Bruce Macbain - The Bull Slayer

“Maybe, but they are the least likely to talk about it. I dread the day when it does all come out and Aulus has to endure the public humiliation.”

“You care for the boy, don’t you?” Calpurnia said.

“I do. He has courage. When I told him I wanted him to confront his father’s killer, he didn’t hesitate for a moment, even though it might bring on a seizure.”

“Which it did,” Marinus said. “A bad one. He’s still sleeping it off.”

“I’m fond of him too,” said Calpurnia. “I’m glad you brought him to my lesson, although he sat there the whole time staring either at his feet or at me. I’m afraid poor Timotheus was quite disconcerted.”

Pliny’s heart leapt. Was there something here at last that they could agree on? Some small opening for rebuilding a relationship strained to the breaking point? He covered her hand with his; he didn’t risk speaking.

“The money,” Caelianus protested with the outrage of a born accountant. “Where did it all go?”

“When we know that,” Pliny answered, “we will know everything. Balbus’ murder has done no more than lift a corner of the veil that covers his crime. In general, there’s no doubt where it went. Didymus was merely a conduit for money which has found its way into the hands of rich men to invest in building schemes out of which they make even more money. Once the money’s spent it can’t be traced. It’s like-like…” he paused, searching for an image.”

“Like sending a soiled toga to the fullery?” Zosimus suggested with his customary diffidence. “It goes in spotted and comes out clean.”

“Brilliant, my boy!” said Pliny. “Like laundering money! A very apt metaphor indeed.”

“And,” said Suetonius, “one could easily make a list of the likely recipients. But proving it is another thing.”

“Is there no way to make Didymus talk?” Calpurnia asked.

Pliny gave a helpless shrug. “If the man is willing to die rather than expose his family to the wrath of the others, and the Sun-Runner, I don’t know what I can do to change his mind.”

“With good reason,” Suetonius added. “If Didymus didn’t murder the high priest Barzanes then there’s another murderer out there and he must be desperate, thinking what the banker might tell us. I trust he’s safely stowed away where even this mysterious Sun-Runner can’t get at him?”

“I’ll double the guard on his cell,” said Pliny. “ Mehercule , I almost feel like we’re fighting a ghost!”

“And you must be careful too, Gaius. I’m afraid for you.” Calpurnia touched his arm.

“Now, now, nothing at all to worry about, my dear.” And again his heart leapt.

“So now we just wait to see what will happen next?” said Nymphidius without enthusiasm.

“What I propose to do,” Pliny replied, “is resume my tour of the province.”

“What?” Marinus was alarmed. “You’re exhausted, man. As your physician I can’t-”

“Nonsense. Do me a world of good to get back to my proper work again. The weather’s turned unseasonably mild again and I shall take advantage of it. Look, we’ve solved Balbus’ murder and that’s all anyone outside this room needs to know. If I continue to hang around Nicomedia people will start to wonder why. No, I’ve made up my mind to set out tomorrow, in fact. Suetonius, as before, I leave you in charge of things here. ’Purnia, I hope you’ll keep a kindly eye on Aulus, he-I say, ’Purnia…”

***

The next morning

Calpurnia sat at her dressing table while Ione brushed her hair with long, vigorous strokes.

“’Purnia, this is your chance! But no more hanging about the temples, please. I’ll take him another letter if you want.”

“Oh, Ione, I’ve given up. It’s over,” she lied. She’d been badly frightened when she learned that Zosimus had spoken to her husband about Ione. Maybe the girl would never let anything slip, but the less she knew now the better.

“You don’t mean that.” There was an edge to Ione’s voice; something almost accusing in her tone.

“I’m afraid I do.”

“But-“

“I’m actually not feeling very well today, dear. I’ll spend the day alone with a book. You may leave me now.” With her back to her, Calpurnia could not see that look that passed over Ione’s face. And if she had, could she have guessed what lay behind it?

“As you wish, Mistress.”

Calpurnia had lain awake most of the night while Pliny snored peacefully beside her. In the past month, since she had seen him for that brief moment in the temple of Zeus, she had, indeed, struggled to forget Agathon, had almost persuaded herself that she could. How foolish! She was powerless-a weak, foolish woman, a slave to her love, her need . She must see him again, only once, she told herself, just once so that they might part friends. But she knew this was a lie. She would send him another message. Not like the last one, complaining, threatening-of course, he hadn’t answered her. No, she would be dignified, reasonable-but not cold, no, she would tell him how much she loved him, she would ask him to spare her an afternoon, an hour even, to be with him. But who would deliver her note? If not Ione, then who? One of the household slaves? Could she trust any of them to keep her secret? They were Pliny’s slaves, not hers. She thought for a long time and then she knew whom she would entrust it to. She’d never asked him for a favor but why should he refuse? People like him were useful for this sort of thing. Of course she was taking a risk, but that would be true no matter what she did. She would go out of her way to be charming to him today.

***

Timotheus sat in his chamber-the mean, shabby little chamber they had given him for his quarters-and eyed the pair of tablets, bound with cord and sealed, that she had placed in his hands, smiling (when had she ever done that before?) and asking, oh so prettily, if he wouldn’t mind delivering it to a certain town house. Messenger boy! It had come to this. Bad enough he had to live on their scraps, but to be sent on a slave’s errand! What should he do with the thing? He would not stoop to opening and reading it himself. He was a gentleman, after all. But just possibly his patron Diocles would find it interesting. Wasn’t it for precisely this that he had been put here?

***

The 4th day before the Kalends of December

“Ah, darling Agathon, don’t stop! I’m dying!” Thais straddled him, brushing his face with her breasts as he thrust into her.

The rays of the setting sun pouring through his bedroom window gave the girl’s skin a golden sheen, struck red highlights in her tangled hair. She was his favorite hetaera and this was the climax of a long, lazy afternoon of drinking, dicing, and love-making.

Abruptly shattered by sounds of scuffling in the entrance hall below them.

The voice of Baucis, “ Matrona , no, I’ve orders not to-please, matrona , you can’t-” and another voice demanding to be let in. A voice he knew too well. Gods! Agathon heaved the girl off him, sending her sprawling on the floor. “Quick! Get your clothes on.” He pushed her through a curtain into a side chamber. He struggled into his tunic, smoothed the bedclothes as best he could. And when Calpurnia burst through the door he was sitting in his chair with a scroll in his lap to cover his still swollen organ, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

With one motion she flung off her hooded cloak, ran to him and threw herself at his feet. He recoiled. Could this be the same woman he had once imagined he loved? It had been six weeks or more since he had seen her at the Roman procurator’s funeral, and the change in her was astonishing: her face a dead white, the chin and cheekbones sharp where there had once been soft flesh, and the eyes-the eyes, big and haunted, looking out at him from dark hollows.