An idea was beginning to form itself in Pliny’s mind. Had Lucius and Pollux been in this together, and had it now been necessary to silence Pollux? But how could he have carried it off? The two sentries who stood watch outside the dormitory were questioned with Valens glowering over them, but they swore they had seen and heard nothing during the night. Wasn’t it more plausible, after all, that the other slaves had turned on the Jews out of rage and in hopes of appearing loyal to their masters? It must have been swift and sudden. Pollux was a trained fighter, after all. But among the slaves were eight matched litter bearers, fierce-looking men spawned in some German swamp. If the victims were taken by surprise in the dark, it would have been over in a moment. What about this boy, though?
“His name was Hylas,” Lucius offered. “One of my father’s recent purchases. Kept him all for himself, too. Quite a tender morsel, I imagine.”
“But he wasn’t an atheist,” said Pliny. “He sacrificed yesterday, didn’t he?”
Lucius nodded.
“And he’s not a Jew either, sir,” Valens observed. The boy’s tunic was up around his waist, his tender nakedness exposed. It was also apparent that, while the other slaves were beaten and bloodied as well as strangled, Hylas had only been strangled. His throat was bruised but he was otherwise unmarked.
There were too many mysteries here, and Pliny was a man impatient of mysteries. Why hadn’t he questioned Pollux harder yesterday? Wills, contracts, account books were his meat, not this foul business. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger. He would insist that Aurelius Fulvus take him off the case.
“Centurion, question the slaves. I want to know who killed Pollux. Flog them, if you have to.” Was this him speaking, who had never ordered a slave flogged in his life?
Valens looked happy to obey. He saluted and turned away. Then turned back again. “Sir, there’s another thing, too.”
Whatever it was, Pliny didn’t want to hear it. But the centurion pressed on. “There’s another person in the house. A lady. She keeps to her room, we only came across her yesterday when some of the lads were, you know, exploring. Nobody had mentioned her to us.” “What! Where?” “At the end of the corridor there, near Verpa’s room.” Pliny shot a questioning look at Lucius.
She was some house guest, the young man explained. He didn’t know anything about her really except that she seemed sickly. He’d hardly seen her since she arrived. Didn’t catch her name. What with everything else, he’d forgotten all about her.
Pliny sighed. He hadn’t learned much so far. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to have a word with this woman.
He tapped on the indicated door. Hearing a faint answer within, he opened it but hesitated on the threshold. She lay on a couch in the shuttered room, covered with a blanket although it was very hot. “Please come in, you aren’t disturbing me. I am Amatia,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “And you are…?” The voice was low-pitched, warm, though with undertones of weariness in it. She threw off the cover and sat up as he entered. A short woman, pleasantly stout.
Pliny introduced himself and explained the reason for his presence in the house. When he mentioned Verpa her eyes seemed to widen momentarily. “I’m told you were here when the murder occurred. You didn’t perhaps hear anything that night, madam?”
She shook her head, no. Pliny came closer and searched her face. It was a serious, sensitive face. He guessed her age at forty-five or fifty, though she might have been younger. Clearly, illness had aged her: there were deep furrows of strain around the mouth. Her skin was translucent, without a touch of powder, and her graying hair was parted severely in the middle and pulled back from her forehead in a style that had gone out of fashion a generation ago. In face, she reminded Pliny of his mother, who had died when he was a boy. He began falteringly, “How long have you been in this house, madam? “Six days.” “And may I ask who you are?” “I am Amatia, a widow from Lugdunum in Gaul.”
He waited, but no more was forthcoming. It seemed he would have to draw every answer out of her. “A long way away, Lugdunum. And may I ask what has brought you to Rome?”
“If you must know, I have traveled here to become an initiate of beloved Queen Isis and seek a cure for my hysteria. Doctors say that the womb is an animal with no fixed home. In my case it climbs up to my chest. The symptoms are unbearable. I can’t breathe or speak. I lose control of my limbs, I faint.”
“Dear me. Is there no cure?”
“My physician makes me inhale sulfur and other evil-smelling things to drive the womb down to its proper place, but the effect is only temporary. And so, at last, I have turned to religion. The goddess appeared to me in a dream, beautiful in her mantle of shifting colors, and exhaling breath like the spices of Arabia. She told me what I must do and promised to heal me. We must believe in our dreams, mustn’t we?”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Pliny, who didn’t.
“I came with my physician, Iatrides, half a dozen slaves, and a strongbox full of money for the initiation fee. When we disembarked at Ostia, the slaves robbed us of everything and ran off, leaving us alone and penniless.”
Pliny gave a sympathetic shake of his head. It was all too common a story.
“Iatrides and I went to the temple of Serapis in Ostia and asked for help. They arranged for us to stay here with Ingentius Verpa, who is a notable devotee, until I can make other arrangements. Scortilla has been kind enough to send one of her servants to Lugdunum to contact my son-in-law and arrange for more money to be sent. But now with this murder, I…I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know where Iatrides has gone off to either.” Her voice faltered. She clutched her chest and her breath came hard. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. I will have my men make inquiries. In the meantime, my house is at your disposal, ma’am.” “It’s very kind of you. But an invalid is a burden, sir. Are you sure?” She searched his face. “I insist upon it. It’s quite impossible for you to stay here another night.” “Then I accept gratefully.” “Here, let me help you up. Valens!” Pliny yelled down the hall. “I need you. We’re taking this woman to my house.”
The centurion and two of his men carried Amatia, couch and all, into the vestibule while another followed behind with a bag containing her few possessions. Pliny’s litter bearers ran up to assist.
Lucius watched them silently, not appearing to care whether the woman stayed or went.
And then Turpia Scortilla appeared, accompanied by Iarbas and his monkey. She took a step forward, swayed on her feet, and put a hand on a column to steady herself. If Amatia looked ill, Scortilla looked worse. This was the first time Pliny had had a good look at her in full daylight. He strained to see the young bareback rider in this ravaged body. The red slash of mouth in the chalk-white face, the straining tendons of the neck, the blue-veined hands. “You’re not leaving? But we took you in, I offered you my friendship, I wanted us to be…” Her eyes seemed to plead. “I’m sorry, Turpia Scortilla. This gentleman has offered…Under the circumstances…” She looked away. Scortilla turned on Pliny, her voice shrill. “You’ve no right!”
“Lady, calm yourself.” Pliny held up his hands to ward her off. He was honestly a little frightened of her. “I remind you that Verpa’s murderer has yet to be identified. It simply isn’t safe.”
“You policeman.” She spat out the word. “Think you can do whatever you like. We’ll see.”
Amatia raised herself on an elbow. “My condolences on your tragedy, lady, and my gratitude for your hospitality. We will see each other at the temple?”
Scortilla shot a venomous look at both of them, turned and walked away with a lurching, stiff-legged gait. The dwarf held on to her dress, and the monkey on his shoulder looked back and grimaced, showing all its sharp little teeth.
Lucius stood in the doorway and watched them until they were out of sight. ???
The eighth hour of the day.
Pliny had wondered at his own impulsiveness in inviting this strange woman into his home. But as soon as he saw her and his darling Calpurnia together, he knew he had made the right decision. There was an instantaneous bond between the two women. Amatia almost seemed to have been sent by some benevolent goddess to be the mother that Calpurnia scarcely remembered. His wife proudly displayed her swelling abdomen and asked, “How many children have you, Lady?” “Please, call me Amatia. Five-all daughters, if you can believe it.” Everyone at the dinner table that evening exclaimed over this prodigy of fertility. “I will have a son,” said Calpurnia, setting her mouth firmly. “For my husband.”
Pliny gazed at his wife anxiously. “The dear girl has had a difficult time,” he confessed. “She has a doctor of course, a good man. Soranus, recently arrived from Ephesus. A specialist in women’s complaints. Still, he can’t be
