by a dog when I was a tyke,” he explained almost as soon as he had entered Pliny’s office. “Mustn’t complain, though. I do well enough with the one.” He offered a shy smile. “And what did you want with me, sir? I must say I was flummoxed when your man came for me.” Didymus sat upright in his chair, leaning slightly forward, an expectant look on his face.
Pliny let him talk. The man was nervous, anxious to please. But that was to be expected.
“Terrible, wasn’t it, sir,” Didymus rattled on. “I mean the riot. Bad for my business, I can tell you. When there’s civil strife money goes into the ground-literally, I mean. People bury it.”
“And do you do business with the Persians?” Pliny made a temple of his fingers and rested his chin on them.
“Me, sir. No. I mean they keep to themselves, don’t they? I say, did they really poison Glaucon and his poor family like everyone says? Well, they are barbarians, aren’t they?”
“I’m hoping you might shed some light on that. You knew Glaucon, I understand.”
Consternation filled the banker’s eyes. “I did, sir. But as to murder, well, I don’t-”
“Tell me something about your business.”
“Well, it’s the usual. There are six banking houses in the city. I’m not the biggest of them, but I do all right. People deposit money with me, which I lend at interest, or invest, or transfer to a third party, however they instruct me. I charge a modest fee, of course.”
“And where do you keep these deposits?”
“In my vault, sir. It’s quite safe. You must come down and visit us some time, we’re at the harbor.”
“And Glaucon, I believe, had deposited a sum with you. When was that?”
“Yes, sir, three minas as I recall, to invest as I saw fit. He did that now and again. And that would have been, let me see, a month or so ago.”
“And did you invest it?”
“No, sir, not yet. Waiting for something good to come along. Of course, now I’m going to return it to his brother.”
“You’re an honest banker, then.” Pliny smiled.
“I am, sir.” He smiled modestly.
“What about Vibius Balbus, were you acquainted with him?”
Didymus bowed his head. “That’s a sad turn of events, isn’t it, sir? Riding accident they say. And leaving behind a widow and a son, an unfortunate young fellow so I’ve heard.”
Pliny was suddenly alert. “What have you heard?”
“Just the gossip of the marketplace. Not quite right in his head. Sees things that aren’t there. Full of crazy notions.”
“I had no idea he was such a subject of conversation. But I asked you if you knew Balbus. Did he ever transact business through you?”
“No, sir, he didn’t.”
Pliny was silent for a moment, considering how much he should give away. “I have some information that before his death Glaucon consulted the oracle of Pancrates as to whether he would be punished for killing a lion. Does that mean anything to you?”
The Cupid’s bow formed itself into a tiny frown. “Pancrates, you say? I wouldn’t put great stock in what he says if I were you. To tell you the truth, I once consulted him, well, my wife badgered me into it. She suffers something awful in her legs, poor woman. So I submitted a request for a cure, paid my drachma. We got back some nonsense about an ointment to rub in our dog’s eyes. And we don’t even have a dog! Well, I ask you.”
Pliny suppressed a smile. “That’s as may be. But the lion-does it mean anything to you?”
“No-no, I’m sure it doesn’t. Was there anything else, then, sir? I’m afraid I’ve told you everything I know.”
“And I’m grateful for your cooperation.”
“Oh, not at all, sir. And may I say, sir, you’re welcome to visit us anytime. Perhaps I can put you in the way of a good investment.”
“Thank you. I will keep it in mind.”
Winking and smiling, Didymus bowed himself out.
Chapter Twenty-four
On the third day following the attack on the Persians, a delegation of the city council called on Pliny to beg permission to perform their customary procession and sacrifice to Zeus, the city’s patron god. Pliny cautiously agreed to suspend martial law although he warned them that he would keep troops in the Persian quarter. If the festival went off without violence, he would allow things to go back to normal. It was Suetonius who suggested that they go a step further, join in the ceremony and make an offering to Zeus on behalf of the Roman community as a gesture to the Greeks.
“Excellent suggestion,” Pliny had said, “and I’ll go further still. These have been grim days and we could all do with a little diversion. I’ll order up a banquet and we’ll invite the Greeks.”
“Even Diocles?” Suetonius grimaced.
“Even him.”
“And Sophronia perhaps?” Suetonius looked hopeful.
“Absolutely not.”
The festival went off smoothly. There were some catcalls when Pliny and his entourage appeared but, at least, nothing was thrown at them. Pliny had purchased a handsome bull and made a gift of it to the priests to sacrifice with prayers for goodwill among all the inhabitants of the province. It made an impression. The day was rounded off with, inevitably, an oration by Diocles.
***
That night lamps blazed in every corner of the palace’s newly-decorated dining room. The cooks had labored all day over complicated dishes that Pliny, abstemious creature that he was, never ordinarily ate. Troupes of acrobats, jugglers, and musicians had been recruited on short notice. At the head table, Pliny reclined with Calpurnia, his senior staff and their wives, and Diocles, sans wife. Like any respectable Greek woman, she did not dine with strangers. At other tables, were mixed groups of Greeks and Romans-Pliny had planned the seating carefully. At one of them, Zosimus reclined with Timotheus, Calpurnia’s tutor, presumably deep in conversation about some nice point of Greek versification: Zosimus smiling, Timotheus not (the man had never been seen to smile since he had entered Pliny’s household). Little Rufus, who had been allowed to stay up late for the occasion, ran here and there among the couches, everywhere petted and fed.
Some were absent: Theron had declined the invitation, pleading that he was in mourning; Fabia made the same excuse.
By tacit agreement, no one spoke of Balbus or Glaucon or the Persians. Calpurnia complimented one wife on her gown, another on her tiara; spoke Greek to Diocles and accepted his effusive praise for her accent. There was a great deal of laughter-but it was brittle and forced. Pliny sensed the effort behind his wife’s gaiety. He now realized-though Calpurnia never complained of it-that the wives had united against her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She tasted everything, but ate little of it. But her wine glass seemed always empty and she called for more. He had never seen her drink so much. When had that started? When he spoke to her, he felt awkward, he hardly knew what to say to her anymore.
“My dear, I invited that young Greek, Agathon. Thought he might amuse. Sent his regrets, though.”
“Who?”
“You remember, he was at the funeral, I told you-”
But she quickly looked away.
Suetonius’ well-tuned antennae sensed the tension and he outdid himself to be amusing, regaling them with tidbits of backstairs gossip about the sexual escapades of Messalina and Agrippina. Pliny heard himself laughing too loudly at things that didn’t really amuse him. He, too, was drinking deeper than usual.
