The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Eighteen

The 3rd day before the Kalends of November

The first hour of the night

Suetonius pushed the hooded figure ahead of him through the door, then shut and bolted it. “He came meek as a lamb.”

“Sit down.” Pliny indicated a rough stool.

A single lamp lit the little room. Three stools and a table were its only furniture. Huge amphorae of wine stood in racks around the walls. The voices of drinkers and dicers came faintly from the room beyond.

The figure sat as commanded and threw off his hood, uncovering the oiled ringlets of his hair, the flowing beard. “You surprise me, Governor. And the reason for this kidnapping ?”

“No one has kidnapped you. I find it convenient to meet here; the palace has too many eyes and ears.”

Suetonius had chosen the tavern and paid the owner generously for the use of his back room and his silence. He and Pliny wore plain tunics and Greek cloaks, and Pancrates had been hooded to disguise his unmistakable appearance if anyone should pass them in the street. They had entered unseen from a back alley.

“Your charming wife has perhaps said something. She quite misunderstood—”

“This has nothing to do with my wife, whom you will never see again. I warn you.”

“As you like.” Pancrates smiled easily. “But then I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Understand this. You’re a fraud. I can prove it, and I will run you out of this province unless you do as I tell you.”

“My, my. Hard words. You don’t believe in divination, Governor? The Pythia at Delphi? Your own Sibylline Books?”

“The day before yesterday a servant of mine submitted two sealed questions to one of your assistants. He was instructed to say that one question asked for a cure for lung trouble and the other asked what was the safest route to Italy. In fact, both of them asked, What was Homer’s birthplace? Needless to say, the answers we got were quite wide of the mark. If I should decide to make this public—”

“Not a thing would change. Do you think others haven’t played your little trick? We’re careless sometimes, but it doesn’t matter. Fools will always believe what they want to.” The prophet spread his hands. “But I don’t want you for an enemy, Gaius Plinius. I am properly afraid of the power of a Roman governor. All right, you’ve exposed me, you may as well hear it all. I was born in the slums of Sinope. I was a wharf rat, a thief, I sold stolen goods in the marketplace. My name was Cerzula. I never knew my mother or father. I lived by my wits. And I discovered at an early age that I had a talent for listening to the unspoken word, for reading the unconscious language of the face, and for speaking fair. At the age of twelve, I was taken under the wing of an old fortune teller who taught me to read and write and trained me in his profession. He gave me the name Pancrates, Omnipotens as you would say in Latin. But it was my idea, my stroke of genius, twenty years ago in a village in Paphlagonia, to bury a blown goose egg with a baby snake inside it, then to run into the market place wearing a gold-spangled loin cloth and waving a scimitar and proclaiming that Asclepius, god of healing, had arrived amongst them in the form of a serpent. I dug up the egg and produced the divine serpent, which at once inspired me to offer remedies for their ills. Needless to say, they were all agog. As the serpent grew, so did its reputation, until people were flocking from all over Asia to consult it. It has been, if I may say so, very profitable. And whom have I harmed? For the price of a drachma, I offer hope, consolation, reassurance—which is all any physician does, and they charge a good deal more than I do. And it matters not a bit how many people you denounce me to, there will always be more with their coins in their hands, begging me to give them peace of mind.”

“That’s all very well,” said Pliny, “but, in fact, you do more than offer medical advice to the ignorant crowd. Other people, people of wealth and standing, ask you questions about decisions they have to make, about what their enemies may be plotting against them, or so I’ve heard.”

“Sometimes.”

“And your answers must be plausible, must have the ring of authenticity. How do you manage that?”

Pancrates set his lips. I’ve said all I intend to.

“Speak up, man, or you’ll leave this room in shackles. Those are my lictors sitting out in the tavern. You’ve already admitted enough for me to throw you in prison and have your serpent sliced up for hors d’oeuvres.”

He gave Pliny a long appraising look, in the end he shrugged. “I have informants.”

“Where?”

“In places that would surprise you.”

“Would one of those places be Vibius Balbus’ house? Did he or his associates ever consult your oracle?”

“Ah, now I see what this is about!” Pancrates smiled. “You don’t want to put me out of business, you want to use me. Well, I have no objection to that. Balbus, Balbus, what do I know about Balbus?” He lifted his gaze to the ceiling as though seeking inspiration. “I know he had a mistress—” Suetonius slapped his fist into his hand with a sound that made the prophet startle, “—quite a beautiful widow, and rich too. Her name is Sophronia. Have you heard of her?”

“Not the brothel-keeper?” said Suetonius, who for some time had been acquainting himself with the city’s lower depths in the interests of research.

“The same. And not just any brothel. Elysium, as it’s known, is a veritable palace of delights. She trains her hetaeras herself in all the arts of Aphrodite. In addition, the woman has investments in a dye works, a brick yard, several tenements, and a merchant ship. She and the fiscal procurator were lovers for more than a year. There was even talk of him divorcing his wife and marrying her.”

“And you know this how?” Pliny demanded.

“Please, Governor, allow me to keep a few secrets. In return for certain favors, I did not tell his wife about their affair.”

“Blackmail.”

“If you like.”

“Is it possible that Fabia found out anyway?” Suetonius said.

“That I don’t know. The lady has never consulted me.”

“What else do you know about Balbus?” Pliny asked.

“Nothing comes to mind. But I will, of course, keep my ears open. Now that he’s gone, I am more than happy to exchange information in return for your favor. Do we have an understanding? Don’t look so pained, Gaius Plinius, you’re the one who invited me here.”

Pliny scowled. “I will contact you from time to time through an intermediary. And, Pancrates, never, never set foot in the palace again unless I send for you.”

The prophet bowed his way out.

“This could be it!” Pliny jumped off his stool and began pacing. “We have the motive.”

“But only if Fabia knew,” his friend replied. “She’ll deny it, of course.”

“For the moment, let’s work at it from the other end. I want you to find out everything you can about this Sophronia. Imagine it, Balbus planning to marry a whore!”

“But a rich and independent one. I wonder, what he could offer her that she couldn’t buy herself?”

“Maybe it wasn’t about money.”

“What are you suggesting, true love?”

“Roman citizenship. Worth more to these provincials than anything.”

“Makes sense,” Suetonius conceded. “Here’s another thought, though, for what it’s worth. Pancrates was blackmailing Balbus. Blackmail often leads to murder. Pancrates is no weakling, and he grew up rough by his own account. They quarreled, fought, things went too far.”

“Out in the woods?”

“Well, by any theory of the case we don’t know why he was out in the woods.”

“Hmpf, I suppose. But no, the man’s a swindler, not a killer. No, Sophronia’s the key to this. You’ve got your work cut out for you, my friend. Introduce yourself to her. That monograph on famous whores you’re always talking about writing—perhaps she’ll be flattered.”

“You’d be surprised how many are,” Suetonius grinned.