The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Twenty-one

The Kalends of November

An elderly man was waiting for him in the antechamber, flanked by two sleepy-eyed door-slaves, who eyed him with resentment. He was one of the Night Watch, he said, whose job was to patrol the streets on the lookout for fires. He ducked his head to Pliny. “They’re dead, sir, all of ’em. The whole family, slaughtered like. The husband, the wife, the little—”

“Whose family, man?” Pliny peered into the Night Watchman’s frightened face.

“Glaucon, your honor. One of his servants come running out of the house as I was passing by. I went into the house with him and looked. Then I come here, not knowing where else—”

“Take me there.” Pliny called for his cloak and shoes and sent someone to rouse his chair bearers and Galeo, his senior lictor.

Glaucon’s was a large, handsome town house near the temple of Artemis, a short walk from the palace. The servants who met them at the door were gibbering with fear. They had been wakened in the middle of the night, they said, by groans and the sound of retching coming from the master’s bedroom. When they burst in, they found him dying; he took his last rattling breath as they watched. His wife was already beyond help. They ran to the children’s rooms—Glaucon had two young sons and a daughter—and found them dead as well; and Glaucon’s old mother, not dead, but unconscious and barely breathing.

Pliny sent Galeo back for Marinus and when the physician arrived they inspected the bodies together. The stink of vomit was everywhere. In the master bedroom, Glaucon lay on the floor in a puddle of it. He had kicked over a bedside table in his death struggle and the pieces of a smashed water jug lay beside it. His wife was half on, half off the bed, her mouth open as though in mid-scream, her lips blue, her shift rucked up around her waist, exposing her nakedness. They went to the children’s rooms. In one, two boys of about eight or nine—they looked like twins—lay clutching each other. In the adjoining chamber, a pretty girl of about thirteen had gotten as far as the doorway before she collapsed. Glaucon’s old mother lay in her bed, eyes closed and soaked with sweat. A servant girl sat beside her, bathing her face with a cloth.

Pliny realized his legs were trembling. His stomach rebelled and acid rose in his throat. Marinus, who was inured to death, saw how pale he looked and put out a hand to steady him.

“Who could have done this, Marinus?”

“Mustn’t leap to conclusions. Could be nothing more than a case of bad shellfish. What did they dine on?”

“I’ve already asked,” replied Pliny. “Roast lamb and vegetables. No oysters, nothing like that. Have we got a murder on our hands?”

Marinus looked thoughtful. “Poison? Not something I know much about. I’ve heard that sandraca, some call it arsenikon, can be ingested in food or drink and kill you a few hours later, depending on the dose. Makes sense that the man died last. He’s a big fellow, isn’t he? You saw the shoulders on him. Took longer for the poison to work its way through him.”

“But the old woman?”

“Old women don’t eat much. I’ll stay with her, if you like. If she pulls through, we may have an answer.”

“Please.” Pliny shook his head wearily. “The city’s on the verge of panic already, and now this. We must do whatever we can. I’ll leave you in charge, then. Send for me at once if she revives.” He paused in the doorway. “Is this arsenikon hard to get hold of?”

“I wouldn’t think so. It has various uses. I believe painters use it for a red pigment.”

As he left the house, the sun was just rising over the housetops and already a curious crowd of early-risers had gathered outside in the street. In another hour the whole city would be abuzz with news of the atrocity.

***

Pliny returned to the palace to find Pancrates waiting for him outside his office.

“I told you never to come here unasked,” Pliny glowered at him. “I warn you I’m in no mood—”

“Please, Governor,” the prophet looked pained. “I only want to prove my usefulness. I came as soon as I heard.”

“About?”

“Why, Glaucon, of course. What else?”

Pliny took him inside and shut the door. “What do you know about this?”

“About his death, nothing. The family is well-to-do. They have crop land and orchards and do a bit of trading on the side—Glaucon’s brother, that is—he’s the brains of the family. Glaucon, himself, I fear, was a bit slow-witted. But what a wrestler in his day! Oh, he was famous. In the all-out he would break arms and legs. Nobody could stand up to him.”

“Is that all you have to say? I could have learned this from anyone.”

“Tch, tch, such a temper, Governor. Well, you’re under a lot of strain, aren’t you? As a matter of fact, that isn’t all. What I was about to say, is that poor Glaucon consulted us not too long ago. Whenever the prophet said ‘us’, he meant himself and the god. ‘Will I be punished for slaying the lion?’ was his question. Well, we couldn’t imagine what he meant, there haven’t been lions in these parts for a hundred years.”

“‘Slaying the lion.’ And when did he consult you?”

“A few days after the procurator’s disappearance.”

“And what answer did you give him?”

“We told him ‘yes’ to see what would happen.”

“And what happened is that he was murdered.”

“So it would seem.”

Calpurnia had seen him enter. She was waiting for him out of sight. As Pancrates trotted down the palace steps, she rushed at him and seized his hand. “Please! I wrote Agathon a letter. He hasn’t answered! What shall I do?”

He pushed her away roughly. “I thought I was the filthy, Greek spy,” he snarled. “I’ve been warned away from you, madam. Your husband and I have an understanding. I can do nothing for you.”

***

Late the next day, word came from Marinus that Glaucon’s mother was conscious and able to speak. Pliny went there at once. He was met at the door by none other than Diocles.

“A terrible business,” murmured the orator. “I’m a friend of the family, you know. They appreciate your concern, don’t you, Theron?”—he nodded toward a man whom Pliny assumed was the brother—“but this is a matter for the civic authorities, not your office.”

Did anything happen in this city, Pliny wondered, that Diocles did not instantly involve himself in?

“If it’s a question of adulterated food,” Diocles hurried on, “the magistrates will see to it that the merchant is found and punished.”

“And if it’s poison?” said Pliny.

“Great gods! Why would you suspect such a thing?” The orator adopted an expression of horror.

“If it’s poison,” Pliny continued, “that affects the public order. My business. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to question the mother.”

“Only family members are permitted in the gynekeion—”

But Pliny had already pushed past him. Marinus met him at her bedroom door. “They ordered me to leave,” the physician said. “I politely refused.”

“Probably not so politely,” Pliny smiled ruefully. Postumius Marinus did not suffer fools lightly.

“She is very weak, though. Don’t tire her. Her name’s Berenice, by the way. And she doesn’t know yet that the others are dead.”

Berenice lay in bed, a veined and fragile dry leaf of a woman, her white hair spread out on the pillow, a coverlet pulled up to her chin.

“Berenice,” Pliny leaned over her and spoke softly in her ear, “I am the governor. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“She looked up with watery, unfocused eyes. “Who are you?”

“The governor. I’m here to help. Tell me about dinner last night. Did you eat anything out of the ordinary? Anything not made in your own kitchen?”

She was quiet for so long he was afraid she was past understanding. Then she whispered, “Yes.” Her story came out in wheezing phrases, broken by pauses when her eyes fluttered and her mind seemed to wander. Pliny put his ear to her lips to catch her words. They had just finished dinner when someone came to the door carrying a covered tray of dates stuffed with pine nuts. The man handed the tray to her son and she heard what he said: A gift from the Persian to the bridegroom. Pliny made her repeat this. She was certain those were the words: Perses and nymphios. She asked her son what the man had meant, but he wouldn’t answer her and he seemed suddenly in a bad mood. Nevertheless, they passed the dates around, they were very large and sweet, and everyone had some. Glaucon ate the most. She only had one, though, not being very hungry.

“Did you recognize the man who brought the dates?”

“No.”

“A Persian, he said? Did—does your son know any Persians?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so.”

“And he isn’t a bridegroom is he? He’s been married for years.”

“No. No. He’ll tell you himself.” Suddenly her eyes widened and she tried to raise her head. “Where is he? Where is my son, my daughter-in-law? Why aren’t they here? Who are you?”

Pliny told her as gently as he could. She turned her face to the wall and began to weep soundlessly.

“I’d give her a sleeping draught,” said Marinus, “but in her condition it could kill her.”

“That might be a mercy,” Pliny answered.

The two men stole quietly out of the room and returned to the megaron where Diocles and Theron were waiting.

“Well—?” Diocles began.

Pliny ignored him and turned to the brother. The man appeared to be deep in shock, sitting speechless with his head in his hands. “Theron, your brother and his family were murdered. I’m sorry, I know it’s a heavy blow, I don’t say it lightly. I will do everything in my power to find out who did this—”

“We will find out who did it!” Diocles was on his feet, the blood rising in his face. “I insist you accept our help, Governor.”

Finally, Pliny had had enough of this pompous nuisance. “Sit down!”

The two men glared at each other until Diocles snorted and turned away.

Then Theron spoke, mumbling to himself. “We were invited for dinner, my wife and I. Had another party to go to first—never got here.”

“Theron.” Pliny put a hand on his shoulder. “Kindly show me to your brother’s office or wherever he kept his papers. There may be something there.”

Diocles opened his mouth.

“Don’t!” said Pliny

The office was a small room at the back of the house. There wasn’t much in it. Glaucon, it seemed, had not been much of a reader or a writer. A few scrolls, a few wax tablets. Pliny scooped them up and handed them to Galeo. Then one item on the desk caught his eye. A handbook of astrology.

He had seen its twin before.

***

The Sun-Runner to the Father, greetings:

You have heard by now that the Bridegroom is dead—surely murdered. The conclusion is inescapable that one of our number is the killer. I say this although I know it pains you to hear it. I am doing everything I can to learn more. I pray we find him before the Romans do. This governor is no fool. Guard yourself well, Father. Nama Mithras.

***

“’Purnia, we’ve been here too long, give it up for today. People will start to wonder. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Calpurnia did not answer but gripped Ione’s hand tighter and pulled her along. They had already visited the temples of Artemis and Asclepius that morning and now were circling the exhibition space in the temple of Zeus, where she and Agathon had first met. For five days now, since she had sent Agathon the letter, she had stolen every moment she could to slip away from the palace and visit all the temples where art works were displayed—not with her easel and paints; she didn’t even pretend to be studying the masterpieces—but only with the desperate hope of seeing him again.

She didn’t know what else to do. The fever in her blood gave her no rest.

And what would she say if she saw him? She couldn’t think that far ahead. Every day, in the privacy of her studio, she sketched his face over and over, trying to capture his glancing eye, the half-smile on his lips, every curl of his hair. And feeling the image dissolve as she tried to grasp it. And throwing her charcoal down in despair. Why hadn’t he answered her letter? Why was he so cruel? And surely Gaius guessed something. How could he not? But she was past caring about that.

She circled the gallery again, looking with unseeing eyes at the paintings and statues that had once given her such pleasure. Never taking one eye from the pillared entryway. The gallery wasn’t crowded; no more than a dozen or so visitors. The minutes crept by—half an hour, an hour.

“’Purnia, my feet hurt,” Ione complained. “There must be a better way than this to meet him. Where else does he like to go?”

“Yes, all right,” Calpurnia sighed. “You’re right. I’m not thinking. Let’s…”

And then there he was! Coming through the door, alone. He paused and looked around. Was he looking for her? Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. In the center of the gallery was a large statuary group, a copy of Laocoon and the sea serpent. She ran behind it, pulling Ione with her. Unseen, she watched him as he moved around the gallery.

She would talk to him. Now. She would step out from her hiding place. Walk toward him with an easy smile. And Aphrodite, whose little image she prayed to nightly, would put the right words in her mouth. She didn’t know what they would be, but the goddess wouldn’t fail, couldn’t fail her.

She swallowed. Drew a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a moment and sent up a prayer to the love goddess.

“Calpurnia! How nice to see you, dear.”

Faustilla, Nymphidius’ formidable wife, swooped down upon her, her voice like a trumpet, her red gash of a mouth stretched in a grimace of feigned delight. Behind her came Fannia, the meek, bird-like little wife of Caelianus.

“Well, of course, you are the artist, aren’t you?” Faustilla blared. “So of course you’d be here, wouldn’t you? We thought we’d just pop in for a look, didn’t we, Fannia?”

Fannia offered a hesitant smile.

“Well, I haven’t seen so many naked men”—Faustilla leered at the nude statuary—“since I was a girl and sneaked into the men’s baths. Speaking of baths, we’re on our way there now, it’s the ladies’ hour you know. Come with us. Haven’t you had enough of this musty old stuff?”

“I—I’m sorry, Faustilla,” Calpurnia stammered, “I really can’t—that is, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Nonsense. Waiting for whom—your lover?”

“What?”

“Great gods, look at your face! Can’t you take a joke? Well, we’re all so serious these days with what’s been going on.”

“Going on?”

“Some family of Greeklings got themselves murdered yesterday. Doesn’t the governor tell you anything? My husband doesn’t tell me anything either. All very hush hush. It’s enough to give one palpitations. I remember when emperor Claudius was murdered. I was just a child, of course—”

“Excuse me, Faustilla, please!”

He was gone! She looked around wildly. One moment he had been standing in front of the statue of a laughing satyr and now he was nowhere.

“I have to go!” She seized Ione’s hand and dragged her away.

Faustilla watched Calpurnia’s disappearing back and shook her bewigged head. “Fannia, something’s not right with that woman.”

Fannia nodded vigorously. “You’re right, of course, Faustilla. The way she and her maid carry on like a pair of conspirators. Spends more time with her than with any of us. T’isn’t proper.”

“Ione! That stuck up little bit of stuff. She needs a good whipping is what she needs. Teach her her place. Gaius Plinius ought to control his womenfolk better. I have a mind to say something to him.”

“But, of course, the men are so busy.” Fannia was afraid she might have gone too far.

“We’ll see.”