The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Seven

The 4th day before the Kalends of October

The sixth hour of the night

That night she could not sleep. Finally, she gave up and went to wake Ione who slept in the bedroom next to hers.

“What should I think? Am I being a fool? Everything he claimed to sense about me he could have guessed or heard somewhere. Atilia and the others gossip about everyone, surely about me too. But if you’d seen his eyes…”

“And he said he could cure you, ’Purnia?”

She nodded, looked away.

Whenever they were alone together Ione called her by her pet name; only in the presence of others did she call her matrona, lady. Although most Roman matrons did not consider themselves properly cared for with any fewer than a dozen maid servants, Calpurnia was content to have Ione alone. They had become almost like sisters, especially now in this strange place where she had no one else to turn to. She had had a younger sister once, a lovely girl who had died of a long wasting illness when Calpurnia was ten. Her death had left a hole in her life. Ione was about the age her sister would have been and somehow this ex-slave—pretty, saucy, barely literate, with no family, no past—was able to fill it in spite of the barrier of rank that divided them.

“Then you must believe him. Who can doubt an oracle?” As simple as that. “Will you see him again?”

“I don’t know. My husband won’t allow him under our roof, I know that.”

Ione winked. “Things can always be arranged.”

As they talked, the sun came up. Rufus woke up and while they fed him breakfast and played with him Calpurnia’s mood improved. Around the third hour of the morning the idea suddenly took her to visit the art gallery in the temple of Zeus. Diocles had recently made a gift to his fellow citizens of sculptures and paintings, some of them priceless originals. It was the talk of the town. She and Ione would go together and she would bring her easel, too, and sketch.

The gallery, which occupied a portico in the temple precinct, was crowded when they got there. The exhibition was everything she expected and more. Among the statues of bronze and painted marble she thought she recognized Praxiteles’ Artemis and a Heracles by Lysippus—copies, of course, though good ones. But it was the paintings that took her breath away— portraits, landscapes, mythological scenes by the great names—Apelles, Zeuxis, Polygnotos. After surveying them all, she ordered her slave to set up her easel in front of a large Niobe Mourning Her Dead Children by Parrhasios; and what instinct drew her to that she would not acknowledge even to herself. She tacked a parchment to the easel, seated herself on her stool, and began to sketch in charcoal.

As she worked, onlookers came and went but she became gradually aware of a young man who stood beside her, resting his weight on one muscular leg, his hip thrust out, his arms folded, his eyes moving up and down from the original to her copy.

He saw that she had noticed him. “The eyes,” he said. “Niobe’s eyes. The despair in them. The film of tears. How do you think he did that? Thin washes of wax layered on ever so carefully, don’t you think? Armenium, malachite for his pigments, but just a hint. Too much would spoil it. That’s how I’d do it, anyway. But, of course, I’d make a hash of it.” He smiled, showing a crooked front tooth.

She didn’t quite catch all of this, he spoke so rapidly. But it sounded impressive. Politeness required her to say something. “Are you a painter by profession, then?”

He made a wry face. “Me? I have no profession. My family owns land, quite a lot of it.”

She looked at him more closely now. How stupid to think he was a common artisan. His purple-bordered cloak and his rings were expensive. He was young, twenty perhaps, if that; clean shaven; oiled hair, black as ink and smelling of crocus, curling over his ears; nose and chin so finely sculpted that he might have modeled for Praxiteles himself; dark eyes under heavy black brows—they watched her with amusement.

He made her a small bow. “I’m Agathon, son of Protarchus, grandson of Neocles, great grandson of—I could go on but I won’t. You’ve probably heard of us.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well,” he laughed, “that’s to my advantage.” There was a pause. “And what shall I call you?”

“She glanced up at the painting. “Call me Niobe.”

“An ill-omened name for such a pretty woman.”

“You’re very bold.”

“It saves time.” His smile, mischievous, slightly mocking.

What presumption! It was time to put an end to this. “I expect your mother will be looking for you.”

“You see!” He snapped his fingers. “We’ve only just met and we’re already fighting like old friends.”

She wanted to escape but couldn’t see how to. She searched for something to say. “Diocles has made the city a wonderful gift—all this.”

“He can afford it.” This was said with knowing familiarity, one aristocrat of another. “You’re Roman, aren’t you? The accent. Your husband’s stationed here?” He had noticed her wedding ring.

And this was the moment at which she should have said, I am the wife of Gaius Plinius Secundus, governor of the province.

But she didn’t.

“We’ve only just arrived. You must excuse my Greek.”

“No one could excuse your Greek, but I can help you improve it, if you like.”

“Do you talk like this to every strange woman you meet?”

“No. Where did you learn to draw so well?”

And, to her surprise, she found herself explaining how she had loved to draw as a little girl. And then had seen some paintings in a little temple of Ceres near their estate and pestered her grandfather to buy her materials and an instruction book until he finally gave in. “And then, when I moved to Rome with my husband, oh! I went everywhere, saw everything. Myron’s Zeus on the Capitoline, Phidias’ Athena in the temple of Fortuna, paintings by Apelles in the temple of Diana…”

His mouth set in a thin line. The eyes were no longer laughing. She stopped, mortified. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“Those pieces belong in Greek temples, lady, not Roman ones. To the victors belong the spoils. You looted them and took them back to Italy by the boatload, not because you care anything for art but only because they are worth money. Money is what you Romans understand. At least, you have the grace to blush.” The insolent boy was gone; instead an angry young man stood before her.

“You don’t—like us,” was all she could think of to say. A governor’s wife at a loss for words.

“You call us Graeculi—Greeklings.”

“I don’t.”

“But your husband and his friends do, don’t they?”

“They don’t mean anything by it.”

“No?”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” She stood up, looking desperately around the hall for Ione and saw her some distance away. Her maid was out of earshot but she was staring at them with a quizzical arched eyebrow.

“No wait.” He reached out and touched her arm and a shock ran through her and suddenly she was overpoweringly aware of his scent and the heat of his body. “I’m behaving like a boor,” he said. “I find the one Roman in the world who cares for art and I attack her. I should be whipped.”

“Yes, well, no need for that. Look, I really must go, it’s gotten late, I have things—”

“Come again tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Well, look here, in your drawing. The hands aren’t quite right. Hands are tricky. Maybe we can fix them.”

“I really don’t think so. Goodbye, Agamemnon.”

“Agathon. Let my slave carry your things for you.”

“No, thank you, mine can manage.” He mustn’t find out where she lived.

“I mean it. Tomorrow.”

She fled.

In her room, Ione helped her unpin the top-heavy mass of curls from her forehead and unwind the chignon at the back. Calpurnia shook out her long, auburn hair. She breathed deeply, smiled.

“A glass of wine?” Ione held out the flagon.

“Please. And pour yourself one.” The misery that had seemed to crush her heart that morning was gone like the fading memory of a bad dream.

“He’s very good-looking.”

“He’s a boy. He made me feel like an old woman.”

“You look like anything but an old woman,” Ione laughed.

“And can you imagine, he invited me to go there again tomorrow.”

“And will you?”

“Of course not.”

But she did.

***

Two weeks later

The 5th day before the Ides of October

The tenth hour of the day

“If you keep fidgeting I’ll never get it right.”

“My neck is stiff.”

“Bah! I give up, I haven’t the talent. It would take a master to capture your beauty and I, alas, am only an amateur.”

“Let me see it.”

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun sifted through the branches of the plane tree in the garden of Agathon’s town house. Water plashed softly in the fountain, somewhere a bird sang. He turned the drawing board toward her and she saw herself staring back, as though she were looking at her reflection in a pool—the large eyes, the strong nose (too big! she always thought), the wide mouth and rounded chin. The long neck.

“You have more skill than you give yourself credit for. If someone were to recognize me in this…You won’t show it to anyone will you?”

“I promise. Only I will gaze at it when you’re away from me. I love you.”

“Liar.” But she was smiling. This handsome boy did love her and the knowledge of it excited her more than she wanted to admit.

“And I will call it ‘A Portrait of Callirhoe’.” This was his love name for her. “You deserve a name of your own,” he had said on the second day they spent together. “A name that means something. What does Calpurnia mean except that you belong to your father’s clan.” Callirhoe—beautifully flowing. It was the name of the heroine in a romantic novel that everyone was talking about that summer. He had given her a copy, which she was working at in spare moments, though the Greek was hard.

“Say my name again,” she said.

“Callirhoe.” It did flow beautifully.

“Drink some more wine.” He filled her cup.

“You’ll make me drunk. I never get pissed at home.” She used the low, slang word.

He laughed. “Your Greek’s improving.”

“Thanks to you, my dear, I can curse like a sailor. I said something to my tutor the other day, I thought the poor man would have apoplexy.”

“You want to be careful about that. Sour old men like him carry tales.”

“Oh, I told him I’d learned it from Ione.”

“Ione! What a treasure she is! How would we manage without her?”

And this was true. Ione went everywhere with them, at a discreet distance, scouting to see if the coast was clear, inventing alibis to tell the other slaves, who anyway were convinced that all Roman women paraded wantonly around town whenever it pleased them. He had taken her to the Odeon to hear music, to the theater, to the race course; even for a picnic up in the wooded hills from where they saw the whole city spread out beneath them.

She loved the woods. They reminded her of her home in the foothills of the Alps, where she used to walk and climb as a girl among rocky precipices and rushing streams and ice cold lakes and pine trees that reached up to the sky. They had spent the day sketching, talking of this and that, walking under the brow of a mountain ridge that was said to resemble a woman’s profile—he said it looked like her, she said it looked like a cow’s hind end.

Of course, he knew by now who she was, who her husband was. She had feared he might run away when she told him, but he didn’t. Too cocksure of himself to be frightened. He was full of questions about Rome—the great amphitheater, the baths, the palaces and gardens. How many villas did her husband own, how many slaves? How did she spend her time at home? Was it true that Roman women dined in mixed company and went wherever they pleased? All of which she was happy to answer until his questions veered too close to her personal life, her marriage. Then she would change the subject. She was determined not to betray any confidences.

Wherever she went with him she wore Greek clothing and a blonde wig that she never wore at home. Still, there had been a terrifying moment at the theater. They were finding their seats when Atilia and Faustilla passed right by her in the aisle, close enough to touch. Her heart stopped. What could she have said if they’d recognized her? When the play was over she had told Agathon that it was finished. What was she thinking? She must be out of her mind. She couldn’t go on like this—glancing around to see who might be looking at them, pricking up her ears at the sound of every footstep, hearing suspicion in every voice. For two days she refused to see him. But then she thought she was being silly. What had she done, after all? Nothing compared to what some of the other wives got up to, she was sure of that. She let him hold her hand, kiss her cheek, and he hadn’t demanded more. And soon Pliny would be home and she wouldn’t be bored and lonely anymore and it would be all over—no more than a pleasant memory. Where was the harm, really? And so she had sent Ione to him with a message.

“I have a present for you,” she said. She liked giving him presents. She unwrapped a little silver statuette of Artemis, no bigger than her hand. “My husband and I broke our journey at Ephesus and visited her temple. They sell them there.”

“Thank you. I will pray to her every day.”

“Who else do you pray to?”

“Tyche, Fortuna you call her. She rules our lives. She brought us together.”

“No, Fate brought us together. You were foretold to me.”

“Was I really?” He wanted to know how. She lied and said it was a dream. Not for his ears her meeting with Pancrates.

The sun went behind a cloud and suddenly it was chilly. She shivered.

“You’re cold. Shall we go inside?”

“No, I love it here, the view of the bay from up here.” The house was built on a hill, overlooking the sea. “And all this is yours?”

“The family owns it but my parents and brothers seldom come into town. My father’s devoted to farming. I’m not. I’m a great disappointment to him. The estate’s dull and so I live here unless I’m commanded home, which isn’t often.”

“And you aren’t lonely.”

He smiled, showing the crooked tooth that made his too perfect features just human after all. “I’m never lonely. Here—” He took a coverlet from the bench and wrapped it around her shoulders, folding his arms around her, lightly touching her breasts. Suddenly, he buried his face in the angle of her neck and kissed her. She lifted her face and he kissed her eyes, her lips. And she knew she should stop him but she couldn’t. Pale fire ran beneath her skin—some poet had said that, and it was true. And she wanted him, this laughing Greek boy, as she had never wanted any man before. Finally, she broke away. They looked at each other, lips parted, breathing hard. Not knowing what to say.

***

The following morning Suetonius came to see her while she was painting Rufus, who sat on Ione’s lap. His expression was grim. She shot Ione a terrified look. Oh gods! Does he know, does he suspect something?

“I say, sorry to bother you.”

“Yes?” She fought to keep her voice steady.

“Has Fabia said anything to you recently? Balbus’ wife?”

“What?—No.”

“It seems the fiscal procurator has gone missing. No one’s seen him in the past three days. We’ve searched the city for him, questioned his staff. Nobody knows where he is. Either he’s had an accident or something worse. I just thought his wife might have said something to you.”

“No, we haven’t spoken.”

“That does it, then. We need Pliny here to deal with this. I’m going to send a courier after him and ask him to return at once. According to his itinerary he should be near Nicaea. He can be here in a matter of days.”

She felt as though the ground had been suddenly cut from under her feet.