Bruce Macbain - Roman Games

Then one of the sleepers-she hadn’t really been asleep at all-arose and came silently toward him, holding her lamp before her. Quickly Alexandrinus led her around the back of the temple and through a small door into a private cell. He turned to her, raising his arms to shoulder height, palms outward. “Praise the Queen of Heaven,” he said. The voice was deep, the accent Egyptian, whether honestly come by or not. The voice of a god.

“Praise the Daughter of the Stars,” repeated Turpia Scortilla and threw herself against his broad chest. He could feel her trembling.

“Not wise for you to come here.”

“It worked! My Lord, it worked! Eight nights passed after I buried the tablet, I didn’t sleep a single one, lying in my bed, listening, not daring to hope. Then the night before last they came-Ereschigal, Phokensepsou, Cheloumbra, and Abrasax. They came! Flying through his window. I heard the beating of their wings, and then slashing and ripping with their talons. I saw the marks on his body the next day and nearly fainted. I haven’t stirred from my room since then until tonight. But I had to see you, to tell you. It’s all happening exactly as you told me-”

“ I told you?” he broke in sharply. “I told you nothing. It is the divine that speaks through me. Never say I told you.”

“Yes, my Lord.” She lowered her head. “We-we haven’t done wrong, have we?”

He stroked her hair. “Isis is Queen of Hades as well as Queen of Heaven. All means to an end are within her compass.”

“But I’m frightened. The penalty for magic is death. The police are camped in our house, some inspector came around. I wouldn’t speak to him, but what if he comes back?” “These police are stupid men. Calm yourself. The next step is the will. When is the reading?” “Lucius wants it the day after tomorrow.” “Then there isn’t much time. Verpa wrote what you suggested to him?” She nodded. “A hundred thousand.”

“Now I’m going to teach you how to lift a seal. It’s a simple trick, some book maker’s glue mixed with chalk, it hardens quickly. Lift it off and you have a perfect mold. The rest will be simple.”

“Oh, Goddess help me. I’m afraid. I don’t think I can go through with this. My nerves…”

“You can. The demons have done what you commanded, the rest you must do yourself. Anubis will hold your hand, as I do now.” He pulled her to him. Not gently. An animal growl rose deep in his throat, he pushed her on her knees on the cold stones, although he knew it hurt her, and pulled up her stola. Her spine was like a string of knucklebones, her buttocks thin, her hips razor-boned. He mounted her from behind, the dog-headed god himself in all his power and ferocity. He howled and barked through the megaphone of the mask, and she arched her back and cried out as he thrust-the god inside her!

After she had gathered herself and gone, Alexandrinus took up his place again in the courtyard of the sleepers. Human life, he considered, is ruled by the tyrants Hope and Fear. If you employ them skillfully, you can do very well for yourself. Turpia Scortilla was not the first overripe matron, drunk with faith, who had crawled on her knees to Queen Isis only to be lifted up by him.

Nectanebo, standing in the doorway of his workshop for a breath of fresh air, was thoughtful. Whatever he had seen was none of his business.

The eighth day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day two of the Games.

The second hour of the day.

With great satisfaction, Lucius Ingentius Verpa watched the last of his clients bow themselves out of his atrium. His clients. His atrium. Now he was paterfamilias here. He looked around with distaste at the Nile mosaic and the Egyptian bric-a-brac that filled the room. That would all have to go, whether Scortilla liked it or not. He was master here now and there would be some changes made.

The salutatio had not been an entire success. He had soon grown bored trying to make sense of the clients’ petitions and finally ordered them all out. Of course, they were all scum-parasites and legacy hunters hoping for a share in the old man’s estate. And just as soon as the undertaker returned the body, they could proceed with the lying in state, break the seal of the will, and find out exactly what the estate amounted to. Then there was the matter of those papers, the ones his father had waved under his nose, hinting at their great value, taunting him with them. What were they? Where were they? That first night after his father’s death, he had ransacked the tablinum looking for them, and surprised Scortilla in the dark, obviously on the same errand. Since then, with troopers all over the house, it wasn’t safe to be seen searching; that would only arouse the curiosity of that meddling vice prefect.

These thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the man himself. Lucius looked at him sourly. “Am I to look forward to these visits on a daily basis, Gaius Plinius?”

“No more than I do, I assure you. I’ve come to interview Pollux again, with your permission, of course.”

“My permission seems to weigh little against the authority of the city prefect. You’ve turned my house into an army camp. The soldiers are into everything, I’m hardly master here. Do what you like by all means.” Lucius waved his arm and let it drop.

Pliny ignored the insolent tone. “And Turpia Scortilla? I hope she is better disposed this morning?”

“She’s out of her room, if that’s what you mean. Not that you’ll find her very helpful. She begins drinking as soon as her eyes are open.”

“Yes, well then, I’ll start with Pollux.”

The slaves who languished in the stifling dormitory looked and smelled worse than they had the day before. Two more weeks of confinement and there would not be many left to execute. He looked from one face to another-pinched with hunger, glassy-eyed with fatigue and fear. Something odd about them today, too. Yesterday they had greeted him with screams. Why were they so quiet now?

“Pollux, step forward!” bawled Valens, the centurion. But no one stirred.

With a sudden premonition, Pliny plunged into their midst. He found the broken bodies of Pollux and the four others who had not sacrificed in a tangled heap in the far corner of the dormitory, throttled with their chains, their heads savagely battered.

“Carry them out,” he shouted at Valens, and bolted for the door with his hand over his mouth. He had seen his share of dead bodies in the arena, still death up close always shocked him.

The troopers dragged the corpses into the corridor, each one leaving a smear of blood on the stone floor.

“Centurion, here’s another one,” called one of the men inside, and presently a sixth body was laid beside the other five, a boy of about thirteen, slim and dark, with fine features and silky skin. Lucius appeared suddenly at Pliny’s elbow. “Here, what’s all this? They’re dead!” He looked like he wanted to run. “You know nothing about this? “Of course I don’t! What are you suggesting?”

An idea was beginning to form itself in Pliny’s mind. Had Lucius and Pollux been in this together, and had it now been necessary to silence Pollux? But how could he have carried it off? The two sentries who stood watch outside the dormitory were questioned with Valens glowering over them, but they swore they had seen and heard nothing during the night. Wasn’t it more plausible, after all, that the other slaves had turned on the Jews out of rage and in hopes of appearing loyal to their masters? It must have been swift and sudden. Pollux was a trained fighter, after all. But among the slaves were eight matched litter bearers, fierce-looking men spawned in some German swamp. If the victims were taken by surprise in the dark, it would have been over in a moment. What about this boy, though?