Roman Games (13 page)

Valens couldn’t contain a furtive smile. “Feel better, sir?”

“Immensely, centurion. Let us proceed.”

At his front door, Valens handed him over to his slaves, hastily roused from bed. “No
salutatio
this morning, be off with you,” the centurion growled at a knot of sleepy clients, already gathered outside the door. “Have a good sleep, sir, and don’t worry about that filthy little
cinaedus
. We’ll find him.”

Still foggy with drink, Pliny allowed himself to be undressed and put to bed. If he had been less drunk, he might have noticed Calpurnia’s tear-streaked face peering from behind her bedroom door.

If he had been less drunk, he might also have noticed a man with a bandaged arm who watched from across the street as he entered his house.

Chapter Seventeen

The third day before the Ides of Germanicus. Day seven of the Games.
The third hour of the day.

Gaius Plinius moaned. He had a throbbing, behind his eyes, a vile taste in his mouth, and a troubled soul. He had sent the door slave off to fetch a basin of water and, moments later, his darling Calpurnia, her under lip quivering, had appeared with it in her own hands and meekly set it down on the wash-stand. She shot him a reproachful look and fled without saying a word.

He scoured his teeth fiercely with pumice and honey, which might expunge the sour taste of cheap wine, but the taste of guilt, never. What had come over him? Drunk as an owl! Rutting with some whore in the bushes! Could a brief association with vulgarians have brought him to this! If Martial should ever, ever mention this night again, he swore to himself, he would terminate their friendship at once.

It was all Verpa’s fault, of course. Damn the man for getting himself murdered! Today was almost the half-way point of the Games, time was running out, and he had accomplished nothing toward saving those sorry slaves from their fate.

He had begun to sense the tension among his own slaves too. They who had known nothing but kindness from him and who were always permitted to be lively and at ease, were now ominously silent. As always, by some mysterious telepathy, they knew what was going on and what would happen if Ganymede were to be caught alive and made to confess. That kind of crime, inspired by a slave’s sexual jealousy, allowed no appeal to extenuating circumstances. Ganymede and the whole
familia
would be hideously tortured and executed. Even Pliny’s beloved Zosimus avoided his eyes now and stumbled so much in his lunchtime recitation of Greek poetry that Pliny became quite vexed and sent him away.

What did they really think of him—these men and women who made his comfortable life possible? Could one of them be planning to kill him for some slight, some grudge, without betraying the slightest sign? He was shocked to find himself entertaining the idea even for a moment. But, once thought, it could not be unthought.

To distract himself, Pliny retired to his
tablinum
and worked all morning on his accounts and correspondence, which had piled up shockingly. The tenants on his Tuscan property were in arrears again, the architect whom he had commissioned to build a temple of Ceres on one of his estates had submitted his bill. Then there were papers to be drawn up manumitting his old nurse and giving her a small piece of land where she could spend her last days.

About midday, a slave came to announce that Centurion Valens awaited him in the atrium.

“Make your report, centurion,” said Pliny, as brisk and businesslike as he could manage. He would tolerate no familiarity from the man because of last night. But Valens’ manner was quite correct. Standing at attention and looking straight ahead he reported no success. “That little
fellator
has gone to earth somewhere, sir.”

A moment later, Martial arrived, exuding bonhomie. “Up, are we?” he called jovially. Pliny froze him with a look, which the poet understood at once. In a more subdued manner, he inquired if there was any news of Ganymede. “No? I’m not surprised. Combing the city, in my opinion, is useless even with the prefect’s entire force. He’s probably far from Rome by now.”

“I disagree,” Pliny said.
“If
he’s the murderer, I’m convinced that someone—Lucius—put him up to it. Now he’ll be waiting for Lucius to help him.”

The poet sprawled in a chair with his chin in his hand. “So you think he’s hanging about nearby?”

“I do. Where would you…?”

“I beg you, Gaius Plinius, do not ask me again to imagine myself as an ignorant adolescent male prostitute.” The two men glared at each other in silence.

“Hold on!” Pliny burst out suddenly. “A male prostitute! Martial, Valens, do you recall Lucius’ words to him just before he escaped?”

“‘Fear nothing’—some such platitude,” answered the poet.

“No, after that. Wasn’t it, ‘Eros protects his own?’ Ganymede told me he had been purchased by Verpa from a brothel called the Temple of Eros. It fits.”

“It was a signal?” said Martial, sitting up straight. “Lucius was telling the boy where to hide—in his old bordello? Pliny, permit me to say that you are a genius.”

Pliny allowed himself a pained smile. “Perhaps dissipation is good for the brain, after all.”

“I’ve always found it so,” the poet agreed modestly.

“Now,” said Pliny, “if we only knew where this Temple of Eros was.”

“Unfortunately,” replied the poet, “there are probably a dozen or more in the city, they’re all named either that or the Garden of Priapus, though I reckon I know where one or two of them are.”

“Martial, once again we are indebted to your peculiar expertise,” said Pliny dryly.

Valens interrupted these mutual congratulations. “It’ll take days to search them all with the men I’ve got.”

“Then I’ll ask the prefect to assign you more men.” Pliny reached for parchment and pen and scribbled a note to Aurelius Fulvus. “Anything else now?”

Valens looked at his feet. “Well, sir, there was a personal matter, but I’ll ask you another time.”

“No, no go on.”

“Well, sir, I want to make a will. Haven’t much to leave but my family situation’s a bit complex. Common-law wife, bastards, that sort of thing. I want ’em to be cared for if anything should happen to me. Wondered if you could recommend me a lawyer that won’t charge too much.”

“Wise man. No one should live a single day without a will. But why at this particular time?”

“I don’t know, sir. Just a feeling I’ve got. Lot of tension in the Castra Praetoria, sir, between us and them. I mean there always is, but there’s something in the air lately. The way they swagger about, like something’s going to happen soon. All the lads are a bit nervous.”

“You don’t say.” Pliny and Martial exchanged worried glances.

“Well, my dear Valens, you just find Ganymede for me and I’ll write you a will free of charge such as any client of mine would be proud to have. How will that suit you?”

“Why, sir, thank you, sir.”

For the first time, Valens allowed himself a smile of genuine feeling. Pliny wasn’t sure how it had happened but the two men had become, if not friends, at least allies.

“Get busy then. Every bordello in Rome is registered at the Prefecture. You’ll find them all there.”

“Well, I’ll lend our brave centurion a hand,” said Martial, “just to make sure he doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Not my idea of pleasure,” growled Valens as he lumbered out of the room, followed by the poet.

But Valens paused on the threshold and came back. “I nearly forgot, I’ve another matter to report on, this time with a bit of success. It’s about that missing doctor of the lady’s. We put his description about and a sausage seller in the Forum claims to have seen him. Says he passed that way several times around midday with his doctor’s kit slung over his shoulder. Says he bought hot sausages from him. But the last time he saw the fellow, three bearded men, foreigners he thinks, ran up to him and started jabbering about an accident nearby, something like that. Iatrides tried to get past them, but quick as a wink they mobbed him and hustled him into a shop. A minute later, out come our three foreigners with a rolled carpet on their shoulders, tossed it into a waiting cart and off they drove.”

“The same three men, he’s sure of this? And it never occurred to this damned sausage seller to report what he’d seen?”

“None of his business, says he.”

“When did this happen, does he remember that?”

“It was the third day before the Nones.”

“Verpa died that very night!”

“So he did, indeed, sir.”

Pliny massaged his throbbing temples. This was becoming too much. The physician of Amatia, a stranger to the city, snatched off the street in broad daylight, rolled up in a carpet, taken somewhere, and almost certainly murdered. For what possible reason?

He drew a deep breath. He must inform the lady. She was taking lunch in her room, said old Helen, shaking her head. The mistress was with her, crying on her shoulder.

What a confusion of feelings assailed him! But he had been brought up in his uncle’s hard school. His uncle who, setting duty before all else, had sailed into the maelstrom of an erupting volcano and lost his life. With a comparable feeling of dread, Pliny knocked upon the door.

“You have come to speak with me, Gaius Plinius?” Amatia said in her low voice. “Speak first to your wife.”

Calpurnia, covering her face with her hands, tried to run past him, but he stopped her. They enacted a painful scene before their guest’s steady gaze.

His story came out in halting phrases—not quite the whole truth, but enough of it—amid many endearments and promises never, never to make such an ass of himself again. At the end Calpurnia, blinking back her tears, kissed him gravely upon the cheek. A married woman learns to expect these things, she seemed to say, but from you I expect better. “We will not speak of it again, husband.”

Pliny’s heart overflowed with gratitude. “Thank you, my dear. And now, if you will excuse us, I need to speak with Amatia.”

The lady gave him a questioning look.

“I fear I have troubling news, dear Amatia. The thing is quite baffling.” He recited the few, bare facts of Iatrides’ disappearance. “Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kidnap your physician? I mean murders, assaults, robberies happen every day in Rome. But this seems very odd. Where would he have been going at that hour of the day?”

“I don’t know.” She put her hands to her breast, her breath rattled ominously in her throat. “Oh, I wish we’d never come here!”

“My men are still working on the case, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you much hope. In the meantime, may I again offer you the services of my specialist, Soranus?”

“Oh, please say yes, dear,” Calpurnia urged, “he’s quite a wonderful man, I’m sure he can help you.”

Amatia smiled wanly and placed a finger on her lips. “Allow me awhile to think on it alone. Please leave me now, both of you.”

“Will you be all right?” Calpurnia asked.

“Yes, yes, don’t worry.”

But they had barely closed the door when they heard a strangled scream and the thump of a body. They raced back to find Amatia on the floor. Her limbs twitched violently. Her lips were drawn back in a rictus, baring her teeth. Her eyes were wide and staring.

“Helen, quick!”

The nurse came running as fast as her short legs would carry her. She and Calpurnia between them were able to raise Amatia’s head and pour spoonfuls of medicine down her throat—a preparation of hemlock, pepper, and honey, which she had brought with her. After some moments, her limbs relaxed, her eyes closed, and they were able to lift her back onto the bed.

* * *

The Roman Games consisted of ten days of stage plays followed by five of chariot races. Pliny detested chariot racing, but loved the theater. In seven days he had yet to tear himself away to see a play. And what better peace offering to Calpurnia? The poor girl hadn’t been out of the house in weeks. Soranus would disapprove but he’d chance it anyway. Wall posters announced that a performance of Plautus’
The Captives
, one of his least bawdy creations, was to be performed that afternoon at the Theater of Marcellus. He would take her and Zosimus. And Amatia? She seemed to have recovered herself although she was still pale.

“I can’t. As I told your friend the poet, crowds terrify me. And I’ve had one attack already today. But let me help Calpurnia dress.”

Calpurnia was determined to plaster her face with white lead and rouge, “like a proper lady.” This was a constant argument between her and Pliny.

“Your husband is quite right.” Amatia touched the pouting girl’s cheek. “Any dried up old matron would give a hundred gold pieces for your rosy skin. Your beauty is a gift of the gods, my dear, why ruin it with this noxious stuff. I never wear it, even at my age, and I think I’m none the worse.”

Pliny was grateful to her and said so.

They sat in the section reserved for senators, front row center in the vast open-air cavern of the auditorium, facing the towering porticoed facade through whose doors the actors entered and left the stage. The singing and acting were first rate, but the play was a bad choice, Pliny soon decided. Only mildly amusing, while its theme of unjust captivity and slavery threw him back painfully on the very thoughts he had hoped to escape from. But Calpurnia seemed to enjoy herself—indeed she must have enjoyed being
anywhere
outside the confines of their house.

As they left the theater late in the day, black clouds roiled across the sky, lightning quivered on the horizon, and the heavens opened. Rain pounded on the tile roofs, gushed from Gorgon-mouthed rainspouts, and ran in rivers down the gutters. Then a sudden lightning flash close at hand and a thunderclap made Pliny jump and set his heart pounding. Where had it struck? Somewhere over toward the Capitolium he thought. An omen? A sign of Jupiter’s wrath? It was said that the emperor Augustus used to cower under his bed in terror during thunderstorms. And even as rational a man as Pliny could not suppress a nervous shudder. Instinctively, he made a sign with his fingers to ward off evil—a thing which he had not done since childhood.

* * *

Ganymede, crouching by the open window, stared at the rain-swept street below and at the house fronts slowly materializing out of darkness. Water dripped steadily down between the charred roof beams of the fire-gutted flat, drumming with a hollow sound on the thin floorboards and striking with a higher, thinner sound the sodden corpse of the old woman who lay beside him.

She had haunted his dreams in the night, in those brief intervals when sleep overcame him. She had opened her eyes, crept upon him silently, he unable to move, and wrapped her bony fingers around his throat. Finally, out of desperation, he had dragged her to the window to push her out, but her arms and legs had stiffened at odd angles to her body and he couldn’t manage it. He knew he would turn stark mad if he stayed there much longer.