The Bull Slayer

And suddenly he wished that everyone would go away.

***

Calpurnia sat before her mirror, allowing Ione to unpin her complicated hairdo with her practiced hands. Pliny, who had seen off the last of the guests, entered their bedroom.

“You may leave us, Ione,” he said.

“But I haven’t finished-”

“I said leave us.”

For a moment their eyes met, master and servant, and what passed between them in that look Calpurnia did not see.

“Of course, sir. Good night, mistress.”

“I love your hair,” Pliny said. He stood behind her, removed the last of the pins, and lifted it in his hands. “It’s what I first noticed about you. You wore it so long then, when you were a girl. I gave you tortoise shell combs for it-do you remember? — when I came to ask your grandfather for your hand. You blushed and I was afraid you’d run away. That was the moment I knew I loved you.”

“I remember. I still have them.” Her voice flat, toneless.

“’Purnia, look at me. Turn around. Are you sick? Marinus thinks you are. I will tell him to bleed you tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t want to be bled.”

“For your own good.”

“I’m not sick. Why do you accuse me of being sick?”

“I’m not accusing you. Mehercule, ’Purnia, I only want you to be happy. I see now I shouldn’t have brought you here, to this alien place. When the sailing season opens again I’ll let you go home, if that’s what you want.”

“I haven’t said so.”

From the courtyard came the distant voices of the last tipsy guests calling for their chair bearers.

“You haven’t said anything! Damn it, Calpurnia, what is the matter with you?”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“I’m not shouting. I–Look, Zosimus asked me the other day to talk to Ione, he’s worried about her. And I did, or tried to. She wouldn’t say anything. But why did you visit her in the middle of the night? It upset her, Zosimus says. What is going on between the two of you? I insist you tell me.”

“Can’t I talk to my maid when I want to?” She was on her feet. Two red spots burned in her cheeks. “Zosimus is imagining things. And you had no right to-”

“No right! I am the master here! What aren’t you telling me?”

“You’re hurting me!” He released her, leaving white marks on her upper arm where his fingers had sunk into her flesh.

“Forgive me, I’m sorry. ’Purnia, how have we come to this? I don’t want to bully you. I wanted us to make love tonight.”

“You have the right. You are the master.”

She turned away from him, feeling more alone than ever. Because she knew now that she could no longer confide in Ione, not with Zosimus keeping his eye on her. Now she had no one.

Pliny saw her put her head in her hands, her shoulders working up and down. He could think of nothing to say. He went to her and put his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest and wept.

***

The 7th day before the Ides of November

The morning found Pliny brooding in his office. He had fallen asleep only a little before dawn and then woken up with a start in the middle of a nightmare in which he was running from room to room in the palace, a windowless labyrinth of twisting corridors, searching for little Rufus, that precious child, whose pitiful cries for help eluded him no matter which way he turned.

Calpurnia was still asleep and he got out of bed carefully so as not to wake her. They had made love, he with passion and she with-what? Something less. And nothing was settled between them. There was still some mystery there. He massaged his neck and tried to focus his thoughts on the one mystery that he must solve: Balbus, Glaucon, and whatever it was that linked their deaths. The small bronze bust of Epicurus occupied its accustomed place on his desk. He touched its forehead and wished for the gift of that great man’s wisdom, as though he could receive it through his fingertips. But the philosopher was mute.

A knock at the door. Zosimus probably, bringing him something to eat, fussing over him. The dear boy, more of a wife to him than his wife was these days.

“Come in,” he spoke to the door without enthusiasm.

It swung open, revealing one of the optios with his hand on the collar of a very dirty little boy.

“Sir! Found this lad trying to climb the gate outside. Says he’s run away from the procurator’s estate. Begs not to be sent back there. Says he has something to tell you.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“Shall I chuck him out, sir?”

The boy, who looked to be about ten years old, wiped his crusty nose with the back of his hand. He was on the verge of tears.

Pliny came around the desk and bent down. “Who are you?”

“Epam-Epaminondas.”

“A big name for such a small person.”

“They just calls me ‘boy’ around the stable.”

“The stable? Vibius Balbus’ stable?”

The boy nodded. “You ain’t gonna send me back. They’ll kill me for sure.”

“And why would they do that?”

“I stoled a bite of food. They don’t feed us hardly nothin’, not since Master died. Cook beat me black and blue, said he’d cut off my hand if he caught me again.” The boy’s chin quivered.

“Well, we won’t let him do that.” Pliny patted his head and immediately regretted it: Epaminondas’ hair was alive with lice. “Now, what is it you have to tell me?”

The boy frowned at his feet, unable to get the words out.

“Here, come and sit down. I expect you’re hungry. I’ve some bread and cheese here. Will that suit you?”

Pliny waited while the boy crammed the food into his mouth with both hands and washed it down with large gulps of water.

“Now, then, what’s this all about?”

“About the young master, sir. The one we’re all scared of.”

“Balbus’ son? Why are you afraid of him?”

“Well, he has a curse on him, doesn’t he? We all spit in our bosom whenever he comes around the stable. Which he did, sir. I mean the day Master disappeared. The young master rode out with him. ’Twasn’t even daylight when they left. Roused us all up to saddle the horses.”

“The horses. Was Aulus’ horse a chestnut?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “The one you brought back, sir. Which Mistress said weren’t ours, but it is. She said she’ll sell us all to the quarries if we breathe a word to anyone. But I can’t stick it there no more, and so I thought…” His voice trailed off. He gazed hopefully at Pliny.

Pliny let his breath out slowly. “Clever lad. Let no one ever discount the intelligence of a slave, even the humblest. You’ve a pretty good idea what this information is worth, don’t you?”

“Will you buy me off the estate, sir? Otherwise-”

“You drive a hard bargain, Epaminondas,” Pliny smiled. “All right, I’ll pay for you. Do you like horses?”