The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Eight

Seven days later

The 14th day before the Kalends of November

The second hour of the day

Pliny had not visited Balbus’ villa since the night of that disagreeable dinner party and the thought of returning there gave him no joy, but interviewing Fabia seemed the logical place to begin.

Though it was early morning, the coast road that skirted the wooded hills outside the city was already crowded with coaches, farm wagons, donkeys with panniers full of produce headed for market, and Pliny’s light two-wheeled carriage was slowed to a walking pace. He had decided to travel with only his senior lictor, Galeo, and a shorthand writer. The immense retinue that typically followed a governor wherever he went would only encumber him today and he wanted to approach Fabia as a concerned friend, not an investigating magistrate.

He had left Zosimus at home for a well-deserved rest. Mehercule, he needed a rest himself, he was bone tired. He had returned from Nicaea at speed—a three-day journey accomplished in two—and, arriving before dawn, had taken time only for a hurried bath, a bite to eat, and a quick conversation with Suetonius, roused from his bed. The fiscal procurator was still missing, work at the treasury had come to a standstill, and rumors were turning ugly. What could have happened to the man?

A glowering janitor met them at the door. Pliny remembered him. The man was built like an ox, with massive shoulders, folds of fat around his neck, and a chin that jutted like a boulder. He had the look of a retired gladiator; Pliny imagined him with the secutor’s head-enveloping helmet and mail-clad sword arm, stalking his opponent in the arena. He led them to the atrium. If Pliny had expected to find Fabia distraught, red-eyed from weeping, angry even, he was disappointed. Her face was a mask, the eyes opaque. He didn’t know her well enough to know what to make of this. Did the woman ever show emotion?

She settled her bulk onto a slender-legged chair that looked too fragile to support her and dismissed the slave with a wave of her ring-heavy hand. He hesitated a moment as though he were reluctant to leave her alone.

“Do we need them?” She indicated Pliny’s attendants. He sent Galeo outside but motioned to the shorthand writer to keep his seat.

“I assure you, lady, I will do everything possible to find your husband. I appreciate how difficult—”

“I’ve already told your man, Suetonius, everything I know.” Sharp, almost offensive.

Pliny was reminded again of her odd accent. Her tone took him aback, but he pressed on. “Yes, well perhaps something has been overlooked. When did you realize that your husband was missing? Be as precise as you can.”

“Ten days ago, the fourth day before the Ides, the Day of the Sun. I saw him off in the morning. He didn’t return for dinner.”

“The Day of the Sun? That’s a Chaldean custom, I believe, to name the days after the seven planets. Was your husband interested in that sort of thing?”

“He had an interest.”

“Did he show any signs of unusual behavior in the days before he disappeared?”

She hesitated a fraction. “What do you mean, unusual?”

“What sort of mood was he in—worried, irritable, distracted? Did he say anything that struck you as out of the ordinary? Was he in difficulties of some sort? Are any of his belongings missing, any money?”

“What are you suggesting? You think he’s run off?”

“Let’s be frank with each other. Such things happen. Has he done anything like this before?”

“Anything like what? My husband was a good man and a loyal servant of the government. I defy you to prove he wasn’t.”

The short hand writer scratched away furiously on his tablet.

“I notice you just spoke of him in the past tense. You believe he’s dead, then?”

“Well, what else?” Her color darkened, she half rose out of her chair.

“Then I must ask you who his enemies are.”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, what do you think happened to him?”

“Murdered by bandits, obviously. None of us is safe in this wretched country. They’re all itching to cut our throats. I told him so but he wouldn’t listen, not him.”

“And yet the coast road is a busy thoroughfare all the way from here to the city, I’ve just been on it. And we’ve had no reports of bandits in the area.”

She glared at him in silence. He felt as though he were interrogating a hostile witness on the stand instead of a woman who wanted her husband found. Pliny was more than a lawyer; he was the servant of an autocratic regime—even if, at the moment, it wore a benevolent face. Survival in this world meant being sensitive to every look, every word—spoken and unspoken, from a rival, a palace official, even a slave. Pliny had survived and thrived. His thoughts turned back to the Verpa case—that senatorial informer whose murder he had investigated fourteen years ago. How naïve he had been then, how easily taken in by appearances. He had learned much in the years since then. He felt certain she was concealing something, but pressing her further now would accomplish nothing. Unsympathetic as she was, she was still the wife of a high-ranking official who, one hoped, was still alive somewhere. There was nothing to be gained by making an enemy of her.

“May I just have a look in the tablinum?”

She looked for a moment as if she would refuse, then shrugged, got heavily to her feet, and led him into Balbus’ office. The procurator plainly did not share Pliny’s tidy habits. The room was strewn with scrolls, tabellae, and heaps of loose sheets piled everywhere. While Fabia stood watching him, Pliny made an attempt to sort through the mess in the hope that something would catch his eye. And something did: a sheaf of star charts and, underneath these, what appeared to be a handbook of astrology.

“Your husband is a mathematicus? You mentioned he counts the days as the Chaldeans do. Frankly, I wouldn’t have suspected it of him. He strikes me as too practical a man for this sort of thing.” Pliny, like his idol Cicero, was not a believer in that arcane science.

“He tries. He says it makes his head hurt. I don’t know why he bothers.” Pliny noted that Fabia was now being careful to speak of her husband in the present tense.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow this.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’m not sure. There may just be something helpful in it.”

She shrugged. “Take it then.”

“Well, I think I’ve seen enough for the moment. Might I just go out to your stables before I leave and speak to the stable hands.”

“Why?”

“You have some objection?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“If you like.”

“Mother—!” Just then a figure darted into the room. Pliny, with only a moment to observe him, got the impression of a youth of about sixteen, tall and painfully thin, the muscles and tendons like knotted cords under his skin. When the boy saw Pliny, he stifled a cry, turned and fled. Almost without thinking, Pliny rose and started after him but Fabia blocked his way, looking as if she might fight him. He stepped back and spread his hands in a placating gesture.

“Your son?” He recalled the figure that he and Calpurnia had glimpsed on the night of the dinner party.

“He isn’t well. You’ll leave him alone.”

“I meant him no harm. May I talk with him?”

“You wanted to see the stables. Come, then.”

The stableman and three young grooms leapt to their feet as Pliny and Fabia and the shorthand writer appeared in the wide doorway. They had been playing knucklebones on the floor. Pliny loved horses and passed many happy hours in his own stables, trading advice with his grooms. The stableman, a swarthy, bewhiskered man of middle age, came forward and ducked his head in respect. Pliny gave him an encouraging smile.

“How did your master travel to the city? By carriage?” There was no carriage anywhere that he could see.

The stableman shook his head. “Horseback, your honor. He liked to ride, for the exercise. Always said the city streets were too crowded for a carriage anyways.”

“And who would ride with him?”

The man’s eyes flickered for a second. “He rode alone.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

“Where is his horse?”

“Missing.”

“Really. In my experience, a riderless horse will nearly always find its way home. Was there anything unusual about that particular day when he left for the last time?”

The stableman studied his feet.

Fabia struck in, “I’ve already told you there was nothing unusual. If you don’t mind, Governor, these men have work to do.”

“Of course, madam. I have no more questions for the moment.” He looked at her levelly. “If anyone has done harm to an officer of the Roman State, I will not rest until I bring that person to book. Rely upon it.”

Fabia stood in the doorway and watched Pliny and his men mount their carriage and drive off. The boy came up silently and stood beside her. She circled his thin shoulders with a vast, protecting arm. “It’s all right, my baby,” she said.