The Bull Slayer (27 page)

“She made me tell her everything I told you—about that Greek who came to see her. And then she began to scream and strike her breast. I didn’t know what to do…”

“Hush, be calm now. I understand. I’m sending her home under guard until I know more. But what shall I do with you? Do you want to go back with her or would you rather stay here in the palace for a time? I’ve spoken to Marinus, you know, about you assisting him. He’s willing to take you on.”

“I—I’ve never been away from her. What will happen when I…”

“Have a seizure? We’ll know what to do. I remember you told me you’re the man of the family now. In law, yes. But in fact you never will be as long as you live with her. I’ll tell you something. I lost my father early and grew up in the house of my uncle. He was a good man, a tireless civil servant, a prodigious scholar, but a man whose personality absolutely dominated the household. Nothing mattered except his needs. We all tiptoed so as not to disturb him while he was being read to by his slaves and making notes for his
Natural History
, which was literally all the time. Until the day he died, we were almost like prisoners there. It’s taken me longer than I like to admit to get over it. Think about it, son.”

Mi fili
—my son. He had said it without thinking. He felt a sudden pang of longing for the son that he and Calpurnia would never have. Suddenly he wanted very much to be a father to this tortured boy, bring him into his household, give him a better life than he had ever known. He would speak to Calpurnia about it. But what if it caused her pain? They never spoke about their childlessness. And lately, it seemed, they never spoke at all. They had grown so far apart he felt he hardly knew her anymore.

“Sir?” Aulus was staring at him. “Is something the matter?”

“What? No, no, of course not. You rest up, we’ll talk again later.”

***

Pliny summoned his staff. He toyed with the objects on his desk while he marshaled his thoughts. “We have, at the moment, four suspects. Silvanus hated and feared Balbus after he caught him stealing, although frankly I don’t think the man is capable of murder. Fabia and Argyrus, either together or singly, both stood to lose if Balbus divorced his wife and married Sophronia. In that case I suppose that Fabia’s muscular slave, Lurco, was the actual killer. Unfortunately, he gave my
lictor
the slip and we have yet to find him. Finally there is the banker, Didymus.”

“That little one-armed runt,” Nymphidius snorted. “He couldn’t kill my old mother.”

“I’m assuming Glaucon did the actual killing. Didymus must have had some influence over him. They knew each other, that much is certain. He wouldn’t even have to be there in person.”

“And the motive?” Marinus asked.

“A dispute over money. If, that is, Didymus is the Persian that Balbus complained of to this Sun-Runner, whoever
he
is. The same Persian who later poisoned Glaucon to silence him, and burned up Barzanes in his house too, I imagine.”

Zosimus spoke up, diffident as always. “Money? Is that reason enough to make a provincial risk murdering a high Roman official? Surely Didymus could have found the money somewhere to pay Balbus back. He
is
a banker with banker friends.”

“And speaking of his banker friends,” Pliny said wearily, “a delegation of them has been clamoring to see me ever since we brought him in. His arrest has hardly gone unnoticed. Bankers, merchants, and assorted grandees with none other than our friend Diocles at their head, all demanding that I free him. Precisely the people that I do
not
want to antagonize. Unless I can prove something against him soon I’ll have to let him go.”

“The little banker worshipping Mithras in a cave?” Suetonius put in. “I just find that hard to picture.”

“I find the whole thing hard to picture,” Pliny sighed. “And that is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Who
are
these people and what are they up to? And we’re no closer to learning that than we ever were.”

“The cave,” said Aquila. “The blasted cave! I’ve had my men out searching for it for weeks now. They’re so tired of tramping through those hills, climbing in and out of one dark hole after another I’m half afraid they’ll mutiny soon. And what if we do find it? What’ll we learn?”

“It would be pleasant to imagine we’ll find a list of the initiates, although probably not.” Pliny smiled bleakly. “Anyway, keep them at it.”

“Where does this leave us, then?” said Suetonius.

“It leaves us,” said Pliny, “with our little banker. I’ve let him cool his heels for three days while we dealt with Fabia and Silvanus. Let’s see if he’s ready to talk to us. We’ll start on him this evening. Get some rest now, my friend, it may be a long night.”

***

Timotheus tapped his foot, unrolled and rerolled his scroll. The damned woman was late again for her lesson. But, of course, no one in this household minded wasting
his
time, no one bothered about
his
convenience. A Greek tutor in a Roman household was a creature to be pitied. He might wear a scholar’s cloak and long beard but in fact he was little better than a slave; a monkey with a collar around its neck, expected to be amusing at the dinner table though fed on scraps of food and bad wine; expected to flatter and praise the master’s modest poetical efforts, expected to teach the rudiments of Greek to the master’s wife, and to know that while they smiled at him they secretly despised him for a miserable Greekling. These Romans! But Diocles, who was his patron, wanted him here and here he would stay.

He blew out his cheeks. His stomach was hurting him again. He was forced to admit that the lady exhibited some shreds of intelligence—for a woman and a Roman, although she often seemed half distracted. She claimed to know something about art but her taste in literature was execrable. He had given up trying to drag her through Homer and finally consented to read a romantic novel of her choosing. Absolute trash! Pirates, kidnapped brides! Pure torture for a man of his sensibility. And the expressions she came up with—the Greek of the alleys. Where was she learning them? From that slut Ione, he supposed. A thoroughly bad influence.

The library door flew open and Calpurnia rushed in, murmuring apologies.

Timotheus scowled. “Today, madam, I think it best to begin with the finer points of the Greek verb. Its subtlety, its flexibility—”

“Oh, you’ll drive me mad with this, Timotheus! O-verbs, mi-verbs, contracted verbs! And the aorist tense—what is it for? And the middle voice and the optative mood? We don’t have them in Latin. Your grammar makes my head spin. Why must it be so difficult? Latin is so simple.”

“Adequate, no doubt, for expressing simple thoughts, lady. Now, if you will please attend to me—”

There was a knock at the door and Pliny poked his head in. “Thought I’d find you two here. Sorry to interrupt. How are you getting on with your lessons, my dear?” His gaze met hers; she looked away. “Yes, well, I’ve got a new pupil for you, Timotheus. A young man who’s our guest temporarily. Hasn’t had much schooling, I’m afraid. I thought he could sit in on Calpurnia’s lesson. You won’t mind will you?” He opened the door wider and propelled the boy inside, with a hand on his thin shoulder. He was visibly trembling. Calpurnia knew instantly who he was. The tutor started to protest but she silenced him with a look.

“Thank you, Gaius,” she said. “I’m delighted to have a fellow pupil. Come, Aulus, sit here beside me.” She spoke to him in rapid Latin while Timotheus sat stony-faced. “Don’t mind him, he isn’t as fierce as he looks. Do you know any Greek at all? Well, I’m still very much a beginner myself. You can’t imagine how glad I am to have a companion. We’ll make a game of it. I’ll bet you’re a quick learner too.”

Aulus sat carefully on the edge of his chair. His shoulders relaxed a little. He shot Calpurnia a look of almost painful gratitude.

Chapter Thirty-six

The 7th day before the Kalends of December

Pliny had expected that three days of confinement would unnerve Didymus. He realized as soon as the man was brought into his office that he had miscalculated; waiting seemed to have had the opposite effect. Gone was the fawning, anxious-to-please demeanor. In its place, was an expression of stubborn defiance.

“Sit him down.” A stool was placed in the center of the room. The
lictor
who had brought him in forced Didymus onto it.

Pliny sat behind his desk, on which he had placed a thick folder of papers. All but two of the sheets had nothing to do with the case at all but made the folder impressively thick. Didymus couldn’t take his eyes off it. Pliny opened it and began slowly to turn the pages. The only other persons in the room were Suetonius and a shorthand writer, both seated to one side, beyond Didymus’ line of sight. Outside, the night was pitch black and only the uncertain, sickly light of oil lamps, one on the desk, the other hanging from a stand above Didymus’ head, illumined the scene.

“How much longer do you think you can keep me here?” The banker’s voice was truculent. “I have influential friends, you know. They won’t stand for Roman bullying.”

“Indeed,” said Pliny mildly, “I’ve had a look at your books, I’m impressed by your clientele. Now this needn’t take long at all if you’ll cooperate with me.” He drew a sheet from the folder and held it to the lamp. “This is a letter from the Sun-Runner to the Lion. It was found among Balbus’ papers. The Lion, it appears, had complained that another member of the cult, someone known as the Persian, owed him money and was refusing to repay. The Lion wanted him punished by expulsion. The Sun-Runner is unwilling to do this. ‘You are both too important to our enterprise,’ he says. And the letter is dated only a few days before Balbus was found dead.”

He slipped the page back into the folder and fixed his eyes on the banker. “Vibius Balbus was the ‘Lion’ in this illicit cult to which you belong. You are the ‘Persian’ he refers to. You and he quarreled over a large sum of money, he complained about you, perhaps he threatened you physically, we know Balbus was a violent man, quick to use his fists. I sympathize with you, Didymus. You were frightened, anyone would be. Finally, you saw no way out except to kill him. You recruited Glaucon to help you. These facts are not in dispute. I’m giving you a chance to tell your side of the story. It can only help you. Fill in the details for me. Who is this Sun-Runner? Who are the other initiates? Where is the cave where you worship Mithras? What purpose brought you all together? You’re a small fish, Didymus. Give me the bigger fish and you may yet save yourself. Unless we can conclude this quickly I will have to leave you in prison for several weeks, even months, while I resume my tour of the province. You don’t want that, do you? Come now.”

There was a long moment of silence. Outside, a distant trumpet call signaled the changing of the guard. The banker picked an invisible speck of lint from his tunic, shifted slightly on his stool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Governor. I’m an honest man. I have nothing to do with any secret cult. I worship the same gods as everyone else. And, as I’ve already told you, I never had business dealings with the procurator. You say you know I killed him? You don’t know any such thing.”

“Balbus was murdered on the morning of the fourth day before the Ides of October. Where were you?”

“At home or in the bank. Ask my wife and son, they’ll vouch for me.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will. It’s of no importance. We know where you were. You knew exactly where to intercept Balbus on his way to the cave.”

“I don’t know anything about a cave.”

“Let’s talk about Glaucon. Where did you get the poison you used on him?”

“I never!”

“His whole family died—wife, children, mother, the lot. Surely you feel badly about that?”

Didymus passed his hand over his eyes. “I didn’t poison anyone.”

Pliny drew another page from his folder. This is a question that Glaucon submitted to Pancrates’ oracle.
Will I be punished for slaying the lion?
Pancrates couldn’t understand it, but I do. Balbus was the Lion. It seems Glaucon was suffering remorse, perhaps even on the verge of confessing. I’m less clear about why you set a fire that killed Barzanes, the high priest of your cult.”

At the mention of Barzanes the banker sucked in his breath, he hooked a foot behind the leg of the stool and squirmed. “You can’t think I…I don’t know any Barzanes.”

“To kill that venerable old man, that was a desperate step. What did you think he might tell us?”

The night wore on. Pliny and Suetonius took turns firing questions at the banker with such rapidity that he hadn’t time to answer one before the next was asked, circling back again and again to the same points: How long had he belonged to this cult? What hold did he have over Glaucon? Where did he get the poison? Who helped him set fire to the tenement? How many initiates are in the cult? What did he do with the money he owed Sophronia? And again and again, who is the Sun-Runner? Through it all Didymus rocked back and forth on his stool, gazed here and there in the room, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and denied everything. The lamps guttered and had to be refilled. Towards dawn his cupid’s bow mouth contracted into a tight O and he stared at Pliny with unblinking eyes. Clearly he was done talking. Pliny summoned his
lictors
and had them take the banker away, this time to a cell in the dungeon. He and Suetonius regarded each other wearily.