here all the time. Anything you could do to instruct her, calm her fears, ma’am…”
“Dear Pliny, I will treat her like one of my own.” The two women reclined side by side on the dining couch. Amatia took the girl’s hand and squeezed it. “I only hope I won’t impose on your hospitality too long.” Pliny waved this aside. “Lugdunum is weeks away. In the meantime, this is your home.” “Yes, please,” said Calpurnia. Amatia smiled and nodded graciously.
At that moment, Martial burst into the dining room. His face was flushed with wine, a garland sat askew on his shaggy head, and he smelled of scent. Clearly he was coming from a day’s drinking with his fellow poets and their hangers-on. Pliny gave him an indulgent smile. “You’re just in time for the braised leeks.”
“Ah, the braised leeks!” the poet rubbed his hands together in what he hoped was a convincing display of anticipation.
Introductions were made. Amatia appraised the newcomer with observant eyes. “I am only a provincial countrywoman,” she said. “Forgive me if your fame has not reached us. What sort of poems do you write?”
“Yes, well,” Pliny broke in hastily “Perhaps this is not the time.”
“But it is, my friend,” Martial said, reaching into the fold of his cloak and bringing out a small scroll.” If I may, this is a gift for your charming wife. Our conversation last night put me in mind of it. Years ago in Spain, during one particularly bitter winter, a little slave girl of ours, Erotion was her name-I told you about her-well, she took sick and died just six days short of her sixth birthday. I was fond of her-well, we all were. I wrote an elegy for her. Would you favor me by setting it to music, Calpurnia?”
She took the scroll from his hand, unrolled it, and read it aloud. When she came to the end there was silence around the table and Pliny looked at his guest as though seeing him for the first time.
“It’s beautiful, sir.” She regarded him gravely and repeated the last line. “Gently cover her tender bones, ye rugged earth, for she trod so light on thee.” She rewound the scroll and tucked it in her bosom. “I will do my best with it, and thank you.”
Suddenly the poet was embarrassed-an unaccustomed emotion for him. To cover it, he lifted his cup and drank deeply. “Yes, well,” he blustered, “didn’t mean to interrupt things.” He turned instead to the older woman. “Amatia, this Verpa business, then. I confess I’m curious. How did you come to be in that dubious household?”
Amatia repeated her story, adding that Scortilla seemed especially glad to receive her, actually flattered that her home was recommended by the temple authorities. “She seemed lonely, troubled.”
“Most unpleasant woman,” Pliny broke in. “The whole damned family. Imagine those priests sending this unsuspecting lady to that house. What an unworldly lot they must be.”
“Which brings us,” said Martial, suddenly sober, “to the mystery.”
But Amatia had little to tell. She had taken a sleeping draught that night and heard nothing, although her room was not far from Verpa’s. She was awakened by the uproar the next morning when his body was discovered. She came out into the hall to see what the matter was and peeked into Verpa’s room where everyone was milling around and shouting. She had just a glimpse of the horrible, bloody scene and felt an attack of hysteria coming on. She retreated to her room, feeling breathless and faint, and had stayed there until the soldiers discovered her.
“And your physician took himself off somewhere and never came back?” said Pliny. “On the same day that Verpa died? Curious. More than curious, in fact. Did he say where he was going?” She shook her head. “Well, the city is full of dangers for the unwary. Give me his description and I’ll convey it to the prefect’s office. If he’s come to harm, we’ll learn of it sooner or later. In the meantime, I’ll ask Soranus to have a look at you the next time he comes to examine my wife.” “Oh, no, please,” she protested. “I mean, I’m used to Iatrides. He must come back soon.” “Well, as you wish.” Martial asked what impression she had formed of the family during the days she was there.
His question seemed to make her uncomfortable. “I mustn’t speak ill of my benefactors, fellow-worshipers of the goddess,” she answered, “but, well, I suppose it wasn’t a very happy family. I began to regret that I had agreed to stay there. So much shouting. I tried not to listen, but you couldn’t avoid it.”
“Shouting between…?”
“Verpa and his son, mostly. They had several rows. Lucius complained about not being given enough spending money. He called his father ungrateful. There was some talk about atheistic Jews which I didn’t understand. Then another time they argued about one of the slave girls, Phyllis, I think, and on that occasion the father actually threatened to kill his son if he caught him with her again.”
“Hmm. And Scortilla?” Pliny asked.
“She just seemed, I don’t know how to describe it, preoccupied, jumping at the slightest noise. She hardly spoke to either of them as far as I could tell.”
There was a thoughtful silence all around until finally, Amatia asked, “What will you do now, Pliny? Is the case closed? I suppose there’s no doubt the slaves did it.”
“Husband,” Calpurnia asked, “what will they do to the slaves?”
Pliny had no desire to tell her, but she persisted. “Some will be dressed in shirts covered with pitch and burned alive. Others will be thrown to the lions in the arena.” The girl gave a shudder.
Zosimus, Pliny’s secretary, who had said little all evening, looked straight ahead, not a muscle in his face betraying his feelings. Zosimus had been born a slave in this house and, although he had been educated, cherished, cared for when he was sick, and finally rewarded with freedom, he vibrated with a sympathy for the enslaved that none of these others would ever understand.
“It is the mos maiorum, child,” Amatia explained, touching Calpurnia’s arm.
“You are a traditionalist, dear lady,” Pliny said. “I admire that in you, so rare these days. And yet one’s human feelings rebel…”
“Oh, yes of course,” she murmured.
“But, to answer your question, the case is not closed. Not until I know for a certainty who killed Ingentius Verpa.”
That night Pliny lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come, and thinking how pleasant it was that Calpurnia, his darling Calpurnia, had a new friend.
Chapter Twelve
The seventh day before the Ides of Germanicus.
Day three of the Games.
The first hour of the day.
The usual crop of drowsy-eyed clients filled Pliny’s atrium. With one significant addition-Martial. Pliny had half expected this, but didn’t relish it. He had hoped to have the poet as a genial acquaintance, even a helpful assistant in the Verpa affair, but not as a client. But by attending the salutatio, Martial was proposing himself for that status, and Pliny didn’t see how he could refuse. In a moment of careless generosity, he’d brought it on himself. Now, as the poet’s patron, he had obligations toward him. If the mos maiorum still meant anything at all, he would have to use what small political capital he possessed to get his poems read by the emperor. This meant fawning on the chamberlain, Parthenius-a thought which filled him with disgust. Well, all that was for another day. He had too much else on his plate at the moment.
When the others shuffled out, clutching their daily handouts of food and coin, Martial made no move to leave. It was an awkward moment for both men. But before either could speak, a strange voice sounded from the back of the room. Pliny, looking up, saw that two men whom he did not recognize lingered near the door. One, the shorter of the two, decently dressed in a Greek cloak; the other tall, shabby, long-bearded, and very old. They approached, the short man taking the lead, bowing as he came.
“I am Evaristus, bishop of Rome,” the man said. “My companion is Ioannes of Patmos. He is a visitor to our city. We are Christians.” He said it as easily as one might say, We are rug merchants. He was a man of middle age, olive-skinned, with gray starting in his beard. He searched Pliny’s face with intense black eyes.
Pliny returned a blank look. “Christians,” he said, trying to remember in what connection he had heard the word before. “You are their high priest?”
“One of them,” Evaristus gave a deprecating smile.
“And your business with me?”
