The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Sixteen

The 7th day before the Kalends of November

The ninth hour of the day

A blustery wind bent the branches of the poplars that lined the path leading from the house to the riding paddock. A sudden gust made a whirlpool of leaves along the ground and pressed their grey mourning clothes against their legs. An ideal day for the business at hand, Pliny reflected. The wind would fan the flames of the pyre and dissipate the greasy smoke: all that would soon remain of Fiscal Procurator Marcus Vibius Balbus.

Pliny and Calpurnia, his staff and their wives stood together in a show of solidarity. The Greeks—Diocles and his entourage with a few others whom Pliny did not recognize—formed their own little knot some distance away. Each ignored the other. Pliny understood why. Since the riot of three days earlier the city was seething. Pliny had had sharp words for Aquila and the other centurions. He was surprised the Greeks had come at all: perhaps only to enjoy the spectacle of Balbus’ death.

Pliny was on the point of expressing this thought to Calpurnia when a shriek, long and ululating, pierced the air and all eyes turned toward the house. The doors swung open and the hired mourners emerged—a procession of women, led by flute players and trumpeters, their hair unbound, beating their breasts and wailing. Pliny had hired the best undertaker in Nicomedia and spared no expense.

Behind them came the catafalque swaying on the shoulders of eight pallbearers. As it drew near, Pliny recognized one of them: the bulging muscles, the hands like hams—but a slave no longer. The man now wore a liberty cap; clearly he had been manumitted in Balbus’ will. An inducement, perhaps, to break his master’s neck?

And last of all came Fabia, walking with her head high, her hair and grey clothing loose. Pliny looked closely as she passed by: her eyes were dry. And the son who should have walked at her side? Nowhere to be seen.

While the wailing of the women continued, the pallbearers wrestled the casket up onto the stack of pine logs that occupied the middle of the paddock. Given the condition of Balbus’ corpse, the casket remained closed. For Balbus there would be no toga, no laurel wreath, no coin in the mouth. Charon, the boatman of Hades, must go unpaid.

A makeshift podium had been set up beside the pyre for the eulogists. And now here was Diocles mounting it and commanding silence. Did the man ever miss an opportunity to exercise his golden throat? It was a bravura performance, Pliny was forced to admit. Praise for the deceased mingled with veiled condemnation of Roman arrogance and insinuations of divine wrath—but all so carefully dressed up with allusions to Agamemnon and Xerxes and other ancient tyrants who met unhappy ends that it fell just short of treason. One remark struck Pliny as odd. Diocles had spoken of the dead man’s loyalty to his friends. Friends? As far as Pliny knew, Balbus didn’t have any.

After Diocles, a couple of others spoke, straining to find something nice to say about the procurator. And finally Pliny delivered a few words—honest public servant, dutiful husband and father, sadly struck down in the prime of life by a cruel twist of Fate—that sounded hollow even to himself. Then the pyre was lit, the flames crackled and leapt up, and they called the dead man’s name one last time, as custom required.

Afterwards, the guests milled around in the atrium, the only space large enough to accommodate the funeral meal. Fabia was encircled by the wives, including Calpurnia, making consolotary noises. With Suetonius in tow, Pliny joined them; he had every intention of confronting the widow head on. “Once again, my deepest sympathies, lady. And may I say I’m sorry not to see your son here. Surely he wanted to bid his father farewell?”

“He is unwell, confined to his bed.”

“I am sorry to hear it. In fact, I mentioned your son to my physician, Marinus, and he would very much like to examine the boy. Possibly something can be done—”

“No.” She backed away, nearly upsetting an end table. “Thank you, no.”

Seeing her distress, Calpurnia stepped between them and drew her husband away. The wives closed in again.

“What was that about?”

“I’ll explain later. Somehow,” he said under his breath, “I will get that woman to crack.”

“There you are, Gaius Plinius!” Diocles pushed through the crowd with his bantam strut, several cronies in tow. “And Suetonius Tranquillus too. Here’s someone I’d like you to meet, he’s a pillar of our community though I can seldom persuade him away from his country place. Protarchus, may I present the governor and his lady. And this, I believe, is his youngest son—I’m sorry, what is the young man’s name? Ah, yes, Agathon.”

“An honor.” Protarchus nodded a shaggy head. “Sad occasion and all that.” He was a shy man who found words difficult.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time, sir.” Agathon stepped forward and spoke with an easy smile. “You know, I’ve never been inside the palace. I’ve heard it has some interesting old mosaics. It happens I’m quite interested in art.”

“Well—,” the young man’s enthusiasm was nearly overwhelming. “You don’t say. You must pay us a visit then. You know my wife’s an artist. She’s fixing the place up. You and she should have a lot to talk about. She’s—well where has she gone? She was here a moment ago. ’Purnia?”

***

A long train of carriages wound its way back to the city. The evening was damp and cool. Pliny and Calpurnia huddled together under a rug in their covered coach. The driver, in his box, hunched over the reins.

“Well, that’s over with,” Pliny sighed.

“I feel for Fabia.”

“Do you? I never met a less sympathetic woman. It’s clear she doesn’t want me to talk to her son, and without her permission I don’t see how I can. There’s a mystery there—they know something. But how to get it out of them? She’s a woman of wealth and rank, I can’t treat her like a common suspect.”

“You’ll find a way.” She squeezed his arm affectionately.

And he knew that he would. He didn’t cut a dashing figure, he knew; he wasn’t as quick-witted as some, not as brave, or as brilliant. But he was tenacious and determined: not exciting virtues, perhaps, but good Roman ones. It wasn’t brilliance, after all, that had made Rome great, it was steadiness and determination.

“What’s wrong with the son?” she asked.

“What? Oh. Marinus thinks it’s probably the Sacred Disease. And in that case their secretiveness is understandable. Ignorant people, that is to say most people, regard it with dread.”

They were quiet for a while, rolling and bouncing with the motion of the coach. Pliny squeezed her hand. “’Purnia dear, something I’ve been meaning to ask you, all this business with Balbus drove it out of my mind. Zosimus tells me that he saw that charlatan, the one they call Pancrates, leaving your apartment some days ago. I dislike the man. He’s a troublemaker, this oracle of his is nothing but a swindle and bad for public order. I can’t imagine what business you would have with him, you’re too sensible a woman to fall for his line of talk. Anyway, I don’t want him in the palace again. I must insist. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I believe I ought to expel the fellow from the province.”

“Yes,” she answered. Could he feel her skin go cold? She was being spied on! What else did Timotheus see? “Yes, get rid of the man. He forced himself into my apartment, wanting to tell my future, so he said. I had to order him out.”

“Outrageous! It’s that damned woman Atilia and the others who encourage people like that. I’ll deal with him in short order.” But then a thought occurred to him. “On the other hand, my dear, distasteful as he is, these sort of people sometimes have their uses. I’ll wager there’s many a household he’s wormed his way into and many a secret he’s learned. It’s just possible he knows something that might help me with the Balbus case. I think perhaps I ought to have a little talk with this Pancrates.”

“Oh, surely not.”

“Why not? Of course, I’ll make it plain that he must have nothing more to do with you. I’ve upset you, I’m sorry.”

Did he hear the panic that clawed at her throat? She was terrified that her thoughts would betray her.

“Well here’s something that might amuse you.” He gave her hand another squeeze. “Back at the funeral dinner. I thought you were beside me but you’d slipped off somewhere just as a young man was introduced to me. What was the name, Agathocles? Something like that. Nice manners, good family, good-looking too, if you like the effete, moist-eyed sort of youth. Practically invited himself up to the palace. Claims he’s interested in art. Well, I thought you might like his company. Take your mind off things. We must have him over the next time we entertain.”

***

Silvanus ground his jaws and listened with deep satisfaction to the woman. He paid her more money than she’d ever seen in her life to go out and buy his food for him, and to keep her mouth shut and her ears open. Now she was rattling on about the procurator’s funeral—the whole city was abuzz with it. If only he could have been there, invisible, to see the ugly, bloated corpse blacken and shrivel in the flames! He would have to be content with imagining it. If ever a man deserved death it was Balbus. How he loathed him.

Silvanus told the woman to leave him. He sat at his rickety table and fell hungrily on the bread and sausage she had brought him. What a clever fellow he was. Hiding practically in plain sight. Long ago he’d prepared this bolt hole, a hovel, indistinguishable from its neighbors, in a sprawl of shacks and market gardens along the city’s ragged edge, and he could stay in it as long as necessary while they ran here and there, looking for him. Only one other person knew where he was and she wouldn’t tell. She had too much to lose. And, when the time was right, he would steal away with his two chests of silver and live like a prince in Persia maybe, or Arabia.