The Bull Slayer

poor man would have apoplexy.”

“You want to be careful about that. Sour old men like him carry tales.”

“Oh, I told him I’d learned it from Ione.”

“Ione! What a treasure she is! How would we manage without her?”

And this was true. Ione went everywhere with them, at a discreet distance, scouting to see if the coast was clear, inventing alibis to tell the other slaves, who anyway were convinced that all Roman women paraded wantonly around town whenever it pleased them. He had taken her to the Odeon to hear music, to the theater, to the race course; even for a picnic up in the wooded hills from where they saw the whole city spread out beneath them.

She loved the woods. They reminded her of her home in the foothills of the Alps, where she used to walk and climb as a girl among rocky precipices and rushing streams and ice cold lakes and pine trees that reached up to the sky. They had spent the day sketching, talking of this and that, walking under the brow of a mountain ridge that was said to resemble a woman’s profile-he said it looked like her, she said it looked like a cow’s hind end.

Of course, he knew by now who she was, who her husband was. She had feared he might run away when she told him, but he didn’t. Too cocksure of himself to be frightened. He was full of questions about Rome-the great amphitheater, the baths, the palaces and gardens. How many villas did her husband own, how many slaves? How did she spend her time at home? Was it true that Roman women dined in mixed company and went wherever they pleased? All of which she was happy to answer until his questions veered too close to her personal life, her marriage. Then she would change the subject. She was determined not to betray any confidences.

Wherever she went with him she wore Greek clothing and a blonde wig that she never wore at home. Still, there had been a terrifying moment at the theater. They were finding their seats when Atilia and Faustilla passed right by her in the aisle, close enough to touch. Her heart stopped. What could she have said if they’d recognized her? When the play was over she had told Agathon that it was finished. What was she thinking? She must be out of her mind. She couldn’t go on like this-glancing around to see who might be looking at them, pricking up her ears at the sound of every footstep, hearing suspicion in every voice. For two days she refused to see him. But then she thought she was being silly. What had she done, after all? Nothing compared to what some of the other wives got up to, she was sure of that. She let him hold her hand, kiss her cheek, and he hadn’t demanded more. And soon Pliny would be home and she wouldn’t be bored and lonely anymore and it would be all over-no more than a pleasant memory. Where was the harm, really? And so she had sent Ione to him with a message.

“I have a present for you,” she said. She liked giving him presents. She unwrapped a little silver statuette of Artemis, no bigger than her hand. “My husband and I broke our journey at Ephesus and visited her temple. They sell them there.”

“Thank you. I will pray to her every day.”

“Who else do you pray to?”

“Tyche, Fortuna you call her. She rules our lives. She brought us together.”

“No, Fate brought us together. You were foretold to me.”

“Was I really?” He wanted to know how. She lied and said it was a dream. Not for his ears her meeting with Pancrates.

The sun went behind a cloud and suddenly it was chilly. She shivered.

“You’re cold. Shall we go inside?”

“No, I love it here, the view of the bay from up here.” The house was built on a hill, overlooking the sea. “And all this is yours?”

“The family owns it but my parents and brothers seldom come into town. My father’s devoted to farming. I’m not. I’m a great disappointment to him. The estate’s dull and so I live here unless I’m commanded home, which isn’t often.”

“And you aren’t lonely.”

He smiled, showing the crooked tooth that made his too perfect features just human after all. “I’m never lonely. Here-” He took a coverlet from the bench and wrapped it around her shoulders, folding his arms around her, lightly touching her breasts. Suddenly, he buried his face in the angle of her neck and kissed her. She lifted her face and he kissed her eyes, her lips. And she knew she should stop him but she couldn’t. Pale fire ran beneath her skin-some poet had said that, and it was true. And she wanted him, this laughing Greek boy, as she had never wanted any man before. Finally, she broke away. They looked at each other, lips parted, breathing hard. Not knowing what to say.

***

The following morning Suetonius came to see her while she was painting Rufus, who sat on Ione’s lap. His expression was grim. She shot Ione a terrified look. Oh gods! Does he know, does he suspect something?

“I say, sorry to bother you.”

“Yes?” She fought to keep her voice steady.

“Has Fabia said anything to you recently? Balbus’ wife?”

“What? — No.”

“It seems the fiscal procurator has gone missing. No one’s seen him in the past three days. We’ve searched the city for him, questioned his staff. Nobody knows where he is. Either he’s had an accident or something worse. I just thought his wife might have said something to you.”

“No, we haven’t spoken.”

“That does it, then. We need Pliny here to deal with this. I’m going to send a courier after him and ask him to return at once. According to his itinerary he should be near Nicaea. He can be here in a matter of days.”

She felt as though the ground had been suddenly cut from under her feet.

Chapter Eight

Seven days later

The 14th day before the Kalends of November

The second hour of the day

Pliny had not visited Balbus’ villa since the night of that disagreeable dinner party and the thought of returning there gave him no joy, but interviewing Fabia seemed the logical place to begin.

Though it was early morning, the coast road that skirted the wooded hills outside the city was already crowded with coaches, farm wagons, donkeys with panniers full of produce headed for market, and Pliny’s light two-wheeled carriage was slowed to a walking pace. He had decided to travel with only his senior lictor, Galeo, and a shorthand writer. The immense retinue that typically followed a governor wherever he went would only encumber him today and he wanted to approach Fabia as a concerned friend, not an investigating magistrate.

He had left Zosimus at home for a well-deserved rest. Mehercule, he needed a rest himself, he was bone tired. He had returned from Nicaea at speed-a three-day journey accomplished in two-and, arriving before dawn, had taken time only for a hurried bath, a bite to eat, and a quick conversation with Suetonius, roused from his bed. The fiscal procurator was still missing, work at the treasury had come to a standstill, and rumors were turning ugly. What could have happened to the man?

A glowering janitor met them at the door. Pliny remembered him. The man was built like an ox, with massive shoulders, folds of fat around his neck, and a chin that jutted like a boulder. He had the look of a retired gladiator; Pliny imagined him with the secutor’s head-enveloping helmet and mail-clad sword arm, stalking his opponent in the arena. He led them to the atrium. If Pliny had expected to find Fabia distraught, red-eyed from weeping, angry even, he was disappointed. Her face was a mask, the eyes opaque. He didn’t know her well enough to know what to make of this. Did the woman ever show emotion?

She settled her bulk onto a slender-legged chair that looked too fragile to support her and dismissed the slave with a wave of her ring-heavy hand. He hesitated a moment as though he were reluctant to leave her alone.

“Do we need them?” She indicated Pliny’s attendants. He sent Galeo outside but motioned to the shorthand writer to keep his seat.

“I assure you, lady, I will do everything possible to find your husband. I appreciate how difficult-”