The Bull Slayer

“Berenice,” Pliny leaned over her and spoke softly in her ear, “I am the governor. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“She looked up with watery, unfocused eyes. “Who are you?”

“The governor. I’m here to help. Tell me about dinner last night. Did you eat anything out of the ordinary? Anything not made in your own kitchen?”

She was quiet for so long he was afraid she was past understanding. Then she whispered, “Yes.” Her story came out in wheezing phrases, broken by pauses when her eyes fluttered and her mind seemed to wander. Pliny put his ear to her lips to catch her words. They had just finished dinner when someone came to the door carrying a covered tray of dates stuffed with pine nuts. The man handed the tray to her son and she heard what he said: A gift from the Persian to the bridegroom. Pliny made her repeat this. She was certain those were the words: Perses and nymphios. She asked her son what the man had meant, but he wouldn’t answer her and he seemed suddenly in a bad mood. Nevertheless, they passed the dates around, they were very large and sweet, and everyone had some. Glaucon ate the most. She only had one, though, not being very hungry.

“Did you recognize the man who brought the dates?”

“No.”

“A Persian, he said? Did-does your son know any Persians?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so.”

“And he isn’t a bridegroom is he? He’s been married for years.”

“No. No. He’ll tell you himself.” Suddenly her eyes widened and she tried to raise her head. “Where is he? Where is my son, my daughter-in-law? Why aren’t they here? Who are you?”

Pliny told her as gently as he could. She turned her face to the wall and began to weep soundlessly.

“I’d give her a sleeping draught,” said Marinus, “but in her condition it could kill her.”

“That might be a mercy,” Pliny answered.

The two men stole quietly out of the room and returned to the megaron where Diocles and Theron were waiting.

“Well-?” Diocles began.

Pliny ignored him and turned to the brother. The man appeared to be deep in shock, sitting speechless with his head in his hands. “Theron, your brother and his family were murdered. I’m sorry, I know it’s a heavy blow, I don’t say it lightly. I will do everything in my power to find out who did this-”

“We will find out who did it!” Diocles was on his feet, the blood rising in his face. “I insist you accept our help, Governor.”

Finally, Pliny had had enough of this pompous nuisance. “Sit down!”

The two men glared at each other until Diocles snorted and turned away.

Then Theron spoke, mumbling to himself. “We were invited for dinner, my wife and I. Had another party to go to first-never got here.”

“Theron.” Pliny put a hand on his shoulder. “Kindly show me to your brother’s office or wherever he kept his papers. There may be something there.”

Diocles opened his mouth.

“Don’t!” said Pliny

The office was a small room at the back of the house. There wasn’t much in it. Glaucon, it seemed, had not been much of a reader or a writer. A few scrolls, a few wax tablets. Pliny scooped them up and handed them to Galeo. Then one item on the desk caught his eye. A handbook of astrology.

He had seen its twin before.

***

The Sun-Runner to the Father, greetings:

You have heard by now that the Bridegroom is dead-surely murdered. The conclusion is inescapable that one of our number is the killer. I say this although I know it pains you to hear it. I am doing everything I can to learn more. I pray we find him before the Romans do. This governor is no fool. Guard yourself well, Father. Nama Mithras.

***

“’Purnia, we’ve been here too long, give it up for today. People will start to wonder. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Calpurnia did not answer but gripped Ione’s hand tighter and pulled her along. They had already visited the temples of Artemis and Asclepius that morning and now were circling the exhibition space in the temple of Zeus, where she and Agathon had first met. For five days now, since she had sent Agathon the letter, she had stolen every moment she could to slip away from the palace and visit all the temples where art works were displayed-not with her easel and paints; she didn’t even pretend to be studying the masterpieces-but only with the desperate hope of seeing him again.

She didn’t know what else to do. The fever in her blood gave her no rest.

And what would she say if she saw him? She couldn’t think that far ahead. Every day, in the privacy of her studio, she sketched his face over and over, trying to capture his glancing eye, the half-smile on his lips, every curl of his hair. And feeling the image dissolve as she tried to grasp it. And throwing her charcoal down in despair. Why hadn’t he answered her letter? Why was he so cruel? And surely Gaius guessed something. How could he not? But she was past caring about that.

She circled the gallery again, looking with unseeing eyes at the paintings and statues that had once given her such pleasure. Never taking one eye from the pillared entryway. The gallery wasn’t crowded; no more than a dozen or so visitors. The minutes crept by-half an hour, an hour.

“’Purnia, my feet hurt,” Ione complained. “There must be a better way than this to meet him. Where else does he like to go?”

“Yes, all right,” Calpurnia sighed. “You’re right. I’m not thinking. Let’s…”

And then there he was! Coming through the door, alone. He paused and looked around. Was he looking for her? Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. In the center of the gallery was a large statuary group, a copy of Laocoon and the sea serpent. She ran behind it, pulling Ione with her. Unseen, she watched him as he moved around the gallery.

She would talk to him. Now. She would step out from her hiding place. Walk toward him with an easy smile. And Aphrodite, whose little image she prayed to nightly, would put the right words in her mouth. She didn’t know what they would be, but the goddess wouldn’t fail, couldn’t fail her.

She swallowed. Drew a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a moment and sent up a prayer to the love goddess.

“Calpurnia! How nice to see you, dear.”

Faustilla, Nymphidius’ formidable wife, swooped down upon her, her voice like a trumpet, her red gash of a mouth stretched in a grimace of feigned delight. Behind her came Fannia, the meek, bird-like little wife of Caelianus.

“Well, of course, you are the artist, aren’t you?” Faustilla blared. “So of course you’d be here, wouldn’t you? We thought we’d just pop in for a look, didn’t we, Fannia?”

Fannia offered a hesitant smile.

“Well, I haven’t seen so many naked men”-Faustilla leered at the nude statuary-“since I was a girl and sneaked into the men’s baths. Speaking of baths, we’re on our way there now, it’s the ladies’ hour you know. Come with us. Haven’t you had enough of this musty old stuff?”

“I–I’m sorry, Faustilla,” Calpurnia stammered, “I really can’t-that is, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Nonsense. Waiting for whom-your lover?”

“What?”

“Great gods, look at your face! Can’t you take a joke? Well, we’re all so serious these days with what’s been going on.”

“Going on?”

“Some family of Greeklings got themselves murdered yesterday. Doesn’t the governor tell you anything? My husband doesn’t tell me anything either. All very hush hush. It’s enough to give one palpitations. I remember when emperor Claudius was murdered. I was just a child, of course-”