The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Eleven

Nothing was said publicly about Silvanus’ disappearance. Pliny put Caelianus in charge of the treasury with orders to carry on counting the money. The clerks were confined to the building day and night. But Balbus’ disappearance was the only topic of conversation in the Roman community. According to Calpurnia, the wives were in a state of near panic, and it wasn’t long before word spread among the Greeks as well. Wild rumors circulated, and reported sightings of the procurator came in daily. He was seen in a harborside tavern, or lurking around the temple of Zeus, or on the road to Prusa, or in a dozen other places, all equally improbable. Nevertheless, Pliny sent his men to investigate each report. Meanwhile, Fabia kept to herself.

With a confidence he did not feel, Pliny sought to reassure the local grandees. Diocles, whose network of connections reached everywhere, was the obvious choice to receive this message. Pliny had asked him to come in the morning, unobtrusively, for a private meeting with himself and his staff. Instead, he had arrived with a small army of his cronies, including most of the city magistrates and his colleagues on the council, and trailed by a crowd of idle and curious citizens, who milled outside the palace gates. Typical of this little man with his outthrust chest and swept back hair and booming voice, who seemed never to overlook an opportunity to tweak their Roman noses. Pliny was forced to move the proceedings from his office to the audience hall and scare up refreshments for forty people.

“Of course, Governor, we loyal citizens of Nicomedia will do everything in our power to assist you in this crisis.” Diocles seemed to linger over the word crisis. And his voice, Pliny feared, could probably be heard out in the street—the man never merely spoke, he orated. “And you have no idea where he might be? With your permission, my people will begin a thorough search for the procurator. It is, after all, our city, you will grant that we know it better than you do.”

Pliny murmured his thanks. The last thing he wanted was for the Greeks to find Balbus before he did. “Diocles, you can help me best,” he said, “by telling me everything you know about the procurator. You’ve known him, I gather, since he took up his post here some two years ago.”

“Indeed I have, Governor, and found him an excellent man, too. Fair and honest, which, I may say, has not always been the case with our Roman masters.” The arms spread wide in a gesture of confiding frankness, the voice so well-modulated that just the merest note of resentment fell on Pliny’s sensitive ear. Did the man think he was living in Pericles’ Athens? The Bithynians had had one master or another for three centuries.

“But how well did you know him personally,” Suetonius asked, “his habits, his foibles, weaknesses?”

“I’m afraid I can be of no help to you there.” The bland expression never wavered. “We did not socialize.”

“Really,” said Pliny. “I would have thought he was a man worth your while to cultivate.”

“And why would you think that?”

There were more questions to Diocles and his friends, all of them artfully evaded. Finally, Pliny stood up. “Thank you all for coming.” There was no point in prolonging this charade. If they knew anything, they were not going to share it with him, and Diocles was too powerful a man to be pushed. “Whatever has happened to Vibius Balbus,” Pliny assured them, “the administration of the province is unaffected. I am in full control here. It would be unfortunate if this were a cause for civic unrest.” Just a little emphasis on unfortunate, which Diocles surely did not miss.

“Oh, to be sure,” the orator agreed. “But you will—keep us apprised?”

“Of course.”

As the delegation filed out of the audience hall, Diocles turned back. “And your lovely wife, Governor, how is she progressing in the mastery of our language? I hope Timotheus has proved a satisfactory tutor?”

“What? Oh, yes, quite. I think she told me they’ve just started book two of the Odyssey.” He had no idea where she was in the poem or if she was reading it at all. He must remember to ask her.

“Ah, Homer, the fountainhead of our civilization. Emos d’erigeneia phane rhododaktylos Eos, orunt’ ar’ ex eunephin Odysseos philos uios heimata essamenos…”

Pliny held up his hands. He was sure that Diocles was capable of reciting the entire book from memory given half a chance. Homer was always in the man’s mouth.

***

Once Diocles and his band had departed the hours passed slowly. Pliny paced and fretted. Arranged and rearranged the objects on his desk. Bathed. Took his midday meal with Calpurnia, who looked pinched and pale and barely touched her food, although she laughed when he questioned her and said it was nothing. After lunch, he called yet another meeting of his staff.

“You think Silvanus killed Balbus?” Suetonius asked.

“Or maybe they’re in it together,” Nymphidius offered, “Balbus slipping away first, Silvanus afterwards, and all the rest of it just play-acting.”

“Either way I simply can’t imagine how it was done” said Pliny. “Two men vanished without a trace.”

They looked at each other in glum silence and he was about to send them all away when they heard voices raised in the corridor outside his office. He went out to investigate.

The doorkeepers—who considered it a part of their job to prevent him from ever talking to anyone who did not have an appointment—were struggling with a man, red in the face and clearly angry, who was demanding to see the governor. Another crank probably, but the man’s clothes were expensive and his accent not the worst. Pliny had nothing but time on his hands, he could spare this fellow a little of it. He ushered him into the office.

The man straightened his clothes, took a breath to calm himself, and introduced himself as Isidorus, a dealer in fine silks and brocades. He had gone yesterday to the Street of the Leather Workers, he explained, to shop for a saddle and bridle, not your ordinary stuff but something expensive, a birthday present for his son-in-law, who was quite a gentleman and owned a horse. And he was in one shop, examining what was on offer, and quite a respectable place, the owner was known to him and not a dealer in stolen goods either, no certainly not. But there was a very handsome saddle for sale with matching bridle, all ornamented with turquoises and onyxes, and an embroidered saddle cloth with it, top quality, make no mistake, he knew quality when he saw it, and the thing of it was, you see, that it looked familiar, he knew he had seen that saddle somewhere before, and then it came to him—just like that!—perhaps some god whispered it in his ear, who could say? But he was dead certain that it was the procurator’s saddle, no question about it, that gentleman rode down his street every day on his way to the treasury, which is just past the Street of the Cloth Merchants, don’t you see?

Isidorus stopped and looked around him in alarm. They were all on their feet, Nymphidius’ fingers dug into his shoulder.

“Here now,” he squeaked, “no call for that!”

“Where,” Pliny brought his face close and spoke softly, “did this merchant get the saddle?”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to tell your honors. A couple of peasants sold him the stuff. His wife is from their village, don’t you see, so they thought he’d give ’em a good price.”

“And where is this village?”

“He can tell you. He’s just outside. He doesn’t want any trouble.”