made a name for himself and done quite well off his fees. How he wished that this interminable month, not yet a third over, would end, allowing him to get back to his proper vocation.
Leaving the Forum behind, he was carried along the Clivus Argentarius, skirting the north flank of the Citadel, and coming out in the Vicus Pallacinae, near the east end of the Circus Flaminius.
As he swayed comfortably on the broad shoulders of his bearers, Pliny let his mind drift. He realized with a twinge of guilt that all during the morning salutatio he had scarcely heard a word anyone had said, including himself, so preoccupied was he with this wretched case. (Martial had sent a note, saying he’d had a late night and begged to be excused.)
Should he consider now that the Jewish business was a blind, intended to throw him off the track? And, if so, by whom? By Lucius? Or even Scortilla? Or, both of them? He knew so little. A man like Verpa would have had hundreds of enemies who wished him dead, any one of whom might have found a way to accomplish it. But how? A room with one high, narrow window and one door guarded by a man who, in spite of being a slave and a former Judean rebel, struck Pliny as truthful. And who was now revealed to have been a different sort of atheist altogether.
At any rate, today’s task was to interrogate those few slaves who had had the run of the house that night, something he should have done in the first place. That and listen to the reading of the will. Perhaps there would be a clue there.
His bearers, by this time, could have found their way blindfolded to the imposing porphyry-columned entrance to Verpa’s house. They set him down before the bronze-studded double doors which, today, were decorated with dark acanthus wreathes and bows of cypress, proclaiming that the deceased’s lying-in-state had begun.
The great man lay encoffined in a vast gilded mummy case resting on a black-draped catafalque which occupied the center of the atrium. The head of the case was painted with a likeness of Verpa’s face which, despite the artist’s best intentions, did not completely disguise the hard jaw line, the pugnacious nose, the heavy-lidded eyes. The actual burial was scheduled for four days hence. Were those alien gods, Pliny wondered, who stood ready to receive his spirit on the banks of the Styx, or wherever it was Egyptians went-were they quite prepared for what they were getting in this pretty package?
The atrium was mobbed. The rich, the envious, the senator and the freedman; the pinch-faced legacy hunter and the humble, hopeful sycophant; the clergy of Isis, bone-thin, brown and bald; the matrons, painted and coiffed, and many decked out with jeweled scarab beetles or other Egyptian gewgaws. In the midst of these, receiving their fawning condolences, was Turpia Scortilla. For the occasion she wore a new wig, tier upon tier of massed blond curls for which a dozen German captives must have given up their hair. She held to her thin bosom Iarbas’ monkey, who rejoiced in a new collar of lapis lazuli and gold. It leapt out of her arms at Pliny’s approach and disappeared in a forest of legs. She extended a heavy-ringed hand to him.
“And how is my poor Amatia?” she simpered. “Tell her that I am thinking of her.” Pliny said that he would do so. “I am aware,” she went on, “of the deaths of Pollux and the other atheists. It’s just what they deserved, don’t you agree with me, Vice Prefect? May we not call the case closed at this point? Lucius feels that we should.”
The elapse of two days had improved her appearance and manners. She wasn’t drunk, at any rate, and, perhaps, was in a mood to make peace. “I am growing steadily less certain that Jews had anything to do with Ingentius Verpa’s murder.” Her face enacted a mimicry of surprise. “Then who?” It was far too soon for accusations. Pliny spread his hands. “The man must have had other enemies; what informer does not?”
At the word “informer” she bristled. “Just because he showed himself loyal and useful to his emperor, as every senator should do, instead of carping and caviling, and scheming behind his back, you call him that! Tell me, Gaius Plinius, if Sextus Ingentius was an informer, exactly what are you?”
“I don’t understand you, woman,” Pliny replied frostily.
“Don’t you? You serve the same master. You come here snooping and asking questions. Your policemen spy on us. And in the end, you hope to denounce one of us and get your reward. I’ve lived long in this society, I know better than a small-town provincial like you how it works.”
Pliny turned from her in exasperation. How dare the hag talk to him that way! He was an officer of the Prefecture, doing his duty, and not willingly either.
And yet, something of what she said lodged under his skin and stuck there.
He caught sight of Valens standing at the edge of the crowd, looking glum. “How goes it, centurion?”
The centurion was unhappy. “The lads are bored, getting into trouble. I had to cudgel two of them last night for breaking into the wine locker. Now that more slaves have arrived from Verpa’s estate in Apulia, there’s nothing for them to do all day. Bad for discipline, sir, and it’s not likely there’s going to be any more murders.”
“I understand. Do the best you can. I want as many pairs of eyes and ears in this house as possible. It may still have things to tell us.”
Valens cocked an eyebrow.
“While we’re waiting for the will to be read, I want to talk to a couple of the slaves. Find the girl, Phyllis, and bring her into one of the vacant rooms upstairs, I’ll question her there.” Amatia had said that Verpa quarreled with his son over Phyllis; had actually threatened to kill the young man, which, according to law, he had the right to do, if he didn’t leave the girl alone. It would not be the first time that sexual jealousy involving a slave had led to murder in a Roman household.
He didn’t know what to expect from her. Some slave mistresses, sensing their power, could be bold and brassy, putting on airs as though they were the virtual mistress of the house. But Phyllis turned out to be quite different. She looked about sixteen or seventeen, was fair-haired and rather fragile. She might have been beautiful, but six days of confinement on short rations had obviously taken its toll of her. She was pale and her eyes sunk deep in their sockets. The acrid smell of sweat and unwashed bodies clung to her. Valens sat her down roughly on a stool and then left them alone. Pliny’s heart went out to her. “You shared your master’s bed?” “Yes.” “Often?” “Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She stared at the floor. “But you weren’t in his bed the night he died? Why not?” She shrugged. “He didn’t send for me.” “Did he send for any of the other girls?”
“No. Maybe one of the boys-the cinaedi -or maybe he slept alone. He sometimes did.”
“The cinaedi. You mean like Ganymede?”
“Hylas, more likely. The one they killed. Master had gotten tired of Ganymede, everyone said.”
Pliny had a sudden glimpse of the lives of these sex slaves. The whispered rumors, the jealous looks, the anxious observation of every clue to the master’s shifting preferences. Their lives depended on it.
He cleared his throat. “I’m told that Lucius wanted your company too and the old master didn’t like that.”
Her hands twisted in her lap. “I never encouraged young master. It’s hard for someone like me, pulled both ways. A slave can’t refuse.”
The girl’s vulnerability reminded Pliny uncomfortably of his own wife. If life were different, if situations were reversed…He gave her a moment to compose herself. “Phyllis, who do you think killed the master?”
“Well, not old Pollux,” she answered with surprising firmness. “That poor old man didn’t have it in him to do such a thing. It’s a shame what the others did to him and his friends, even if they were Jews and atheists.” “You know, child, I agree with you. Tell me what you think-could an assassin have climbed through the window?” “How would I know? But it’s funny then that he didn’t bring his own knife with him.” “What do you say?”
“The curved dagger, sir, that was lying on the floor all bloody, it belonged to the master. I saw it when we all crowded in to see what had happened.”
Pliny looked at her sternly. “Are you quite sure?”
He called for Valens, who had remained just outside the door, and ordered him to fetch the weapon.
“It’s his.” She studied it closely. “The red leather on the hilt. Those foreign letters scratched on the blade. See? He told me it says ‘Death to Romans.’ He used to make me admire it. Told me how he took it off a dead rebel in Jerusalem. I’d ooh and aah. He liked that. He kept it on the table beside the bed.”
Pliny tried to force his thoughts into some order. “If you recognize it then others must have. Wouldn’t Pollux have recognized it?”
“I’m sure he did,” she girl answered. “But that poor man was slow-witted. Too many blows to the head.”
Pliny tried to remember the details of his brief interrogation of the boxer. Had he even asked him about the weapon? He shook his head woefully. What a fool he was.
“Well, but Lucius certainly recognized it, damn him!” He hadn’t meant to speak these words aloud. Now he
