Bruce Macbain - Roman Games

He was being reckless, he knew, but he was willing to risk everything on this throw of the dice. Scortilla didn’t know that Domitian had warned him off from challenging the will. He had to extract a confession from her by overwhelming her with the evidence.

And it seemed to work. The woman was thoroughly frightened. She sank down on the bed; when she spoke her voice was so low he could scarcely hear her. “I never planned anything with Lucius and I didn’t poison Verpa. I never saw that needle before you showed it to me. To put an end to this, I will confess to what I did do. I cursed him. The tablet is still buried in the garden. I’ll show you, if you don’t believe me. I know you can prosecute me for it-but it didn’t work! I thought at first that it had-that a demon flew in the window and slaughtered him and left some unholy symbol scratched on the wall to mark its passing. It seemed so real.”

Pliny recalled seeing her the morning the body was discovered; the glassy-eyed shock in her expression like someone who had played at black magic and found, terrifyingly, that the spell had worked. The stupid woman!

“Now I know it was only Ganymede-and that is all I know. I swear it. I will swear by our Lord and God, by any god you like.” Suddenly her thin shoulders shook with sobs. Pliny just stared. He’d been so sure!

At that moment, Lucius was brought in. He looked from Pliny to the weeping Scortilla. What was happening here, and what did it have to do with him? Pliny explained, tight-lipped.

Lucius knew at once what he needed to do. “Vice prefect, you said you’d help me if I cooperated with you. I hope you’re a man of your word. As much as I would like this filthy witch to be guilty of murder,” he jerked his head toward Scortilla, “there have been some developments while you were away that put things in a different light. The centurion can back me up. Ask him to go fetch the medical kit from my room.”

While they waited for Valens to return with the box, Lucius described his visit from the Syrians. “I went with Valens to our farm across the Tiber and it didn’t take us long to find the grave. Nasty sight. Poor fellow had been dead two weeks or more but you could see what they’d done to him. And it was him all right. The one calling himself Iatrides. My father must have wanted something out of him very badly indeed. Apparently he said the word ‘clemens’ and, as the Syrian understood it, ‘vestis,’ whatever sense that makes.

Valens returned with the box and handed it to his chief. “You’ll find his name on the bottom, sir. And you’ll find something interesting inside.”

Pliny reached in and brought out the bit of cork with its deadly needle.

“It works,” said Lucius, “I tried it on a cat. I suppose Iatrides planned to use it on himself if it came to that, but he didn’t get the chance.” Pliny let the object fall back into the box. A cold sweat had broken out on his body.

Scortilla looked up and wiped her paint-smudged face with the back of a bony wrist. There was anger again-even triumph-in her voice. “You officious dunce! Don’t forget that there was another woman in this house the night Verpa died-but, of course, she’s above suspicion, so endearing, so helpless. Not like me.”

Pliny’s leaving, like his arrival, was quick and unceremonious. He glowered at Zosimus and repulsed the young man’s questions as they rode through the dawn-lit streets toward his home. Vestis? He thought. Or Vestalis? No. He recoiled from the thought. But a tightness gripped his chest.

He was met at the door by Martial. “You’re back! Just thought I would come by in case-”

“Yes, well, go home now. State business, not for your ears.” Pliny brushed past the poet, almost knocking him over. He was about to call for Amatia when, instead, Soranus emerged from his wife’s room, closing the door behind him.

The physician was a young Greek, not yet thirty years old, with a brisk, confident manner. He wasn’t well known in Rome, though he had come highly recommended from his native Ephesus. His face was half hidden behind a massive black beard, which he hoped added authority to his youthful face. He had a pair of intelligent, owlish eyes. He blinked them at Pliny. “Not to worry,” he said. “Bit of an emergency last night-bleeding and pain. I trust you had a good reason for leaving her alone.” There was an edge to his voice. “The fetus is alive, I can detect its heartbeat through this little tube of mine. You owe a debt of gratitude to your house guest, Amatia. While I was attending another case, she stayed with your wife, comforted her, wouldn’t let anyone else touch her, so say the servants.”

Pliny felt his conviction ebbing away. He pursed his lips. This was going to make what he had to do even harder. He looked into Calpurnia’s bedroom. She was very pale. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled wanly at him. If there was reproach in her eyes, he could not afford to think about that now.

“We rejoice at your return.” Amatia approached him from the far side of the atrium. Her hair was disheveled and the circles under her eyes were darker than ever, the skin around them finely wrinkled. “Your trip was a success?” Pliny knew it was no idle question, but she didn’t dare press him. “A success? Yes, madam, in ways I wouldn’t have wished for.” “Madam?” She measured him with her eyes. “We’re not usually so formal, are we?” If he prolonged this he would lose his courage entirely.

“Thank you for attending my wife, I’m very grateful. We have something to discuss. Come with me into the tablinum and shut the door.” He turned and she followed him. When they were alone, he said, “Lady, do you recognize this?” He produced the medical kit from under his traveling cloak. She shook her head, no. He turned the box over, exposing Iatrides’ name inscribed on the bottom. He didn’t have to ask again; her face told him everything. She groped behind her for a chair and sat down heavily.

“Your friend was murdered, I regret to say, quite brutally. Tortured to death by Ingentius Verpa. Now I ask you, why would Verpa do that?” Amatia sucked in her breath; it made a high-pitched wheezing sound like a child with pneumonia. But Pliny was relentless. “Forgive me, lady. I must play the role of policeman, not friend, although I hope I am your friend.” He went to his desk, opened the small strongbox and brought out the needle that had killed Iarbas’ monkey. He held it in front of her face. “Do you recognize this? We found it in Verpa’s room. It’s what killed him. There’s its twin in Iatrides’ box. Now, madam, what do you have to say to me?”

Before he could put out a hand to catch her, she was on the floor, her arms and legs thrashing violently, her teeth clenched, sweat pouring out of every pore, the veins at her temples bulging.

“Soranus!”

The physician had been about to take his leave. He rushed in, tossing his cloak aside. “By Apollo!” He fumbled in his kit and produced a bottle of some liquid. “Help me force her jaws open.” This was no easy thing but at last they were able to get a few drops down her throat. “A mild sedative,” the doctor explained. Gradually, the convulsions subsided and her body grew limp. They carried her to her room and laid her on the bed. Pliny had never seen her as bad as this. But there was no pretending here.

“She suffers from hysteria,” he told Soranus. “We must find something with a stink for her to inhale.”

“Nonsense.” The physician frowned with authority. “Even the great Hippocrates could talk rubbish sometimes. The womb scampers around like a kitten chasing a ball? I don’t believe it. Some day I shall write a treatise on the subject.”