The Bull Slayer

Suetonius in your, ah, place of business.”

“Oh quite,” she said. “The gods forbid that a whore should sully your doorstep.”

Pliny was again speechless. Worse, he was beginning to seriously wonder whether the Persians had anything to do with this.

***

That evening, under a lowering sky, five coffins were borne on the shoulders of pallbearers to the cemetery beyond the city wall. Flutes shrilled, mourners shrieked and tore their garments, but this was more than the imitation grief of hired professionals: the whole city had turned out for this sad event. An immense sea of people trailed the cortege and their outrage was genuine and palpable. And among the crowd, certain men circulated, who sometimes whispered and sometimes shouted that it was the Persians, the hated foreigner, the ancestral enemy, sly, grasping businessmen, deniers of the city’s gods, who had slaughtered this noble Greek family and were only waiting for the opportunity to kill again, kill them in their beds, kill without mercy. Must they wait until more innocents were poisoned? Drive them out! Burn them out!

And, having done their work, they pocketed the coins they had been promised and slipped away.

***

That night a mob rampaged through the Persian quarter, looting shops, throwing torches into homes and dragging the terrified inhabitants out into the street to be beaten and raped; making no distinction between the Persians and the Jews and Armenians who were unlucky enough to live side by side with them. Flames leapt into the night sky, visible from the palace. Pliny sent every soldier he had into the quarter and they battled the mob all night long, chasing looters through dark alleys, putting out fires, forming a human shield around the houses that weren’t burning.

Dawn broke lurid through a pall of smoke that overhung the city. Worse was the sullen miasma of hatred and fear that settled on it. Pliny crucified six looters, declared martial law, suspended meetings of the council and assembly, and ordered his men to break up street corner gatherings of more than three. He opened the palace grounds to the Persian families who had been burnt out of their homes, and Calpurnia-defying the muttered comments of the wives-took charge of caring for them. Pliny had never felt more proud of her.

But it wasn’t only the Greeks he had to deal with. A delegation of Roman businessmen, not only from Nicomedia but from Prusa and Nicaea as well, demanded an audience. Why was Balbus’ murder-for few now doubted that it was murder-still unsolved? Why had he brought the Persians in for questioning only to let them go? Was another Mithridates loose in their midst? Could he protect them? Because if he couldn’t then, by the gods, they would protect themselves!

Time was running out. Pliny knew he was on the verge of losing control of the city and the province. It had been a mistake to summon the Persians in such a public way; he blamed himself for what had happened to them. But who was this Persian who had poisoned Glaucon and his family? Was it perhaps no Persian at all but someone else, some personal enemy of Glaucon’s, who wanted to shift suspicion onto the foreigners? And what was the connection between Glaucon’s death and Balbus’? That there was a connection he was convinced.

***

Once a semblance of order had been restored in the city, Pliny made inquiries as to where he might find Glaucon’s brother and learned that he was still at the family’s house, overseeing the rituals for purifying it from the pollution of death. He sent Galeo after him.

Theron was a handsome man in his early fifties, some five years older than his brother. He looked older than that now. Grief had aged him. His skin was grey, his eyes pouched and exhausted. And he plainly wanted nothing to do with Pliny.

“I apologize for invading your home, Theron. It was necessary to question your mother without delay.”

“My mother died early this morning.”

“Then all the more so. I am truly sorry. I want you to help me find their killer.”

“It was the Persians, of course. Why are you protecting them?”

“Did your brother have any dealings with the Persians or a particular Persian?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did your brother have enemies that you know of?”

“None. Everyone who knew him liked him.”

“Tell me about him. What sort of man was he?”

Theron looked at a loss for words. “Well he-I mean, a good husband, good father. Loved food. Loved sport. Horses and dogs. Lots of friends-even some Romans, though I don’t know why.”

“I’m told he was a tough competitor in the wrestling ring. Injured his opponents. Perhaps he killed someone? Could there be a grudge?”

“But that was years ago,” Theron protested.

“Would you call him an intelligent man? I know this is painful but please be frank.”

“You mean books and so forth? No, he wasn’t much for that. When we were boys he would escape from our tutor every chance he got.”

“Well then it’s curious that I found this among his effects.” Pliny produced the astrological handbook. “A bit abstruse, I would think, for the non-mathematical mind. I’ve spent a little time with it and I can’t make much out of it myself.”

Theron leaned over and peered at the scroll. “I’ve never seen this before. You say it was Glaucon’s? He never said anything to me about stargazing.”

“Well, we have a small mystery then.” Pliny set the scroll aside. “Did your brother by any chance have dealings with Vibius Balbus?”

“What, the procurator? No. Why should he?”

“Did he interest himself in provincial affairs? Taxation, for instance?”

“I told you, he liked hunting and living well. He left politics and business to me.”

Pliny was silent for a moment, considering how he would phrase his next question. “Would you say your brother was a man who could be easily led? I mean into doing something that he might have regretted later? Might even want to confess?”

“Confess? Confess what? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, my brother is a victim, not a culprit. I warn you-”

“Calm yourself, please. I know this is difficult for you.”

“Do you?” Theron shot back. “Those children”-he swallowed hard-“were as dear to me as my own. His wife and mine were like sisters.”

“Then help me avenge them. Somewhere there is a door waiting to be unlocked and a key that fits it.”

Theron answered him with a bleak look. “I’ve no key.”

“But we haven’t begun to look. You say Glaucon left politics and business to you. What sort of business do you engage in?”

Theron shrugged, “We sell a part of our crop. We export dried fruits from our orchards. When we have spare cash we invest in construction, sometimes in trading ventures, or our banker does for us. We do well enough.”

“Your banker. And who might he be? I only ask because in going through your brother’s papers I noticed a receipt for the deposit of three minas of silver with a certain Didymus.”

“That’s him. A good man, reliable. Done business with him for years. But this deposit? It’s news to me.”

“Interesting.”

“And what has this to do with my brother’s death?”

“Probably nothing,” Pliny sighed.

Chapter Twenty-three

Didymus was a small man of about forty with a round face and a round, protruding belly. His mouth was a red Cupid’s bow, his eyes bright under springing brows, with something of the child in them. His clothes were good but not ostentatious. His most striking feature was his right arm, or, rather, the absence of it below the elbow. “Mauled