were burned on each cheek. Martial was in hardly better condition. “Out of my way! Must you block the road with this army of toadies?” Statius, his voice thick with sarcasm, commanded, “Make way, make way there for Martial, Prince of Poets!”
“And so I am!” cried Martial as he shouldered his way through the crowd, feeling all their eyes on his back. It was a weak exit and he knew it. If he had been in a bad mood before, he was in a worse one now.
The Forum Romanum was by now packed with people, mostly out-of-towners, waiting to see the emperor, priests, and senators descend from the Capitolium. In front of the Rostra, a flurry of excitement broke out where a ragged street-corner haranguer, one of the Cynic breed, no doubt, was being hustled away by troopers of the City Battalions. The emperor’s relentless war against philosophers continued.
Martial mingled with the jostling crowd, while keeping a hand tight on his purse to ward off pickpockets, though indeed there wasn’t much in his purse but cobwebs. He searched the sea of faces for Diadumenus.
Diadumenus was fifteen years old, had skin like alabaster, long golden hair, and buttocks, round, white and smooth, that no woman’s could equal. And he was heartless. Martial longed for the dewy kisses which he granted just often enough to keep the poet forever in pursuit. How he ached for the boy! Hopeless to look for him in this mob. Anyway, he was probably still asleep in some rich man’s bed, his curls spread out prettily upon the pillow. Parades didn’t interest Diadumenus much.
The crowd dispersed, the hungry to the butcher shops, where beef would be cheap and plentiful today, the rest to the magnificent open-air theaters for a day of entertainment. Actors were celebrities almost on a par with charioteers and gladiators, and Romans were eager connoisseurs of the art. Each boasted his own noisy claque of supporters. For those who couldn’t afford the price of a ticket there were still the street-corner buskers, block parties, and neighborhood processions. Domitian had banned the cruder forms of pantomime, the sexy, scurrilous burlesques that had so often led to rioting and sedition. Still, the comedies and farces provided ribaldry enough for most tastes.
Martial debated with his grumbling stomach, but decided at last for the theater. That would occupy his day, he’d eat a sausage or two during the intermission, and then it would be time to head for the baths and the serious business of hunting up a dinner invitation.
Chapter Seven
The same day.
The seventh hour of the day.
“Name and unit, centurion?” Brusque tone, Pliny admonished himself. Assert your authority at once.
“Titus Ursius Valens, sir.” The officer sketched a salute. “Twelfth Cohort, City Battalions.” He was a bristle- headed, big-boned man and stood a head taller than Pliny. “And your name would be, sir, if I might ask?”
The tone was faintly insolent-the professional policeman suffering the meddling amateur. Pliny ignored the question.
Gaius Plinius Secundus was thirty-five years old but had the smooth, boyish face of a much younger man. It was not a handsome face but a pleasant one: pink cheeks and mild blue eyes. His family hailed from the Lake Como region, where Celtic blood mingled with the Italian. It accounted for his rosy complexion and the light brown hair that lay in soft curls across his forehead and neck. He worried that his appearance lacked the gravitas of a Roman senator and so he frowned whenever he wanted to impress. He was frowning now. “Where are your men posted, centurion?” “Two upstairs guarding the slaves, sir. Two more at the front and back doors, one more for relief.” “Quarters comfortable enough? You may be here for several days.” Valens smiled crookedly. “Compared to the camp, sir? This is a holiday.”
The City Battalions, under the command of Aurelius Fulvus, the prefect, shared a camp with the Praetorian Guard on the outskirts of Rome. Rivalry between the two forces was intense; insults and fistfights were a common occurrence. The five thousand Praetorians, pampered and well-paid, were the emperor’s household troops. The troopers of the City Battalions, on the other hand, were the poor relations-understaffed, underpaid, with little chance of promotion. But it was they, nonetheless, who did the hard work of policing this great, teeming beehive of a city with its million inhabitants, half a dozen languages, festering slums, and casual brutality, to the extent that it could be policed at all. “Hardly a holiday,” Pliny said, maintaining his scowl. “We’ve serious business to do here.” “Quite so, sir.” Again, the mocking tone. “And where’s the new master, what’s his name, Lucius?” “Sleeping late, sir. I’ve sent one of the lads to rouse him. With the slaves all locked up, the house has stopped running.” “And where have you put them?”
“We’ve crammed ’em into two large rooms upstairs. Forty-six all told, about equally male and female with some kids. The prefect has ordered them all shackled and collared, just to be on the safe side. If they all decided to make a break for it we aren’t enough to hold ’em.”
“Hardly likely, Centurion.” Pliny found this business of chaining distasteful, but he couldn’t countermand Fulvus’ order. While they waited for Lucius to appear, Pliny looked around the atrium. It was twice the size of his own and ornamented everywhere with symbols of the cult of Isis. One whole wall offered a crowded panorama of imaginary Nile scenes done in exquisite mosaic: reed boats plied the river, crocodiles yawned, palm trees swayed, throngs of happy worshipers crowded little temples. Elsewhere in the room stood statues of Queen Isis holding her sistrum and water jug, and bearded Serapis, her consort, and jackal-headed Anubis.
It was no surprise, Pliny reflected, that Verpa and his family had become enthusiastic devotees of the cult which the emperor himself favored. All of it mere fawning imitation probably. As far as he knew, Verpa didn’t have a spiritual bone in his body. Of Lucius and Scortilla he was uncertain.
Lotus flowers floated in the impluvium and a couple of fat carp could be seen gulping at the surface. There was no sign of the carnivorous lampreys which, it was rumored, Verpa fed his unlucky slaves to. Still, one never knew. The man had a sinister reputation. “What about Verpa’s papers? I’d better have a look around the tablinum.” “Already done, sir. Two men from the prefect’s office were here at the crack of dawn and left with a bushel basket of stuff.” “I see.” But he didn’t see. If the investigation had been given to him, why were things being done behind his back?
At that moment Lucius Ingentius Verpa shuffled into their presence, sleepy-eyed and unshaven. He looked like a man who had spent the night drinking and dicing, which, in fact, he had. The last of his friends had shuffled off at day break and he had thrown himself on his bed still in his clothes. He was in no mood to be awakened at this ungodly hour, whatever it was.
Pliny guessed he was in his late twenties and thought he could see the father’s dissoluteness in him but nothing of the old man’s thrusting, bullying energy. He took an instant dislike to him.
It seemed to be reciprocated. Lucius glared in open hostility and acknowledged Pliny with a sullen nod. As custom required, they gripped forearms; Lucius’ grip was as weak as a girl’s. There followed an uncomfortable silence.
“Yes, well,” said Pliny finally, “let’s have a look at the body.”
“Not possible,” Lucius said. “It’s gone to the embalmer’s. There’s to be a funeral according to the rites of Isis-mummification and all that rigmarole. Scortilla’s idea, not mine.”
“I see. Well I’ll have a look at the bedroom anyway.” He resumed his frown of authority. “Come along, centurion. You’ve seen the room already, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes sir.” Valens’ eyes glinted with amusement. “All the lads have seen it.”
With a shrug, Lucius led them through a series of public chambers off the atrium which brought them to the east wing of the house and a grand staircase that led to an upper story. Along the way they passed columns and walls in every hue of the rainbow. Fine old mosaics covered the floors, and painted vistas seemed to make the walls dissolve. Verpa had amassed Corinthian bronze vases and massive candelabra, marble statuettes on onyx pedestals, and bric-a-brac of jasper and agate. Here priceless citrus-wood tables stood on spindly ivory legs, there water tinkled in silver fountains.
Pliny, whose own house was not nearly so grand, was impressed in spite of himself. The stairway led up to a second story gallery that ran the length of the house, its tessellated floor glittering like glass.
“That’s my room ahead, if you care to know.” Lucius halted at the top of the steps. “Go left, my father’s room is at the end there.” “Five, six doors down. Who occupies those rooms?” “No one, at the moment. They’re for
