hated foreigner, the ancestral enemy, sly, grasping businessmen, deniers of the city’s gods, who had slaughtered this noble Greek family and were only waiting for the opportunity to kill again, kill them in their beds, kill without mercy. Must they wait until more innocents were poisoned? Drive them out! Burn them out!
And, having done their work, they pocketed the coins they had been promised and slipped away.
***
That night a mob rampaged through the Persian quarter, looting shops, throwing torches into homes and dragging the terrified inhabitants out into the street to be beaten and raped; making no distinction between the Persians and the Jews and Armenians who were unlucky enough to live side by side with them. Flames leapt into the night sky, visible from the palace. Pliny sent every soldier he had into the quarter and they battled the mob all night long, chasing looters through dark alleys, putting out fires, forming a human shield around the houses that weren’t burning.
Dawn broke lurid through a pall of smoke that overhung the city. Worse was the sullen miasma of hatred and fear that settled on it. Pliny crucified six looters, declared martial law, suspended meetings of the council and assembly, and ordered his men to break up street corner gatherings of more than three. He opened the palace grounds to the Persian families who had been burnt out of their homes, and Calpurnia-defying the muttered comments of the wives-took charge of caring for them. Pliny had never felt more proud of her.
But it wasn’t only the Greeks he had to deal with. A delegation of Roman businessmen, not only from Nicomedia but from Prusa and Nicaea as well, demanded an audience. Why was Balbus’ murder-for few now doubted that it was murder-still unsolved? Why had he brought the Persians in for questioning only to let them go? Was another Mithridates loose in their midst? Could he protect them? Because if he couldn’t then, by the gods, they would protect themselves!
Time was running out. Pliny knew he was on the verge of losing control of the city and the province. It had been a mistake to summon the Persians in such a public way; he blamed himself for what had happened to them. But who was this Persian who had poisoned Glaucon and his family? Was it perhaps no Persian at all but someone else, some personal enemy of Glaucon’s, who wanted to shift suspicion onto the foreigners? And what was the connection between Glaucon’s death and Balbus’? That there was a connection he was convinced.